#the long and short of it is my doctor lied to me three times and also to his entire staff and never submitted a referral for a test that I-

[babyloniastreasure]

it'll never cease to amaze how unlucky i am when it comes to the medical system

[helaintoloki]

Winter Flower

pairing: Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier) x reader

warnings: themes of kidnapping, drugging, violence, trauma, suggestive content. mentions of pregnancy, eventual happy ending

notes: wanted to try writing something out of my comfort zone so pls let me know what you think and if you’d like to see more!

summary: fate binds you to the Winter Soldier, but will it be enough to keep you together when you’re constantly being pulled apart?

“We’ve decided to give you a new pet.”

The Winter Soldier isn’t sure what to make of the barely conscious woman that’s been carelessly thrown at his feet by his handlers, but he knows better than to ask questions by now. His handlers seem to find his predicament comical as they laugh at a joke the Asset is not a part of and watch the scene unfold with malevolent smiles.

The woman, unbeknownst to the soldier, had undergone weeks of physical torture and anguish as various Hydra doctors poked and prodded at her mind and body until there was not a single ounce of fight left in her body. She’d been battered and bruised until she was almost nothing, and in the end it had all been a complete waste of time. Their hopes for a new weapon were diminished by the discovery that her body had not taken to the serum; her brute strength and aggression had only lasted for three days before she had crashed and returned back to normal. The experiment had failed, and Hydra now looked to their prized possession to dispose of her properly.

“We will let you have your fun,” his handler had snidely remarked before slamming the door shut behind him, leaving the Winter Soldier locked in his holding cell alone with her. She hadn’t moved in the time since she’d arrived, so the man felt it necessary to firmly nudge her ribs with his boot to wake her up. He didn’t want her here, didn’t enjoy a stranger in the only space he could remotely consider his own, and he wanted this to be known.

Slowly, the failed experiment uses every ounce of strength she has left to lift her head and will herself to look up at the man tasked with terminating life. Unlike the soldier, she knows why they have thrown her in here with their deadliest killer, and the trembling of her bottom lip reveals her trepidation. He initially expects to feel disdain and disgust for this supposed pet that lies at his feet, but when her wide eyes meet his own something inside him shifts.

The Winter Soldier was never one for compassion or empathy; he was programmed to kill without remorse, to void himself of any warmth or humanity, but as he looked down at her his chest swirled with emotions he could not name. It wasn’t pity or mockery, but a compulsive need to protect her from harm the way one wishes to protect a helpless animal from awaiting predators. She is not a pet, but he decides in that moment that she will be his to look after.

Wordlessly, the soldier scoops her limp form off of the tile ground and rests her in the small cot he calls a bed. A pathetic whine of pain leaves her body at the discomfort of being moved around, causing his chest to tighten unbearably. This shouldn’t be happening, there shouldn’t be a sense of longing suffocating his entire being when he gazes upon her weakened form, and yet the man finds himself taking extra care to tuck her under the blankets.

He lets her sleep, keeping careful watch over her form like a guard dog as he seats himself in front of the metal door and basks in her presence.

The Winter Soldier had a new purpose now.

~~~

No one had expected the Asset to become so taken with you.

When the guards came to see if the Soldat had finished the job, they were stunned to find you fast asleep in his bed while he stood watch. They had tried to terminate you themselves only to be met with gruesome ends after just looking at you. The Winter Soldier was adamant that you were not going anywhere, and no one could understand why he had become so fond of you within such a short span of time.

The answer had been discovered a week later by the scientists tasked with creating the new weapon. Though your body had not taken to the physical changes of the serum, they found that it had permanently altered your inner body chemistry and DNA as a result. Your new genetic makeup had triggered something within the Winter Soldier as soon as your eyes had locked with his own, almost as if your blood spoke to his. You were bound together on a biological level by this new serum, and this bond could not be broken.

The deaths of twenty men left Hydra with no choice but to let him keep you as the ordeal was not worth losing more valuable resources than necessary. Your survival did not come without cost, however, and they made it clear that you were expected to earn your keep. The Winter Soldier’s handlers had decided that you could be quite useful in forcing the Asset to comply. The cost of any mistakes or failures were yours to pay, and the possibility of your torture or isolation from one another proved to be a good motivator for the Soldat to execute missions without flaw.

You are an unwilling prisoner in all of this, your freedom taken from under you with no regard to your autonomy, but you know that this is the best possible outcome to have happened to you. Being a pet is much better than being a weapon to abuse or a failed experiment to get rid of, and you know that no real harm can come to you under the protection of the Winter Soldier. You have no choice but to make the most of the course life has chosen for you, and so you fall into your role as his companion.

“I don’t like when you leave,” you utter quietly while making careful work of combing his hair. He is scheduled to be sent away to Italy to locate and execute a deserter known to have important Hydra files with them, and your soldier will be gone for a week. His absence is isolating, and you know that once he is gone a nurse will arrive to hold you down while the doctors drug you to prevent you from causing any problems while he is away. Your brain becomes foggier and foggier with each dosage, and as time goes on the details of your life before the Winter Soldier become hazier until you almost forget everything.

“I must,” is his gruff reply. “It will keep you safe.”

“I want to leave, too,” you whisper despondently, taking great care to ensure your words cannot be heard by anyone other than him. He stiffens, and for a moment you fear being reprimanded, but his quiet utterance in reply has you hopeful for a chance at something better.

“You will.”

~~~

You wake to a man violently grabbing you by the hair and dragging you out of bed. You kick and claw at his arm in a fruitless attempt to free yourself, but he remains unfazed as he drags you to your destination. You know these hallways well enough to know where you are going, and despite your groggy state at having just been woken up from your drug induced slumber you are aware enough to know what is about to come.

Your soldier is waiting for you when you finally arrive to his handler’s office, eyes wide with fury and helplessness as he watches the man lift you by the hair before slamming you back down onto the ground. You cry out in agony and reach for your companion only to have a heavy boot land down onto your hand. The Winter Soldier moves to attack only to have several guns pointed at him, and he is forced with no choice but to stand down and watch you take on the abuse.

“You did not comply with orders, Soldat,” the man says simply, casting an irate glance your way at the sound of your pathetic cries. “I asked you to return with those stolen files and instead you lost them. What good are they to me now?”

A swift kick is driven into your ribcage and you curl into yourself with a sob. His entire body is vibrating with anger, each blow landed only fueling his need for vengeance, and yet he cannot save you. This was the arrangement made, the only reason you were allowed to still be alive, and it was his fault that this was happening to you. A single tear slides down his face at the sound of bone cracking when you take another hit to the ribs, and just when he thinks he can’t take anymore the man raises a hand to signal the assailant to cease his abuse.

“Do not fail again, or next time she will endure worse than a broken rib.”

The guards file out until all that remains is the Winter Soldier and his battered pet that lies unmoving in the center of the room. He’s on you in an instant, hands that were built to kill being used to gently lift your broken form from the ground. Every movement sends painful jolts throughout your body that make you let out pained shrieks and cause his chest to tighten as a result. The Asset cradles you to his chest like a child would their favorite teddy bear and does his best to console you. His metal fingers gingerly comb through your hair as you sob into his chest, and his mind is frenzied with thoughts of how he could ever possibly make this better.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into your neck, his salty tears staining your skin when he presses his face against you. “I’m sorry, my pet.”

You are a prisoner just like him, and he cannot help you when he himself is bound to Hydra forever.

~~~

A week has passed and your injuries have improved gradually overtime, though your Soldat still takes great precaution when touching you or holding you close at night. He handles you with care, and it will never cease to amaze you how a man who was created to be the perfect weapon can be so tender with a woman who would mean nothing to him if not for the serum running through her veins.

He has been gone more often as of late, assisting in the training of a new batch of soldiers. At times you worry he might take to one of them the way he did you, might abandon you in place of a new pet, but from what you have gathered from overheard conversations the scientists had fixed this issue when creating the new serum. They couldn’t risk him showing loyalty to others and chance him deciding to fight back. He was yours, and admittedly you liked it this way. Perhaps it was the constant drugs being put in your system or the isolation of being confined to this building forever, but you loved him.

“I want a name,” you tell him when he returns from a grueling day of training. He looks at you almost puzzled as he removes his tactical clothing in preparation for a shower.

“Name?” He repeats with furrowed brows, planting himself in front of where you sit on the edge of the bed. You open your legs to allow him refuge in between them and hum in approval when he reaches down to gently run his metal fingers along the lines of your jaw.

“I don’t remember mine anymore, or anything before I came here, not completely. I need a name now.”

The Winter Soldier had never stopped to consider these details before you’d brought them to his attention; he didn’t know anything about himself, and he’d forgotten that this was considered abnormal. You had a life before him, an identity, and yet he’d never stopped to try and ask you.

“цветок.” You tilt your head in confusion and he smiles, a rare laugh escaping him as he explains, “Flower.”

He bends forward to press a kiss to the crown of your head, and in that moment you decide you like your new name.

You prefer being his Flower over his Pet, and you make sure to express your gratitude for this change when joining him in the shower.

~~~

Your privileges, while not many, have increased with your time spent as the Winter Soldier’s companion. You aid Hydra in keeping the man in line and ensuring optimal execution on missions, and your permanent bond to him means you never once have tried to escape in his absence. Thus, they felt it appropriate that you finally be able to leave the four walls of your bedroom.

You now have the ability to follow the soldier once a week to training, and you accompany one another to doctor’s visits rather than having them send the physician to you. So long as neither of you screw up, you can continue this routine of leaving your confinement to enjoy a small taste of freedom.

One of your new privileges is the responsibility of grooming the Winter Solider. Now that you can fully be trusted around sharp objects, you can trim his hair and shave his face while he sits back and enjoys how sweetly you fawn over him. Hydra had lost several workers to this task as one accidental tug of hair or cut to his chin could cost them their life, so this was one job they were happy to rid themselves of.

His blue eyes stare intensely up at your scrunched features as you carefully frame the pieces around his face. You work with practiced ease like you’ve done this before, and maybe you have, but there’s no way for either of you to find that out now. Your tongue pokes out discreetly from between your lips while you trim his ends, and the soldier envisions pulling you into his lap then and there to steal a kiss. He’d never do so in front of watchful eyes such as those of the guard who supervise your activity, it’s too intimate and he refuses to share you in such a way, but it brings him solace to envision a word where he can love you without inhibition or fear of putting you in harm’s way.

“I wish they would let you keep it long,” you hum thoughtfully, voice followed by the quiet snipping of the scissors.

“Not good for missions, Flower,” he reminds you before allowing his eyes to flutter shut at the feeling of your fingers combing through his hair.

“You’re leaving again?”

“Not for long,” the man consoles, flesh hand coming to rest on your thigh before giving it a comforting squeeze. “Hydra says I must complete this one last task, and then we both will go to sleep.”

“Sleep?” You repeat hesitantly, pausing your ministrations to meet his steely gaze. His silence has you unnerved, and you return to your previous work in order to distract yourself from the nerves that begin to settle into the pit of your stomach. “Winter, I don’t want to-“

“It is an order, so we must,” he interrupts. He doesn’t mean to be harsh, but he needs you to understand that even with these new freedoms you are still under Hydra’s commands. He cannot risk you becoming bold, becoming defiant, because he knows better than anyone what Hydra does to those who step out of line. He will not have that for you, and he would rather you understand to comply now than have it beat into you later.

You set the scissors down and step back to admire your work. His blue eyes follow your every move as you begin to clean up the mess, and his chest tightens with yearning as he pictures a life of normalcy. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend that you are a normal couple living a regular life- you’re with him because you love him and not because your biology had been programmed to yearn for him only, and your trimming of his hair is an act of love rather than a necessity forced upon him by his handlers. You’ll never know just how much it pains him to know you will never truly be his, and it is his fault you have been subjected to this life.

“Winter,” you call out gently, breaking the man from his obvious turmoil. You say his name so gently, different from what he is used to. His lips barely quirk into a smile, and for you that is a win. “I love you.”

Placing his metal hand on the back of your neck, he carefully pulls you closer so that your foreheads are pressed together. You can feel the gentle fanning of his breath on your face as his nose gently brushes against your own and inhales your scent. One day he will free you from this cage, even if it is at his own expensive.

“I love you.”

~~~

Your Winter returns to you in shambles and it scares you.

You’ve never seen him so frenzied, so unsure of himself and the world around him. His eyes are welled with tears, and he’s on you the moment he spots you, nearly yanking you out of bed as he pulls you impossibly tight to his chest and begins to comb his fingers through your hair.

“Winter?” You whisper meekly while scrambling to find purchase in his hold. You feel his hot tears trickle down onto your neck and the tremble of his hands as they splay across your back, but his hold never relinquishes.

“There was a man,” he shakily whispers into your hair, faltering to swallow the rising bile in his throat, “a man on a bridge.”

“What happened?”

“I knew him,” he whispers agonizingly, the turmoil evident in his tone. His shoulders tremble with each sob he fights to hold back, but the feel of your fingers gently rubbing circles into shoulders allows him the strength to continue. “He called me- he called me Bucky.”

Your features contort into a frown as you hold the sobbing man impossibly tight. You know just how difficult it is to have no semblance of your past or your identity before Hydra, but you can’t imagine just how awful it is to be given a piece of the puzzle only to have nowhere to place it. You want to help him but you don’t know how, and it pains you to be so useless.

“I think he knew you, too,” you reassure him quietly in case of any prying ears. “Maybe Bucky is your name, and this man is a friend. Maybe… maybe he can help us.”

The soldier stiffens at your words, carefully pulling himself out of your grasp to meet your gaze. You fear that perhaps you’ve misspoken and angered your companion, but once you see the rare glimpse of hope shining through his tears you realize your words have struck a chord within him.

With feverish movements he pulls your body back to him and slams his lips onto your own, swallowing your startled gasp and pushing you back towards the mattress. You accept him willingly and without complaint; you let him take you over and over again to the point of exhaustion until neither of you can hold yourselves up any longer. He worships you, comforts you, ensures to you that he will take this new lead and run with it until he can gain your freedom. His mission has always been you, and you trust him with your entire being to complete it.

They come for him hours later. The door to your room slams open, and two guards stand on the other side. Despite your entangled limbs and state of undress, you know well enough to immediately move yourself out of the way by pressing yourself as far back into the corner of the wall as possible. They grab him roughly by the arms before dragging him out of bed, and you watch helplessly from behind the cover of the sheets as he is taken from you once more. Despite the roughness in which they handle him, his eyes remain gentle as they look upon you fondly, and your heart sinks in your stomach when you note how differently this gaze feels. The door shuts harshly behind him, and a part of you fears that the look on his face wasn’t an expression of love.

It was his way of saying goodbye.

~~~

You haven’t seen your Winter in three weeks, and no one has come to check on you in five days.

You feel like you’re losing your sanity with each second that passes- you never thought you’d miss the interactions that came with your daily injections or the physical touch of the nurse holding you down. You’re thirsty, starving, dirty, delirious, and spiraling in your isolation. What could have happened to make them abandon the Winter Soldier’s pet? What could have happened to make him abandon you? Maybe he’s dead, or maybe he had never truly cared about you enough to get you out of this place, and you’re not sure which is worse.

You think you’re dreaming at first when the door to your prison slowly begins to creak open, and the sudden downpour of light is so blinding you can barely make out the figure standing before you. You whine and tightly shut your eyes, but you’re still able to hear the careful footsteps that approach you as if you’re a scared animal who might bite at any sudden movements.

“I’ve got something,” the feminine voice murmurs. “East Wing, last door to the right. They left someone behind.”

You attempt to open your eyes again and are met with the kind features of a woman. She offers you a comforting smile and attempts to reach for you only to flinch, but she’s quick to immediately retract her hands and hold them up in surrender. It’s clear she doesn’t want to scare you, but your bouts of torture and mental scarring don’t allow you to trust so easily. The Hydra nurses had often smiled at you the same way before strapping you down and aiding in your torment.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she coaxes softly, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Are you with Hydra?”

She shakes her head. “My name is Natasha, and I’m an Avenger. My friends and I are here to help you. Can you tell me your name?”

The name strikes a chord within you, but it isn’t impactful enough for you to truly grasp her importance or bring recognition to your mind. It is enough, however, for her to gain your trust and answer her with a quiet utterance of the word, “Flower.”

She hums thoughtfully before extending her hand to you again, and this time you take it without trepidation. Natasha slowly helps you to your feet, but your lack of nutrition and dehydrated state causes you to keel over immediately. The woman catches you in her arms and keeps you upright by allowing you to lean against her, but there’s evident worry on her features now that she fully knows the extent of your physical state. You appear weak and frail, delirious, and she hates to even think about what has happened to you during your stay at the Hydra base.

“Nat,” a new voice calls, and you muster up enough strength to lift your head and lock eyes with the man in the doorway. His features are kind and his eyes blue like your Winter’s, and his build nearly takes up the entire frame. His brows are etched with concern once they catch sight of you, and he’s quick to assist Natasha in guiding you out of the room.

“Flower, this is Steve,” she introduces in a hushed tone, “can he pick you up so we can get out of here faster?”

“I can’t leave,” you murmur hoarsely, eyes beginning to well with tears.

“It’s okay, no one is going to hurt you now if you leave,” she tries to assure you only for you to vehemently shake your head.

“If I leave he won’t know where I am o-or how to find me.”

“Who won’t know?” Steve presses gently, catching your figure as you stumble into his grasp before bursting into a fit of sobs.

“Winter,” you choke, too lost in your crying fit to note the way Steve’s body stiffens at the mention of the man. He shares an uneasy glance with Natasha before composing himself and offering you comfort through the careful rubbing of your back. Your cries echo throughout the abandoned Hydra base and send chills through the Captain’s spine.

He isn’t sure what the next step is or what to even make of this situation. They had been sent here to explore the Hydra base in search of any remaining personnel or files after the aftermath of Pierce, and while he had hoped to find some trace of Bucky he hadn’t been prepared for a battered woman to be the only link left to his missing friend.

Carefully lifting your frail body off the ground and into his arms, Steve trails closely behind Natasha as the two make their exit. You’re an inconsolable mess, but Steve does his best to offer the only words he can think of.

“We’ll find him, I promise.”

You never thought you’d ever get to see the sunlight again, but when Steve carries you over the threshold of the base and out into the open world you find yourself being blinded by its brightness. The feel of fresh air is jarring, its warmth kissing your skin as you are carried into their awaiting jet and set on the softest gurney you’ve ever been on. A multitude of voices surround you, but you can’t seem to focus on anything but the simple fact that no longer are you a prisoner to Hydra and their abuse.

You are free.

~~~

It took hours for Natasha to settle you so Bruce could properly examine you, but no one could blame you for your aversion to doctors and fear of needles. No one had ever been as patient or kind with you as they had been during the process of running blood tests, conducting a psychological profile, and settling you in with an IV to get you hydrated again. You clung to the Black Widow like a lifeline, but she never once seemed to mind. You almost got the impression that she understood the horrors that you’d been through, and that was enough for you to put your entire trust in her.

While your tests are being conducted, Tony and Steve sit in the intelligence room staring at the profile before them on the screen. Your innocent face stares back at the two men, a stark contrast to the woman who sits in the exam room with Banner and Romanoff. Your face is youthful and full of life, and the longer Steve stares at your photo the more the knot in his stomach twists.

“Her name is y/n y/l/n. She was a hairstylist in Manhattan before she was declared missing,” Tony reads along solemnly.

“Does she have any family we can contact?” Steve asks only for his counterpart to shake his head dejectedly.

“Parents passed away when she was in college and there’s no immediate family left. Hydra knew what they were doing when they picked her for their program.”

Sighing, Steve pinches the bridge of his nose in rumination before leaning in back into his chair. He felt a sense of responsibility when it came to your wellbeing; though he didn’t know the exact nature of your relationship with Bucky, he knew you must have been important to him considering how worried you were about him finding you, and that mean you were important to Steve now too. But there was so little to work with when it came to helping you enter back into the real world again, and who knew how long it would take for you to reacclimatize to your newfound freedom.

“This poor girl was tortured for who knows how long. If I could have found her sooner-“

“Hey, don’t do that to yourself,” Tony interrupts with a deep frown, “that doesn’t help anyone. We have her here now, and we’re going to get her the best treatment money can buy to help her get through all of this.”

Before Steve can reply, the two men are interrupted by the presence of Dr. Banner who holds a folder of tests results in his hands. The Captain is on his feet immediately, looking at Bruce expectantly with bated breath as he waits for the prognosis.

“As we suspected, there is super soldier serum running through her veins. However, it appears dormant since she showed no signs of increased strength or aggression or any other possible abilities. We’re not sure what effect it has on her, but I think she should be able to live a relatively normal life despite it being active in her system.”

“You couldn’t remove it?” Tony questions.

“She didn’t want me to. She said it’s what keeps her connected to Barnes, what kept him from killing her when Hydra dumped her on him.”

“I didn’t know that was possible,” Steve murmurs quietly. “Will she be okay?”

“Well, it’s going to take some time for her to psychologically recover from the torture and the isolation she endured, but there is a good chance her memories can be restored with time as well. Physically I’d say she’ll recover, and I’ll ask again when she’s in a better mental state about removing the serum, but…”

The hesitation in his voice is clear, prompting Tony and Steve to exchange uneasy glances before urging him to go on.

“What is it, Bruce?” Tony presses. Sighing, Banner adjusts the frames of his glasses and looks between the two men before landing his eyes on your holographic picture. He doesn’t want to voice the reality of the situation, but he knows he must if they want to help you.

Finally, he replies, “She’s pregnant.”

The room becomes deafly silent as the doctor’s words hang in the air, and it feels like ages before Steve finally works up the nerve to speak.

“Pregnant?” He nearly gawks in astonishment, clearly not believing the words he’s hearing.

“The blood tests and an ultrasound both came up conclusive,” Bruce confirms solemnly.

“And the father?” Steve hesitates to ask.

“Based on the details she shared with Nat, I think it’s safe to say that Barnes is the father.”

“So you’re telling me this woman is carrying a baby super soldier?” Tony questions bluntly much to Steve’s chagrin.

“It would be appear that way, yes,” Bruce replies almost annoyed at Tony’s poor choice of words.

“Is it safe?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I think the serum running through her veins increases her chances of survival and the possibility of a relatively normal pregnancy. We’ll just have to keep an eye on her in the meantime and hope for the best.”

“Well, Rogers, it looks like you’re going to be an Uncle,” Tony congratulates with a hearty clap to his back in an attempt to lighten the mood. Though Steve doesn’t exactly appreciate the jokes, his nerves are somewhat put at ease when he continues, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she gets everything she needs for the super tyke.”

It seems that finding Bucky is more important now than ever, and Steve is determined to do whatever it takes to reunite you with the man you love.

No matter the cost.

~~~

It’s been two months since you were freed from Hydra’s prison, but sometimes it only feels like just yesterday you’d been tangled in the sheets with your lover planning your escape. Should you even call him that? You’re not sure anymore. Your new therapist had affirmed you were an unwilling participant in all that had happened to you, but so was he, and he had taken care of you as best as he could given the circumstances you found yourselves in. You think you do love him even if she says you’d only forced yourself to feel that way as a means to survive.

Along with a new therapist, you’d been given all the resources possible to start your life over. Despite their insistence that you were welcome to stay at the Avenger’s compound while you healed, you were adamant about wanting the autonomy that came with having your own apartment. You wanted to learn to be your own person again, to live in your own space by your own schedule, so Tony had helped you find the perfect apartment in a quiet part of town.

Steve visited nearly every day to ensure you and the baby were doing alright considering he felt you were his responsibility now in Bucky’s absence. No leads have been found yet on the whereabouts of the Winter Soldier, but he is doing his damndest to find Bucky by all means. Natasha stops by every once and while when Steve cannot, offering you company and support during your transitional period.

Your body has healed from the grueling abuse you’d endured, but it’s taking your mind a little longer to catch up. You remember your name now, your real name, and vague remnants of your past, but it isn’t enough for you to complete the full picture. Bruce says it will take some time for you to regain your memories, but you’re not oblivious to the possibility that your mind might not ever be fully restored.

Natasha had accompanied you to another ultrasound appointment to check on the health of the baby and your own before taking you grocery shopping. The doctors say you’re almost three months along with a perfectly healthy baby, and Nat had cooed sweetly at the grainy image displayed for you both on the screen. You never knew how exactly to feel every time they showed you the baby- you didn’t hate it or detest the fact that you were pregnant, but the circumstances in which it had all occurred certainly weren’t ideal, and it served as a reminder that you would be going into this alone.

Once you were coherent enough, Steve had sat you down and carefully explained that your Winter once went by the name of James Barnes, though most people just called him Bucky. He told you of their friendship and how he had thought him to be dead all these years until the incident on the bridge, and he assured you he was doing everything in his power to bring you both together again. Of course, that had been a month ago, and Bucky was nowhere to be seen. It pained you to know that he wouldn’t be here to experience any milestones with you, to see his child grow inside you, to hold them and love them and enjoy his chance at having a family. You were supposed to start a new life together, but instead you and your little one are all alone.

You step out of the elevator and head towards your apartment with an arm full of groceries after finally making the trip home. Natasha had offered to help you bring them up, but you insisted you’d be fine on your own. You look forward to the hearty soup you plan to make for dinner and to frame the latest ultrasound on your fridge, and you don’t mind the fact that most days you dine alone. You’ve learned to get used to solitude once more, though it helps when it’s out of your own volition and not because you’ve been locked away in your own personal prison cell.

The apartment is quiet and untouched when you enter and hang your keys on the wall, but it’s only once you make it to the kitchen that you realize there is an intruder standing in your home. Your newly bought groceries fall to the floor with a deafening thud, fruits and vegetables scattering everywhere as you stare at the familiar pair of blue eyes that pierce straight through you. His hair has gotten longer again and his features are covered in stubble, but you know it is him.

“Winter?” You whisper in a trembling voice, afraid that if you speak any louder he might just disappear.

“Flower,” he breathes out, and before you can even blink he’s on you in an instant. Your frame is lifted from the ground when he picks you up in a bone crushing hug, one hand wrapped around your midsection while the other cradles the back of your head. He breathes in your scent as you nestle your face into the crook of his neck and begin to sob with the amalgamation of emotions within you. You missed him terribly, but you hated him for abandoning you and for loving you so much that Hydra had decided you were too valuable a resource to lose, and yet you were so relieved to see him alive and breathing in your little apartment.

“You left me,” you sob into his neck which prompts him to tighten his hold on you in response. “You promised you’d come back.”

“I could never leave you,” he hushes you, trembling lips brushing against the shell of your ear, “I could never ever leave you. I tried to come back for you but you were gone, and I couldn’t risk coming near you with the Avengers around or else they might take me away from you.”

“They wouldn’t do that, Steve has been looking for you. He promised we’d get to be together.”

“That isn’t his promise to make,” the man utters solemnly, finally relinquishing his hold on you so he can step back and admire your beautiful tear stained face. You look so different from the last time he’d seen you; your face was fuller and brighter, and the length of your hair had changed, but you were still just as beautiful as ever. “Flower-“

“Y/n,” you interrupt him. He falters at the name and furrows his brows in confusion until you clarify, “my real name is y/n. And yours is James, but Steve calls you Bucky.”

A look of recognition washes over his features and he nods. “We were… friends.”

“Steve can help us,” you attempt to reassure him again, but Bucky is not so easily convinced.

“No, no, I can’t… I can’t stay here. Many people want me dead, so it’s better to just disappear.”

“Disappear?” You blanch, already feeling the panic beginning to bubble within you. Your hands begin to tremble and you take a step away from him as you desperately try to process his words. “No, you can’t- you can’t leave me again!”

“I came here to say goodbye,” he admits solemnly before gently taking your shaky hands in his own. “You deserve to have a life without me in it.”

“I don’t want that!” You insist through tears only for him to shush you.

“My Flower, the serum bound us together, but it doesn’t mean that I have the right to ruin your chance at freedom. There is no future with me, a life on the run is not what you deserve. I will not put you through torment again. I-“

“I’m pregnant,” you finally blurt to get him to shut up. His wide eyes and stunned silence prove that your methods are effective. You feel his hold on you tighten as he takes a pensive swallow and slowly looks you up and down.

“Pregnant?” He repeats quietly in disbelief.

“I’m pregnant, and that means I do deserve a life with you in it. I deserve to raise our baby with you, to have you by my side. Please don’t leave me again.”

Tears steadily fall down your cheeks, and Bucky is quick to cup your face in his hands so that he may wipe them away. The apartment is quiet as he soaks up the news he’s just been given. He once thought he’d spend the rest of his life a slave to Hydra with nothing to lose and nothing to keep, but then he’d met you and everything had changed. You were his mission, his reason to fight, and now so was this baby. The answer is clear right in front of him, so he takes it.

“Pack a bag,” he urges you gently. “Pack a bag so we can leave and start over somewhere else together.”

Your breath hitches in your throat at his insistence, but you don’t think twice about scurrying off to your room and gathering whatever items will fit in your bag. You did want a new life, a fresh start, but no apartment in New York would fill the hole within you caused by Bucky’s absence if he left you behind. You are grateful to the Avengers, to all they have done for you, but Bucky is right. Your chance at a happy life is not their promise to make.

You leave a note for Natasha and Steve to find explaining that you are safe and will be okay on your own, that they don’t have to look for you and can rest assured knowing you are perfectly happy wherever it is you are. You thank them for everything and leave behind the keys to your apartment, taking one last look at the place before following Bucky to his getaway vehicle.

“Where will we go?”

He rests a comforting hand on your thigh and gives it a gentle squeeze before meeting your gaze. The hopeful glimmer in your eyes fills his heart with warmth and only further fuels his need to protect you and ensure your happiness. He hopes he’s doing the right thing by bringing you along with him.

“Romania,” he finally answers. “I think you’ll like it there.”

~~~

The soft cries from the bassinet rouse you from your slumber, but Bucky is gently pushing you back into bed before you can even remove the covers.

“I got it,” he murmurs hoarsely, sleep still evident in his voice when he speaks. The sun is barely beginning to rise as its warmth seeps through the curtains, and you comfortably stretch yourself awake in bed as Bucky brings the mewling infant to your awaiting embrace. “Hungry again.”

“It feels like she always is,” you jest with a fond smile while lifting your shift and allowing the infant to nurse. Bucky presses a kiss to your temple and repeats the act to your child before retreating into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee for the start of your day.

Your life in Bucharest has been relatively quiet for the past year. As Bucky had promised, you’d made a fresh start in a new home for yourself, a home of your choosing where you could live in peace with your daughter and without worry of anyone finding your hidden paradise. Time had helped heal you both, and though there was still much progress to be made, becoming parents had softened you both and given you all the more motivation to be better versions of yourselves for your daughter.

Natalia Rose Barnes had been born eight months ago in a small hospital room and was deemed perfectly healthy despite your initial concerns of how the serum might affect her growth. She was the most beautiful little creature Bucky had ever seen, and his heart had bursted with pride when you’d handed her to him for the first time. He never once thought it possible for him to have a family, to take part of the creation of something so innocent and sweet after years of atrocities committed by his own hands, and yet here he was watching her tiny hand wrap tightly around his metal fingers.

Your days consisted of staying home to take care of Rosie while Bucky completed odd jobs around Bucharest to earn money. You practiced journaling often to keep track of old memories that would resurface with time to allow you to continue piecing your life together, and Bucky did the same. The thought of the Winter Soldier reawakening always lingered at the back of his mind, but he made it his mission that he would never show that part of himself to your daughter or to you ever again. You were no longer Winter and Flower but Bucky and y/n, and he was determined to keep it that way at all costs.

“I have to go out into town for groceries today,” he informs you whilst holding the cup of coffee to your lips and allowing you to take a drink. “Rose needs diapers, and we’re out of plums.”

You hum thoughtfully in response and reply, “If there is enough money leftover can you stop at the bakery for muffins?”

“Of course,” Bucky replies with a gentle grin, gently brushing his knuckles against your chin. “Anything you want.”

“I think Rosie and I will go for a walk in the park today,” you tell him. “Maybe you can join us once you’re done and we can walk home together.”

“I’d like that,” he affirms. You know how paranoid Bucky gets when you and Rose are alone, especially when it’s out in public, but he tries not to restrict your freedom too much and allows you to do certain things on your own.

You both prepare separately for your days and accompany one another out of the apartment. Bucky assists you in setting up the stroller and strapping a sleeping Rose in her seat, and he gives you a tender kiss before parting ways with you. The day is bright and beautiful, and your heart is content as you walk through the streets of Bucharest and to the local park.

You don’t have any friends or family in Romania, so you appreciate the friendliness of locals that greet you in passing or simply offer a smile your way. Many people especially like to stop and fawn over Natalia, so your guard is down when a woman seats herself next to you on the park bench and interrupts your journaling by cooing at your daughter.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, I-“ you begin to say only to freeze once you look up from your writing to acknowledge the stranger. She gives you a pointed look, but her smile is playful as she watches you process her presence before you. “Natasha?!”

“You’re hard to find, you know,” she quips with a raised brow, but she isn’t given a reply when you instead choose to throw yourself into her arms and hold her impossibly tight.

“I-I can’t believe you’re here,” you breathe in disbelief, eyes welling with tears at the comfort that comes with seeing a familiar face.

“I can’t believe you already had the baby,” she replies before pulling out of your hold to take in your face. “Are you alright? Banner was worried it might be hard on you because of the serum.”

“It was perfectly safe, Rose and I made it out fine.”

“Rose?” Natasha repeats before casting her gaze to the cooing baby sitting in the stroller.

“Well, her middle name is Rose, but her first name is Natalia,” you correct with a sheepish smile after seeing the way Natasha looks at you in surprise. “I wanted to name her after someone important, and after everything you did for me it only felt right.”

“I’m… honored,” she expresses, still getting over the initial shock. A new emotion flashes across her face for a split second before becoming unreadable again, but you detect the change before she can hide it.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that without asking you first,” You immediately jump to apologize in fear of upsetting her. You’d been so excited to see her you hadn’t even considered the fact she might be irritated with you for leaving without a trace and not bothering to reach out with your new location.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just… well, it makes this next part a little harder,” she admits mournfully, taking in the way your eyes widen slightly and lips begin to pull into a frown at her sudden change in demeanor. “As much as I wish I could say I’m here for a friendly visit, I’m actually here to bring you in for questioning.”

“What?” You gape in quiet bewilderment. You can already feel the unease beginning to grow at her serious tone, and your mind is racing with possibilities of what you could possibly be in trouble for.

“A bomb was recently planted at the Vienna International Centre and killed several UN representatives including King T’Chaka of Wakanda. Security footage revealed that the person responsible for this was Barnes.”

“That’s… that’s impossible!” You immediately argue, mind scrambling to catch up with the news Natasha has just dumped on you. Your heart is racing in your chest and body beginning to feel the oncomings of a panic attack when you realize your peaceful little life in Bucharest has been abruptly ended by a false accusation. “He couldn’t have done that, we’ve been together almost every day with Rosie.”

“They have him on camera, y/n. My hands are tied. I’ve been asked to bring you in because of your connection to Barnes, but if you can honestly say he’s been with you here in Bucharest this entire time then that might help him out. Steve and Sam should be with him right now.”

You can almost feel the hope draining out of you as you process the fact that the life you’d built for yourself was crashing down all around you. No matter how far you run, the past continues to catch up to you both. Bucky isn’t the Winter Soldier anymore, he’s trying to be better, and you wish others could see him for who he is rather than for what he has done.

“I’ll go with you if you promise they won’t take Rosie away from me,” you urge her. Natasha frowns.

“I can’t promise that, but I can promise that no matter what happens she’ll be safe. Can you trust me on that?”

You do, and that’s why you follow her willingly to Berlin for questioning. Bucky is already there when you arrive, and your heart breaks when you see how they have chosen to restrain him. His eyes are filled with sorrow at the sight of you and Rosie being escorted to a separate room, and he wants nothing more than to be there for you both, but he can do nothing as you are taken from him once again.

The prime focus is on Bucky, so you sit alone in the interrogation room for some time before the door finally opens and Steve enters. He has a tired smile on his face meant to hold up his facade while he hands you a glass of water.

“I thought you might need this,” he offers before taking a seat across from you.

“Are you here to question me?”

“No, I’m here as a friend. I don’t think you should be locked away in a room like this on your own.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” you offer bluntly. You don’t mean to be crass, but you’re beginning to become fed up with constantly having your life uprooted without any consideration of your feelings or autonomy. You didn’t choose this life for yourself or plan for it to be this way, yet it seemed you were always being punished for loving a tortured man who was trying to do better.

Despite your brashness, the air is void of tension and instead filled with the happy babbles of Rosie who continuously tries to reach across the table for Steve. She has Bucky’s eyes and his smile, and Steve feels a sense of protectiveness wash over him every time he looks at her. He has a duty to you and to Rosie to help prove Bucky’s innocence, and he hopes you’ll be able to see that he is on your side no matter what.

“Would you like to hold her?” You ask him after noting the way he eyes her so intently. He happily obliges, and you’re filled with a sense of ease to see your baby being coddled by Captain America. At the very least Rosie has a super powered support system, and this fact helps alleviate some of your stress.

“She’s gorgeous,” Steve compliments, allowing the girl to press her hands against his face in exploration. “This is all I ever wanted for Bucky. A chance to have the life that was taken from him, to start a family with a nice girl who loved him despite all he’s endured. I just wish it could have happened differently.”

“I know,” you reply solemnly before casting your gaze to your hands resting in your lap in order to hide your welling tears. “I do too.”

Steve opens his mouth to reply only to be interrupted by the blaring sounds of an alarm. The interrogation room is coated in red, and Rosie begins to shriek at the assaulting noise. You look to Steve with wide and fearful eyes when he quickly rises from his seat and hands you back your daughter. The alarms are reminiscent of the ones at the Hydra base, and it takes everything in you not to fall apart for the sake of your baby. Steve rests a gentle hand on your shoulder and provides you a reassuring squeeze before instructing you to stay put.

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” he avows before bolting out of the room. Your breathing comes in quick gasps as you press yourself to the furtherest corner of the wall and slowly sink to the floor with a crying Rosie to the floor. Your mind attempts to retrieve the therapeutic techniques you’d been taught to help you deal with such episodes, but none of them come to fruition fast enough for you to settle. You feel like you can’t breathe, and the blaring alarm has turned into a distant ringing as you curl in on yourself with the baby pressed tightly to your chest.

You don’t know long you’re stuck waiting in that room, unable to differentiate between minutes or hours, but you’re finally freed from your prison when the door swings open and Natasha rushes to your side.

“We gotta go,” she urges you whilst helping your trembling figure off the ground.

“Natasha, what’s going on?! Where’s Bucky?!” Your press for information falls on deaf ears as she uses one arm to keep you close to her form while the other holds out her gun for potential attacks. “We can’t leave him!”

“Someone activated the Winter Soldier,” she finally answers you after ensuring the area is secure and urging you forward. “It’s not safe for you or the baby.”

“No…” you breathe out before stopping in your tracks, “no, that’s not right.”

“Y/n, we don’t have time-“

“He wouldn’t hurt me, Natasha. The serum, it-“

“I’m not taking any chances,” she states adamantly before forcing you along with her to the exit. You can only stumble after her quick pace and follow her to safety while Bucky wreaks havoc on the building. The next few moments are a blur once you’re shoved into the back of a military van and sped off to a secondary location. The building grows further and further away, separating you and Bucky once more.

~~~

A warm breeze brushes through the grass around you, serene and comforting while you stare pensively at the lake before you. You’d sat at a lake like this once years ago with your parents when they were still alive, and it brought you the same comfort then that it did now. The world is calm here in your bubble, and you think you can finally breathe.

Rosie sits a few feet away from you in the grass playing with two of the local girls from the nearby village. The children adore your toddler and flock to visit her nearly everyday, but you don’t mind. This is what you had always wanted for her, to see her play with other children and know a world of peace where no harm could come to her. This was the most relatively normal childhood she could have, and you were grateful to be here in Wakanda.

After the Winter Soldier had been activated that fateful day, Natasha had stashed you and Rosie into a safe house while she dealt with the aftermath. Days passed before Steve finally came to get you, and you were promptly taken to be reunited with Bucky in Wakanda where T’Challa had granted you both asylum. They would work to erase his programming while you were there, and you would get to raise Rosie without the fear of having to up and leave at a moment’s notice. You’ll be forever indebted to the King for his kindness towards your family, and you truly think this could be the end of all your worries.

Your rumination is interrupted by the shifting of the grass when a new presence joins your side, and almost by instinct do you immediately lean into his side and rest your head upon his shoulder. You sometimes still expect to feel the sensation of cool metal against your cheek, but his appendage is gone now along with the Winter Soldier. Time has healed your husband, and there is no chance of anyone using him as a weapon now.

“I never thought life could be like this,” he voices aloud, a small smile forming on his lips at the sound of Rosie’s echoing laughter.

“It’s nice here,” you agree quietly. “Peaceful. We don’t have to run anymore.”

There’s a pause of silence following your words before he speaks again. “I don’t think I ever thanked you.”

His comment has you turning to look at him in puzzlement, your brows furrowing with uncertainty at what he’s trying to convey.

“Thanked me?”

He nods before shifting his gaze to you. His face is melancholic and full of sincerity when he reaches for your hand to take in his own. His eyes are swimming with devotion and admiration, and it has your stomach doing a nervous flip at the sudden shift in his demeanor.

“For giving me this second chance, for giving me a family. Hydra brought our paths together and the serum bonded us to one another, but Banner could have removed it from your system so you could live a normal life in Manhattan without a connection to me. You refused it. And when I returned you followed me to Romania despite me trying to set you free. You loved me anyway despite all you’d been through with me, you never gave up on me. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

You smile up at him with complete adoration and devotion before resting a hand upon his cheek. He immediately melts at your touch, eyes fluttering shut as he releases a relaxed breath and savors the feel of your palm against his skin.

“You’ll never have to thank me for that,” you assure him with complete sincerity. “I will love you for the rest of my life with or without some stupid serum. We came into each other’s lives for a reason, and this is it.”

You pull him towards you for a passionate kiss that both of you ensure to savor before returning your gazes to the landscape before you. The sun sparkles on the water while the wind rustles through grass, and Rosie begins to make her clumsy ascent towards you both with hands outstretched for her father. Bucky is quick to pull her into his chest and hold her securely in his lap as your little family enjoys a peaceful afternoon in Wakanda.

Life is still and perfect, and for now you can continue to remain in your peaceful bubble blissfully unaware of the dangers yet to come.

[seongwars]

Romancing Doctor Zayne ⟡ Part 1

Pairing: non-mc!matchmaker x zayne Genre: Regency era! Idiots to lovers. Fluff, humor, a dash of angst. MC/non-MC appears as your older sister, Sylus is your brother-in-law Summary: Dr. Zayne Li is a brilliant physician who's completely useless in social settings. You're one of Linkon's most sought after matchmakers tasked with finding his perfect match. What could go wrong when feelings get involved? Word Count: 11K--there will be a part 2!

a/n: it's finally here! this took me forever to write and i'm not quite done with my hiatus yet but because pride & prejudice is on netflix it inspired me to finish the first part of this fic.

You had never intended to be a matchmaker.

It had all started, rather embarrassingly, with a misplaced observation at Lady Talia’s estate last year. She had been hosting one of her elaborate afternoon teas and the conversation was just lively enough to make up for the lackluster company. Amid polite chatter, you had offhandedly remarked that Mr. Gideon seemed far more open and talkative when seated next to your dear friend, Simone.

Within a month, Gideon was calling on Simone with great enthusiasm, and not long after, they were formally courting. You had thought it a happy coincidence—until the morning after their engagement was announced, when Simone's parents arrived at your doorstep unannounced, beaming as though you had single-handedly saved their daughter from ruin.

“Oh, Y/N, we cannot thank you enough!” Her mother had gushed, clasping your hands between her gloved ones. 

“If not for you, dear Simone might have—” She had stopped short, as if only then realizing who exactly she was speaking to.

“Might have what, my lady?” you inquired, tilting your head. 

“Nothing, nothing. Just that we are so grateful for your keen insight. What a gift you have!”

Indeed. A gift you hadn’t fully appreciated until it happened again.

Dr. Greyson and Tara, brought together after you casually noted how often he seemed to linger near her at social gatherings. Then Lord Jeremiah and Miss Yvonne, whose mutual affection had gone unnoticed by everyone but you. 

At first, you had brushed these successes off as coincidence, but when grateful families began inquiring about the monetary aspect of your services, you realized there was something to be made of this.

A spinster you may be, but you were a spinster with a talent.

Your family, of course, had their opinions. Your parents were entirely unimpressed by your newfound profession, scoffing at the irony of a spinster making a career out of love matches.

“You spend your time making matches for others, but what of your own?” your mother had asked.

Without missing a beat, you had taken a sip of your tea and replied, “Well, Mother, some of us prefer to keep our hearts and bank accounts intact.”

Your father had choked on his biscuit.

Your elder sister, on the other hand, had been much more supportive, though that may have had something to do with the fact that you'd been the one to nudge her in the direction of Mr. Sylus Qin, after nearly three years of will-they-won't-they nonsense. After a number of twists, turns, and misunderstandings, the two had finally married.

“Caleb! Oh, how good to see you!” your mother exclaimed, beaming as she welcomed your ever-cheerful neighbor into your home.

It wasn’t even noon yet.

Your father made a disgruntled noise behind his newspaper, turning a page with more force than necessary. You, still nursing your first cup of tea, resisted the urge to groan into it.

Caleb Xia was a morning person. Not just any morning person, but the sort who greeted the dawn with unbridled enthusiasm, who had probably already been up for hours tending to business and charming the entire ton before you had even considered leaving your bed.

It was unnatural. Even more unnatural was your mother’s relentless meddling in attempting to match you with Mr. Xia. But you had always known he was destined to be an eternal bachelor—especially after having his heart broken when your sister married Sylus.

“Mrs. Hunter,” Caleb greeted warmly. “Always a pleasure. The garden is looking rather lovely this time of year.”

Your mother preened at the compliment, as she always did. “Oh, you are simply too kind, dear.”

“Yes, entirely too kind,” you muttered into your teacup, earning a sharp look from your mother. 

“Speaking of kindness,” Caleb took the seat across from you, helping himself to a scone from the spread as if he lived here. Which, frankly, he might as well have, given how often he turned up unannounced.

“I seek your wisdom.”

You took a slow sip of tea, eyeing him warily. “It will cost you.”

“Miss Hunter, this isn’t just any work,” he countered, helping himself to another scone. 

“This is an opportunity.”

You frowned. “Opportunity for whom?”

“For you, of course. And my dear friend, Dr. Zayne Li.”

You hummed, pretending to consider, but the moment he said doctor, the glint of profit flashed before your eyes. Doctors were wealthy. They tended to be responsible, successful, and, most importantly, willing to pay handsomely for assistance in re-entering society.

“Go on.”

Caleb’s grin widened. “He’s a brilliant physician from Bloomshore. Kind, respectable, completely useless in social settings. If left alone, he’ll probably marry his medical books.” He pointed his butter knife at you. 

“I thought, who better to guide him to the perfect match than you?”

“Does Dr. Li know you’re putting him up to this?”

“No. But! He will be grateful once he realizes what a fine service you’re providing.”

A doctor seeking to marry? That was a premium case, easily worth double your usual rate. Perhaps even triple, if Caleb’s assessment of his abysmal social skills proved accurate. You could already envision the eager mamas flocking to you, desperate to have their daughters matched with the elusive doctor.

“When is he expected in Linkon?”

“Next week.” 

“Well then, it seems I have my work cut out for me. Tell the doctor that if there’s a match to be made, I shall find it.”

Dr. Zayne Li arrived in Linkon under blue skies.

Medicine had carried him through countless towns and estates, but social calls had never been his strength. He preferred his work, things that could be studied, measured and understood. People, however, were another matter entirely.

He exhaled, scanning the streets of Linkon with a creeping sense of weariness. The city was far livelier than Bloomshore, larger, louder, closing in from all sides with a restless energy that threatened to drain him.

“There you are,” Caleb greeted him with outstretched arms. “A little road-worn, but none the worse for wear.”

“I would have been content to arrive without an audience,” Zayne remarked dryly, brushing a bit of dust from his sleeve.

“Ah, but then I wouldn’t have the pleasure of informing you of your first obligation.”

“And what would that be?” he asked, already suspecting he would not like the answer.

Caleb’s grin widened. “A ball.”

“I’m not interested.”

“W-Wait!” Caleb caught his arm as he turned to leave.

“At least hear me out.”

“There’s nothing to hear. I do not dance nor do I have any desire to engage in frivolous social gatherings.”

"W-Well, that’s where you’ll meet my friend,” he said, clearing his throat. “Suffering from, uh, spinsterism.”

Perhaps referring to you as a "dear friend suffering from the dreadful affliction of spinsterism" had not been his finest moment. But in his defense, he had been desperate to convince Zayne to come to Linkon and cooperate. And now, thanks to his own loose tongue, he was stuck in an ever deepening pit of his own making.

Zayne straightened, suddenly intrigued by Caleb’s words. “I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered such a condition in my studies. Is it a chronic affliction or an acute one?”

Caleb blinked. “Uh—”

“The symptoms,” Zayne continued, eyes narrowing in curiosity. “Are they progressive? Does it worsen with age?”

“Well—”

“Has it been observed in married women, or is it exclusive to the unmarried? What are the physiological manifestations? Fatigue? Nervous palpitations?”

“Definitely some nervous palpitations.”

Zayne hummed, already lost in thought. “Fascinating. And what treatments have been attempted? Dietary changes? Bloodletting? Surely, if it’s as prevalent as you claim, there must be documented studies on the matter.”

“You’d be the first, Dr. Zayne,” Caleb coughed. He clapped the doctor on the back and steered him forward. 

“Come now, we must make haste. We wouldn’t want your patient to waste away before you can examine her.”

Zayne’s brows furrowed in concentration as he trailed behind Caleb, his mind fully engaged in the absurdity of his own making. 

“I must get my hands on these studies at once. I assume the condition is more prevalent in certain social classes?”

“Oh, definitely.” Caleb was fully committed to the bit now. “Particularly among well-bred young ladies past the age of five and twenty.”

Zayne muttered something about early onset cases and socioeconomic correlations as he strode ahead, completely unaware that he was the subject of Caleb’s greatest prank to date.

⟡

You stood near the entrance of the estate, offering polite curtsies to members of your family’s social circle, clients former and current as they arrived. The evening was lively, brimming with the chatter of Linkon’s elite. Yet, despite the spectacle, your thoughts were preoccupied with one particular arrival: the esteemed Dr. Zayne Li, whom Caleb had all but pleaded you to take under your wing.

You had wondered what he might be like.

Caleb had described a man of great intellect, one of the finest medical minds of his generation. A physician of both discipline and skill, a most promising acquaintance, Caleb had assured you. But dreadfully lacking in social graces.

At last, you spotted them. Caleb, striding forward beside him, a tall, serious looking man with green eyes that flickered across the crowd like he was searching for the nearest exit.

“Ah, there she is!” Caleb declared, far too loudly. 

“Dr. Zayne, may I present my dear friend, Miss Y/N Hunter. The very picture of grace and resilience in the face of her most unfortunate affliction.”

You shot Caleb a look that promised retribution before turning to his companion with a stiff smile. 

“Dr. Zayne, it’s a pleasure.”

The doctor studied you with an assessing gaze, his brow slightly furrowed. “You appear…surprisingly healthy.”

You blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“For someone afflicted with spinsterism,” he clarified, tilting his head, as though he were trying to reconcile your appearance with a dreadful prognosis. 

“No pallor, no visible signs of deterioration…”

Your smile froze. Slowly, deliberately, you turned back to Caleb.

“Excuse us, Doctor,” you said, voice dripping with sweetness. 

Without waiting for his response, you yanked Caleb behind a nearby pillar, making sure to drag him just far enough away so Zayne couldn’t hear the imminent disaster that was about to unfold.

“What,” you hissed, “did you tell him?”

Caleb held up his hands. “Now, before you get upset—”

“Caleb!” 

“I may have slightly misled him into believing spinsterism a medical condition.”

You stared at him in disbelief. “A medical condition?”

“In my defense, he took the idea and ran with it before I could clarify.”

“You implied I was wasting away, didn’t you?”

“…Only a little?”

“I am going to strangle you!” you seethed, hitting him across the arm with your fan.

You straightened yourself, taking a deep breath to regain your composure. You couldn’t stay mad at Caleb forever—well, you could, but for now, there was a much more pressing matter.  With one final glare you turned on your heel and made your way back to where Zayne stood.

“Doctor,” you began, smoothing your expression into something far more pleasant, “I do apologize for the interruption.” 

You shot Caleb a sharp look before turning your full attention back to the doctor. 

“I assure you, I am quite well, despite the rather imaginative condition Mr. Xia has misdiagnosed me with.”

Zayne blinked, still processing what had just happened. "I...see. No harm done, I hope."

“None whatsoever! Well, Doctor,” you said, lips curving into a smile, “I shall consider it my duty to make your suffering more bearable.”

“That is very generous of you, Miss Hunter.”

Without hesitation, he held out his arm in polite invitation. You gladly accepted, letting your gloved fingers rest lightly against the fabric of his sleeve as you entered the ballroom. 

As you wove through the ton, you let your gaze drift over the gathered company, taking careful note of the ladies in attendance. You had done this many times before, matchmaking for friends and acquaintances alike, but this particular challenge intrigued you more than most.

Zayne was not entirely socially inept, nor was he entirely withdrawn, but there was a guardedness about him. He would need a particular kind of match; someone patient enough to understand his quiet nature or charismatic enough to pull him effortlessly into conversation.

You stole a glance at him. He had not spoken since entering the room, but his emerald eyes flitted across the ballroom, as if cataloging details in his mind. A man accustomed to observing, rather than being observed.

“Are you always this silent, Doctor?” you asked, tilting your head to study him.

He blinked, as though pulled from his own thoughts. “Only when there is little to say.”

“Observation is a useful skill,” you mused. “As is conversation.”

“A skill I have yet to master, I’m afraid.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Then it is fortunate you have me as your guide.”

“And what, precisely, do you intend to guide me toward?”

You smiled, stepping slightly closer, letting the words linger between you for just a moment. 

“Perhaps, if you believe in destiny, your soulmate. Or rather, a suitable marriage prospect.”

Zayne was not a man who responded to flattery, nor one easily drawn into idle conversation. He should have dismissed the notion outright, as romantic pursuits were a distraction, an indulgence he had never allowed himself due to the nature of his work. But something in your words, and a glint in your eyes, made his pulse stutter briefly.

“You seem far more interested in speaking with me than surveying prospects,” he remarked, with the slightest hint of amusement in his tone.

“I cannot very well find you a match if I do not first understand the man himself.”

He hummed, considering your words. “An admirable approach. Though I wonder…do all your cases earn such dedicated attention?”

“Only the particularly difficult ones.”

Zayne exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “Then I fear I may be your most challenging case yet.”

Undeterred, you lifted your chin. “I do enjoy a challenge, Doctor.”

And with that, you set about proving it.

Over the course of the evening, you introduced him to a variety of eligible ladies, each one possessing qualities you thought might complement his quiet nature.

Miss Callahan was certainly lovely, though you suspected her boundless energy wore Zayne out with his clipped responses. You could practically see him retreating from her overwhelming energy.

Miss Harper had been your next choice. She was sweet and soft spoken, who seemed more suited for Zayne’s temperament. Yet, as their conversation unfolded, you couldn’t help but notice the way she nervously smoothed her skirts, her gaze darting about as if searching for reassurance.

Then there was Lady Fairchild. Intelligent, poised, and confident. She launched into conversation with ease, but her impatience for hesitation was clear. Not that it mattered, Zayne was already meandering backward, preparing his escape.

It became evident, after a handful of introductions, that Zayne was not easily impressed, or perhaps, not interested at all. No matter the charm of his potential matches, he remained politely distant, maneuvering himself toward the quieter edges of the gathering. You found him there, lingering near the terrace, loosening his cravat. 

“I take it that none of my carefully selected matches have won your favor?” you teased, stepping beside him.

Zayne exhaled, a quiet, almost imperceptible sigh. “They were all… perfectly pleasant.”

“And yet, here you are, standing as far from them as possible.”

“I find prolonged socializing…exhausting. I have never enjoyed being the center of attention.”

Your expression softened. “I suppose I should have considered that before parading you about the ton. My apologies.”

His lips twitched, as if he found something about your words amusing. “You needn’t apologize. I suspect Mr. Xia would have had me subjected to far worse if left to his own devices.”

You burst into laughter and Zayne found himself watching you more closely than he should have. There was something undeniably bright and effervescent about you, particularly in the way you laughed so freely. And yet, when you looked at him, it was not with expectation or disappointment, but with understanding.

You had not dismissed his discomfort or insisted he endure it for the sake of social decorum. Instead, you had acknowledged it.

His reluctance to engage with the others had been genuine, but as the evening wore on, he realized his avoidance had not been due to mere disinterest. It was not conversation he minded, it was who he shared it with. 

And somehow, with you, it felt…effortless.

“If I must continue enduring such engagements, I may require more guidance,” he said, leaning in ever so slightly, as if drawing you into a conversation meant only for the two of you.

“Perhaps a bit of gentle coaching?”

“Well, Doctor, if you are willing to put in the effort, I shall gladly offer my expertise.”

Zayne held your gaze a beat longer than necessary, the edges of his lips curling into something almost like a smile. He had never been one for idle conversation, nor for the relentless pursuit of courtship but for you, he found himself willing to make an exception.

Caleb had seen a great many things in his life, but returning home after a long day at the military post to find Dr. Zayne Li standing stiffly outside your front steps, was quickly becoming his favorite source of entertainment.

And, as expected, in true Caleb fashion, he crashed breakfast the very next morning, making himself comfortable at the table. Without so much as a greeting, he reached for a generous serving of plum cake, tearing off a piece as he shot you a knowing smirk. 

“I have to ask,” he drawled as he approached, “are you tutoring the poor man or have you taken it upon yourself to personally vet his prospects?”

You rolled your eyes. “I am simply assisting Dr. Li in social etiquette.”

“I’ve never seen Zayne take such a keen interest in socializing before,” he mused, reaching for another bite of cake. 

“Strange, don’t you think? He’s always been content with books and yet, here he is, dutifully showing up at your door for lessons.” He propped his chin on his fist, eyes gleaming with mischief. 

“Interesting, isn’t it?”

Across the table, your mother raised an eyebrow at the exchange but wisely chose to remain silent, sipping her tea. 

You ignored Caleb’s relentless teasing, but despite your best efforts, you couldn’t deny that Zayne Li’s presence had become unexpectedly intriguing. What began as mere social lessons had turned into a routine. 

Twice in the past week, he had arrived under the guise of refining his social skills. And yet, more often than not, those so-called lessons seemed to transform into long conversations about literature, contemporary issues, and the absurdity of high society’s unwritten rules.

Zayne sat across from you in the drawing room as your supposed lesson on proper introductions unraveled into yet another conversation, this time about the novel that had taken the ton by storm.

"You mean to tell me," you said, shaking your head with amusement, "that you have never read Snowy Serenity?"

"I was not aware it was required reading," he replied, one brow lifting as he leaned back in his chair.

"Dr. Zayne, how are you ever going to capture the attention of ladies if you do not know Snowy Serenity?" you teased, folding your hands in your lap with an air of mock seriousness.

"I was not aware that my success in courtship depended upon my knowledge of serialized fiction."

You gasped in mock offense. "Serialized fiction?" you echoed. 

"It is only the most talked-about novel of the season! If you wish to hold a lady’s interest for longer than a dance, you must at least feign some familiarity with it!”

"And I suppose you are offering to educate me on the subject?"

"Naturally." You rose, crossing the room to retrieve your well-worn copy from a small stack of books before placing it in his hands.

“Consider this an essential part of your guidance. If you wish to navigate the intricate social landscape, you must be prepared to discuss this novel moment’s notice.”

“And if I fail to read it?”

“Then you shall never know the joys of a thoroughly engaging conversation with any lady of good standing,” you teased, resuming your seat. 

Zayne turned the book over in his hands, his fingers brushing the slightly frayed edges of its cover. It was well-loved, he noted. You had read this more than once. The thought of you lost in its pages, utterly engrossed, made something flicker in his chest.

“If I am to read this,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, “I trust you will be available for…discussion.”

You brightened at the prospect. “Naturally. It is my personal copy, after all. I expect a full report."

He huffed a quiet breath of amusement, shaking his head, but made no effort to refuse the book. As he bid you farewell and descended the steps of your home, a question lingered in his mind, persistent and unresolved.

You were intelligent, well-read, and effortlessly social, qualities that should have made you a sought-after prospect. At seven-and-twenty, you were the same age as him, yet you had not married.

The thought followed him, settling into the quiet corners of his mind.

Why?

“Oh! Doctor Zayne! Before I forget!”

Your voice rang out just as he reached the gate, and Zayne turned to find you rushing past the door, barely able to contain your enthusiasm. You were speaking a mile a minute, laying out your latest plan—the boat races, the ideal setting, the eligible young ladies you were so certain he had to meet.

Zayne stood there listening, but his thoughts had long since drifted from the topic at hand. He wasn’t focused on the event, nor the prospects you were so quick to name.

Instead, his attention was fixed on you.

The way your eyes sparkled when you spoke, so full of life, so passionate about what you believed in. The way your hands fluttered, gesturing animatedly as you painted the picture of the future you were trying to shape for him. And despite your seemingly endless energy, the way you never seemed to tire of trying to help him, trying to guide him toward something you thought he needed, even if he hadn’t asked for it.

But as he watched you, Zayne realized that none of that seemed to matter at that moment. It wasn’t the boat races, nor the eligible ladies, nor the carefully crafted plans that held his attention. 

It was the way you believed in everything you did, the way you believed in him, even when he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

⟡

The day of the boat race had arrived, and while the rest of the ton was content to picnic along the riverbanks and observe, you had viewed the event as an excellent opportunity to introduce Zayne to eligible young ladies rather than simply a leisurely afternoon surrounded by the finest families in Linkon society.

It was perfect.

"Now, remember," you began, tapping your fan against your palm as the two of you strolled past clusters of well dressed ladies.

"You may be broody, but only just enough to be intriguing. If you tip too far into outright scowling, they’ll think you despise them rather than merely possessing an air of dark mystery."

Zayne, walking easily beside you, let out a quiet hum, not in protest, but in pure amusement. "And here I thought my mystery was my most appealing quality."

You shot him a knowing look. "It’s positively dreadful for conversation."

"And yet, you seem to enjoy conversing with me just fine," Zayne pointed out.

“I enjoy a great many things, Doctor. You’re simply fortunate to be one of them.”

It was a lighthearted deflection, meant to turn the conversation back in your favor, but the way Zayne’s gaze lingered made your heart stop for a moment.

Ahem. "You must also ask follow up questions," you continued, scanning the gathering until you spotted a promising group of young women beneath a flowery pergola.

"A woman enjoys speaking about herself, but she’ll think you a great bore if you simply grunt and nod. Make an effort, Dr. Zayne. Feign interest, if you must."

“Then shall I practice with you, Miss Hunter?”

“Me?” 

"You seem to have very strong opinions on the matter," he said. "If I were to practice my charm, shouldn’t I know what you find interesting?"

You opened your mouth, but no immediate response came to mind. Again, why was he looking at you like that?

Caleb, who had been chaperoning you a few steps behind, let out an exaggerated groan and threw his hands in the air. 

"Are you even trying to meet anyone else?"

Zayne, still entirely at ease, turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge Caleb’s presence. "I am here, am I not?"

You ignored them both, pressing forward toward the pergola, where a small gathering of young women stood in a semicircle, chatting beneath the shade. This was the perfect setting, the perfect opportunity, so why did you feel suddenly, inexplicably unsettled?

And then you saw her.

"Ah, Miss Hunter. What a pleasant surprise."

Your mouth felt dry. "Lady Qi," you greeted, keeping your tone as neutral as possible. Formerly Lady Evelyn Xander. Now Lady Evelyn Qi.

She looked past you, taking in Zayne at your side, then Caleb a few steps behind. 

"Quite the entourage you have today."

Caleb exhaled a dramatic sigh and acknowledged her with an incline of his head. "Lady Qi."

Evelyn let out a soft chuckle before turning back to you. "Are you enjoying the races?"

You tightened your grip on your fan, willing yourself to focus. 

"I can’t quite possibly enjoy the day when there is work to be done," you said lightly, though there was an edge of honesty beneath the jest.

"Ever the dutiful matchmaker, I see.” Evelyn waved a hand gracefully. "My husband was keen on attending, so here I am, though I would much rather be at home away from this dreadful heat."

My husband.

The words were spoken so effortlessly, so naturally, that they should not have affected you at all. And yet, they still served as a reminder of a reality that you could have never had with him. 

"Rafayel always did have a taste for grand occasions,” you replied sweetly.

"That he does," she chuckled, oblivious or perhaps not. Her gaze flickered over you, sharp and assessing, before she turned her attention elsewhere. 

"Oh! But I’m so glad you came when you did, Miss Hunter," she continued smoothly.

"It’s quite the coincidence, really. I heard you’ve been helping a certain doctor navigate Linkon society, and as luck would have it, I happen to know a young lady who is also looking." She turned slightly, gesturing gracefully. 

"May I present to you Miss Diana Carter."

Diana Carter was lovely.

Her dark hair was pulled into an elegant chignon and there was a self-assured grace that suggested she knew exactly how others perceived her but had mastered the art of wielding it to her advantage.

She stepped past you offering Zayne a charming smile. "A pleasure to meet you, Dr. Zayne."

Zayne inclined his head politely, his gaze steady. "Likewise, Miss Carter."

"Diana is a dear friend," Evelyn continued.  

"Well read and quite interested in the medical sciences, if I recall correctly." Her eyes flickered between Zayne and Diana with unmistakable purpose. A perfect match, her expression seemed to say.

"I do believe you both would have much to discuss."

You straightened your shoulders, willing your smile to remain effortless. "Well then," you said lightly, "let’s see just how charming our Doctor can be, shall we?"

Zayne shot you a look, one brow raised as if he found your words amusing, but you ignored it.

“I’ll be off," you said, your voice steady despite the strange unease stirring in your chest. 

"My brother-in-law, Gods bless him, has impulsively decided to partake in the races. I shall see you later, Dr. Zayne—er, Dr. Li.”

You turned before you could second guess yourself, your fan tightening in your grip. The moment you took a step away, Caleb fell into step beside you.

And yet, for some inexplicable reason, the ground beneath you felt unsteady. You swallowed, forcing yourself to breathe evenly. There was no reason, no reason at all, for the uneasiness creeping through your chest, the sudden weight pressing against your ribs.

You had brought Zayne here for this exact purpose. To meet eligible young women. To find someone who suited him. And Miss Diana Carter suited him. She was beautiful, poised, intelligent—exactly the sort of woman who would compliment him in every way. Exactly the sort of woman he should be drawn to.

So why did it feel as if the air had become too thin?

⟡

You inhaled sharply, shifting your gaze to the water where the rowers were making their final preparations. The river glistened under the afternoon sun, its gentle ripples at odds with the sudden unease pressing against your ribs. 

“You’re frowning,” your sister pointed out.

"It’s nothing," you said, adjusting your posture. "I’ve just been experiencing tightness due to my corset."

It wasn’t entirely a lie. The stiff boning pressed insistently against your ribs, but that wasn’t what had your chest aching in a way you couldn’t quite place.

Your sister hummed knowingly, but whether she believed you or not was unclear. "I did warn you not to have it laced so tightly."

"It isn't too tight," you argued, even as you shifted uncomfortably.

The starting horn sounded, and the crowd erupted in cheers. Rowers strained their muscles under the sun as they surged forward. A sharp cry rose from the banks as one boat veered too close to another, its occupants scrambling to correct course before they lost precious seconds.

You joined in, clapping along with the rest of them, willing yourself to be swept up in the excitement.

And yet the tightness in your chest remained.

You told yourself it was your corset.

And if you kept telling yourself that, perhaps you would believe it.

The excitement from the boat race buzzed through the air. A few yards away, spectators were still clapping and calling out congratulations as the rowers made their way back onto shore. And at the center of it all, grinning like a man who had defied fate itself, was Sylus.

He stood victorious on the riverbank, drenched from head to toe, his hair plastered to his forehead, and his shirt clinging to him in a way that mortified your sister. From this distance, Zayne could see your family gathered around Sylus, their faces alight with pride and celebration. 

"Dr. Li?"

"My apologies," he said smoothly, forcing his attention back to his companion. "You were saying?"

"Only that I find medicine to be a rather fascinating subject."

"And what is it about medicine that fascinates you, Miss Carter?"

"The intricacies of it, I suppose. How the body is both fragile and resilient all at once. My father has quite the library on the subject. I've read most of his books on anatomy."

Zayne's brow lifted faintly. That was not the sort of answer he had expected.

"You've read on anatomy?"

"Is that so surprising?" Her dark eyes sparkled with amusement.

"Only that most ladies I know would find such books rather...clinical."

"I find them practical. There’s a comfort in understanding how things work, don’t you think?"

Zayne's lips twitched despite himself. Practical. A word he had always valued. A word he had always found reassuring. And yet, her answer did nothing to ease the inexplicable tightness in his chest.

Diana Carter was precisely the kind of woman he ought to be courting. Composed, with a beauty that would have turned heads in any drawing room. If he had met her under different circumstances, he might have genuinely enjoyed this promenade.

Despite his best efforts, his gaze drifted, once again, across the pond, where the soft hum of conversation and laughter floated through the air. He caught a glimpse of you, standing beneath the shade of a willow tree, your fingers absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It was an unremarkable gesture, one you must have done countless times before, and yet—

He looked away quickly, but not quickly enough.

"You seem distracted, Dr. Li," Diana observed lightly.

Zayne’s gaze snapped back to her, his posture stiffening. For a moment, he was certain she had caught him staring, certain she could see straight through him.

He knew better than to let his attention drift. You had reminded him, more than once that presence mattered, that eye contact and genuine engagement were the keys to making an impression. 

“No one likes a man who appears disinterested, Dr. Zayne. Even if you are brooding, you must at least be brooding with intent.”

"My apologies," he said again, his voice steady. "It’s the heat, I expect."

"Perhaps a respite from the sun is in order, then," she suggested. 

"My mother often hosts small gatherings at our estate. Nothing as grand as this, of course, but I daresay a cup of tea and a shaded veranda would be far more agreeable than enduring this dreadful afternoon heat."

It was an invitation. One that any man with sense would accept.

It wasn’t as if he had any other engagement. It wasn’t as if he had any reason to refuse. This was precisely why he had come today, to meet an eligible young woman, to entertain the very idea of courtship. To prove that he was capable of doing so.

"That is generous of you, Miss Carter," he said at last, his words carefully measured. 

"I would be honored."

Across the pond, you caught sight of Zayne and Diana, promenading at an easy, unhurried pace. The sunlight filtered through the canopy of trees, making the world around them seem otherworldly. They looked comfortable together.

Zayne, walked beside her, listening attentively, and you can tell he was engaging based off of Diana’s reactions. It was everything you had wanted for him, everything you had planned.

A slow breath left your lips. You were proud of this. It was, after all, one of your greatest achievements to date. Hadn’t you orchestrated this from the start? Hadn’t you taken Zayne under your wing, guiding him through Linkon society so he might find a match precisely like Miss Carter?

And perhaps, perhaps you could give Evelyn Qi some credit for her introduction, though you’d rather not.

This was the logical conclusion of all your efforts. The payday was to be immaculate, your reputation as the greatest matchmaker in all of Linkon would spread, and you would graciously accept your accolades with a modest smile. Future generations would tell tales of your legendary ability to pair the most impossible of spinsters. A lifetime of smug satisfaction awaited—

Oh.

Why did it suddenly feel as though the air had been squeezed from your lungs?

The pain had started the moment you stepped away from the pergola. It was irrational and inexplicable, a quiet but insistent ache you couldn't name. You rolled your shoulders, as if the movement might shake off the sensation. It was the weather, surely. The heat. The wretched afternoon sun.

"Are you unwell?" your sister asked, as soon she caught sight of the way your fingers trembled against your bodice.

"Just a touch of discomfort," you reassured her, forcing a steady breath. "It’s nothing serious.”

Still, you could see the doubt in her eyes, the way her lips pressed together in a firm line. You had never been the fragile sort, nor one to complain of ailments without reason.

"There’s no sense in you lingering if you’re not feeling well," your sister said firmly. "I’ll have Sylus fetch the footman and have them bring the carriage around."

You opened your mouth to protest, to insist that you were more than capable of enduring the rest of the afternoon, but the words faltered. The excitement of the boat race suddenly felt distant, like you were standing behind some invisible barrier, watching it unfold rather than being a part of it.

Reluctantly, you nodded, lifting your skirts as you stepped away from the shaded picnic area toward the waiting carriage. With each step, a strange sort of exhaustion settled over you, as if the very act of walking was more effort than it should have been. 

Zayne sat in the sitting room of the Carter Estate, his fingers resting lightly on the delicate porcelain cup before him. Mrs. Carter, seated across from him, observed him with polite curiosity, her sharp eyes missing nothing.

"It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Li," she said, stirring a lump of sugar into her tea.

"The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Carter. Your home is…exquisite.”

Mrs. Carter hummed, clearly measuring the sincerity of his words.

“Don’t overdo it,” you had instructed. “A well-placed compliment, a touch of charm, but never flattery for flattery’s sake. The moment they sense you’re pandering, you’re done for.”

"I imagine it must be the envy of many,” he continued. 

Mrs. Carter sniffed, clearly pleased. "We do take pride in maintaining a certain standard."

"When in doubt, appeal to their sense of status. Mamas like to believe they’ve built something worth admiring. Recognize that, and they’ll be much more inclined to approve of you."

Mrs. Carter continued, "I understand you have traveled quite a bit. Medicine must keep you rather busy."

"It does," Zayne admitted, setting his cup down. 

"Chansia, in particular, was fascinating—so much to learn from their medical practices. Their use of herbal remedies alongside surgical techniques is something I hope to integrate into—"

He stopped himself just in time.

"Never let them think you are too busy for their daughters," your voice echoed in his mind, teasing yet firm. "A man too devoted to his work is a man who will neglect his wife."

Zayne cleared his throat, smoothly shifting gears. "But I’ve always found time for good company." He glanced at Diana with an easy smile. 

"After all, what is life without moments of leisure?"

Mrs. Carter’s expression softened just a fraction and for a moment, he allowed himself to revel in the small victory.

Then, the door opened.

A footman stepped inside, bowing slightly before addressing them. "Doctor Li, Mr. Xia has arrived with urgent news."

Zayne barely had time to process the words before Caleb appeared behind the servant, his usual carefree demeanor replaced with something bordering on urgency.

"Zayne!"

He turned sharply at the sound of his name.

"Y/N isn’t well," Caleb said, breathless.

The cup in Zayne’s hand stilled, and his pulse quickened. His mind raced ahead, already picturing the worst.

"Excuse me," he said curtly.

Without a second thought, Zayne strode past them to the waiting carriage, all thoughts of charming Mrs. Carter forgotten.

"How bad is it?" His tone was tinged with something Caleb rarely heard from him—genuine concern.

Caleb hesitated, waving a vague hand. "Oh, well, she said it wasn’t serious, but she looked rather pale, for all we know she could be on death’s door—"

Zayne didn’t wait for the reassurance. He was already shutting the carriage door. Fine or not, he needed to see you for himself.

By the time he arrived at the Hunter estate, his mind had already conjured the worst possible scenarios. He barely waited for the footman to announce him before striding inside.

"Where is she?" he asked, his voice clipped with urgency.

A maid blinked up at him, startled. "Miss Y/N? She’s in the drawing room, Doctor. Shall I—"

Zayne didn’t wait. He was already moving.

But when he stepped into the parlor, expecting to find you pale and frail, perhaps even draped dramatically across a chaise in some near-fainting state, what he found instead was…

You.

Perfectly upright. Reclining comfortably with a book in hand, looking for all the world as if you hadn’t just been dying an hour ago. A tea service sat on the table beside you, steam curling gently from the delicate porcelain cup.

Zayne’s jaw tightened.

You looked up at his arrival, blinking as if surprised to see him. "Zayne?"

"Miss Hunter," he greeted flatly, arms crossed. His gaze swept over you, taking in your relaxed posture, the untouched plate of pastries, the distinct lack of impending doom. 

"You seem…remarkably well for someone allegedly suffering from chest pains."

You were confused. Yes, you were experiencing chest pains, but you didn’t appreciate the accusatory tone in his voice.

"I was unwell," you said, sitting up straighter. "But a moment of rest, and I’m quite recovered."

"Recovered," Zayne repeated dryly. 

"Forgive me for the misunderstanding. Caleb made it sound as though you were at death’s door. I thought I was rushing to your bedside, not intruding on tea."

"That menace.”

Muttering curses at Caleb under your breath, you barely noticed Zayne step closer, until he knelt beside you without a word, his fingers brushing your wrist, pressing gently against your skin. Your breath hitched.

"You don't need to—"

"Be still," he interrupted, his voice softer now, more like a request than a command. His thumb moved in slow, methodical circles as he counted your pulse, his brows furrowing slightly in concentration.

"I'm not dying, you know," you pointed out.

"No," he agreed. "But humor me."

Your heart was beating perfectly fine, perhaps a little quicker now that his hand was still wrapped around yours, but that was neither here nor there. After a moment, he seemed satisfied, releasing you with a quiet hum. 

"Your pulse is steady. Did you experience other symptoms?”

Your lips parted, but for a second, you forgot what you were going to say. Zayne was close, closer than he had any reason to be. The afternoon light cast a soft glow over his sharp features, highlighting the curve of his cheekbone, the green of his eyes that seemed to search for something unseen. His fingers, warm and sure, lingered just a moment longer than necessary against your wrist before he finally released you.

Your heart fluttered.

You cleared your throat, trying to steady yourself. “It was just a bit of tightness in my chest,” you admitted. 

“I did feel like I was on uneven ground.”

Zayne nodded, listening intently.

“When did these symptoms begin?”

You were not going to tell him the tightness in your chest had started the moment you left him with Diana Carter. That would be mortifying. Unacceptable. A completely ridiculous thing to admit.

“Well,” you began carefully, lifting your teacup with studied ease. “It’s difficult to say. Perhaps when I was with my sister, although the weather certainly didn’t help…��

You trailed off, suddenly hyper aware of how closely he was watching you. He was not just listening, but truly paying attention. His posture was composed yet open, his expression unreadable save for the faint crease in his brow.

Had he always looked at you like this?

And then it struck you. This was all the etiquette you had painstakingly drilled into him. The art of attentiveness, the careful balance of presence without intrusion. Every lesson, every refinement of social grace, now seamlessly woven into his demeanor.

Yet somehow, it felt…different. It was intimate.

Zayne exhaled, his sharp gaze assessing you one last time before leaning back slightly. “It doesn’t seem serious. I’d prescribe rest,” he said firmly.

“And if the pain persists, you’ll let me know.”

You hummed, lifting your teacup to your lips. “Doctor’s orders?”

“Precisely.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only when you tilted your head, watching him with quiet curiosity. 

“How was your promenade with Miss Carter?”

“She invited me for tea.” He hesitated, his gaze dropping briefly before flicking back to yours.

You hummed, keeping your expression carefully neutral. “And yet, here you are. How fortunate for me.”

It wasn’t, really. Or maybe it was, but you didn’t particularly feel like acknowledging the thought of him accepting her invitation. 

Zayne smirked. “Yes, well I was in the middle of charming her mother, but I swore an oath as a physician to prioritize my patient’s well being. Besides,” He reached for a macaron, “it would be a terrible waste to leave these unattended.”

You scoffed, plucking a pastry from the tray. “How very selfless of you.”

“I do my best.”

Rolling your eyes, you took a bite before adding, “You realize, of course, that you now owe Miss Carter an apology for abandoning her.”

Zayne made a vague noise of acknowledgement, though his attention remained fixed on the spread before him rather than the prospect of penning an apology.

“Zayne.”

He glanced up, expression utterly unrepentant. “I’ll do it later.”

“You will write to her.”

“Of course.” He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully before adding, “Eventually.”

⟡

“I see you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with Miss Hunter,” Caleb remarked, chalking the tip of his cue stick before lining up his next shot. 

He had grown curious, given Zayne’s frequent visits to your home over the past few weeks since your supposed health scare. For a man who had always preferred solitude, Zayne now seemed unusually preoccupied with your wellbeing, checking in, ensuring you were resting properly, lingering even when there was no real reason to stay.

“I noticed you have a rather impractical weakness, Dr. Zayne.” You tapped a finger against the table as you watched him pick up another card.

Zayne raised a brow, selecting his next move with careful precision. “Do I?”

“Indeed. You have an undeniable penchant for sweets.”

“That is hardly a weakness.”

“Perhaps not in the medical sense, but it is rather unbecoming for a man of your supposed discipline.” You gestured toward the plate of biscuits beside him. 

“I have seen you reach for those at least three times.”

He picked one up without breaking eye contact. “Four,” he corrected before taking a bite.

You smirked, shifting a card between your fingers. “A man of science you may be, but if a lady believes you to be as sweet as the confections you so adore, she may be more inclined to consider you as a suitor.”

“So you believe an excess of sugar may enhance my marital prospects?”

“Precisely.” You placed a card down with confidence. 

“A bit of sweetness never hurt anyone.”

“And what of you, Miss Hunter?” He leaned in, plucking a card from the pile.

“Are you likewise swayed by sweetness?”

You swallowed, fingers tightening ever so slightly around your own hand of cards. “I suppose I do not mind it. Though, truthfully, I much prefer sincerity to sweetness. Sweets are fleeting. Sincerity however, lingers.”

As if drawn forward by an unseen force, he shifted closer. Just slightly at first with his forearms resting on the table. His fingers toyed idly with a card but his eyes never left yours.

“In your expert opinion as a matchmaker, Miss Hunter, would you say that my affections are merely confectionary…or something more enduring?”

Your pulse quickened as Zayne’s gaze flickered downward, perhaps to your lips, or to the card still between your fingers. Without thinking, you leaned in as well, only enough to test the boundaries of his bluff. His lips parted as if he might say something, but he didn’t. 

“I suppose I shall have to keep playing to find out.”

“She needs consistent monitoring. Symptoms of the heart can be unpredictable,” Zayne replied, carefully angling his cue. 

He took his shot, the ball striking with precision, but Caleb, ever persistent, was not so easily shaken.

“I suppose that’s why you’ve spent more time with her than entertaining potential matches. A Miss Diana Carter, perhaps?”

Zayne’s jaw tightened. He had, in fact, spent several afternoons at the Carter estate, dutifully fulfilling the social obligations expected of a man in his position. Diana was charming, intelligent, and had a sharp wit that could keep up with him, yet—he hesitated.

“If you’re implying something, Caleb, I assure you, your efforts are wasted.”

“Of course, of course,” Caleb drawled, his smirk deepening. 

“I’d never dare suggest that the esteemed Dr. Zayne Li is growing fond of a certain matchmaking lady.”

Zayne turned his attention back to the game, ignoring him but Caleb didn’t miss the telltale pink dusting the tips of his ears.

“You know,” he continued, his tone almost idle, “she was courted once.”

Zayne’s grip on his cue stick tightened, his knuckles going briefly taut before he forced them to relax. He tilted his head slightly, feigning mild curiosity.

“Is that so?”

“Lord Rafayel Qi,” Caleb supplied, taking his shot. 

The billiard balls scattered with a sharp crack, but he took his time straightening, watching Zayne’s reaction. A flicker of something passed over his face. Annoyance? Interest? Perhaps both.

“Shame, really,” Caleb went on, retrieving his glass and swirling the amber liquid inside. “They were quite taken with each other.”

He took a slow sip, letting the words settle as Zayne lined up his next shot. Caleb didn’t need to see his face to know he had struck a nerve, from the slight flex of his fingers to the subtle tightening of his jaw.

“He did not marry her?”

Caleb smirked behind his glass.

“No,” he drawled. “Rafayel’s family had matched him with Lady Evelyn Xander.”

The colonel sighed, shaking his head. “A tragedy, really. A man letting duty dictate his course. A noble sacrifice, some might say.”

Zayne didn’t respond. He took his next shot with just a bit too much force, the cue ball ricocheting hard off the edge.

“I hear the Qi’s will be hosting pall mall on their grounds in a few days,” Caleb remarked, idly spinning his cue stick between his fingers. 

“Will you be inviting Miss Carter?”

Zayne made a vague noise of acknowledgement but said nothing. His focus had drifted elsewhere.

“Or,” Caleb continued, watching him closely, “perhaps Miss Hunter would be the more suitable choice? She’s quite ruthless.”

The Qi estate and its sprawling grounds stretch as far as the eye could see. Bursts of vibrant flora painted the landscape in splashes of color, dotting the numerous pathways and fountains that were hidden about the estate.

Zayne stepped forward, rolling his shoulders back as he aligned himself with the ball. With a smooth and precise swing, he struck the ball cleanly and it sailed through the wicket, drawing murmurs of approval from the onlookers. 

You hadn't expected him to be this athletic, but the fluidity of his movements and the quiet confidence in his stance made it clear—he was no stranger to competition.

“With your luck, Dr. Zayne, I’m not worried about losing this match at all,” you grinned. 

Zayne smirked and he leaned in just slightly, “I prefer to think of it as skill.”

“Of course, you’re naturally gifted in all that you do.”

“I think my performance speaks for itself,” he teased, eyes gleaming with a playful challenge.

There was something undeniably charming about the way he said it. It was self-assured but not arrogant, teasing but entirely sincere.  

You stood beside Zayne, resting your mallet over your shoulder. The day after his billiards game with Caleb, he had arrived at your home with spring in his step. 

“I hear you’re quite skilled at pall mall.”

You glanced up from your book, arching a brow. “Did Caleb tell you that?”

Zayne said nothing, but the faint flush on his cheeks was enough. You closed your book slowly, watching him. He was not a man prone to idle conversation or casual invitations, which made his next words all the more intriguing.

“Do you have any plans this Friday afternoon?”

“No. Why?”

His fingers twitched at his side before he clasped them behind his back, as if reining himself in. “Would you care to join me for pall mall?”

A slow smile spread across your lips, excitement bubbling to the surface. Before he could say another word, you were already straightening up.

“Say no more, Doctor,” you replied, brimming with enthusiasm.

As the match continued, you happened to glance across the lawn and spotted a lone figure standing off to the side. Lord Xavier Shen of Philos, with his golden hair and striking blue eyes, looked entirely unbothered by his solitude, though he seemed more likely to drift into a nap than to seek out company.  

On a whim, you called out, “Lord Shen, have you any interest in pall mall?”

Xavier blinked slowly, as if processing your words took a considerable effort. Then, after a beat, he ambled forward. 

“I suppose it would be an amusing way to pass the time,” he mused, his voice light and unhurried.

Caleb gave you an incredulous look but said nothing as Xavier took his place among your party, accepting a mallet.

Xavier Shen was heralded throughout the ton for his beauty. Despite his delicate stature and tendency to drift off to sleep in the most unexpected places, which often led his mother to fuss over him, there was an undeniable boldness beneath his refined exterior.

With a slow blink, Xavier lined up his shot, looking more like he might nod off than make a proper swing. Then he struck the ball with unexpected force. The resounding crack echoed across the lawn as the ball launched into the air, soaring far past the intended wicket.

A stunned silence fell over the gathering as heads turned, tracking the ball’s trajectory as it disappeared into the distant shrubbery. A faint thunk followed by the startled squawk of a bird confirmed that the ball had, indeed, landed somewhere it absolutely should not have.

“By jove! That was magnificent, Lord Shen!” someone applauded.

“Incredible!” another cheered. 

Caleb shot you and Zayne a smug look, rocking back on his heels. “Well, well. It seems I’ve been blessed with a secret weapon.”

For the first time since the match began, victory actually felt within reach. He had expected Xavier to be more of a decorative presence than an asset, but after that display of sheer power, Caleb could practically taste the win in this round.

You grimaced, adjusting your grip on the mallet as you lined up for your turn. “That was well beyond the bounds of fair play!”

Caleb only smirked, but before you could take your shot, the sound of approaching footsteps drew your attention. 

“Dr. Li.” 

Your shoulders stiffened, grip tightening around the mallet as you turned to see Diana striding toward your party. She was effortlessly composed, as always, her dark hair neatly tucked beneath her bonnet, a parasol resting elegantly in her hand. She looked as if she had stepped out of a world far more dignified than this scrappy game of pall mall.

From the corner of your eye, you caught how Zayne turned fully to greet her, softening just slightly. A small smile tugged at his lips, polite, but warm.

“Miss Carter.”

Something in your chest tightened.

With a sharp exhale, you turned back to line up your shot, pouring every ounce of whatever was churning inside you into a single, decisive swing. You barely had time to register the impact before the ball went flying, landing completely out of bounds.

“Oh, fuck me,” you hissed.

Caleb let out a bark of laughter. “Well, that’s one way to show off.”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face, but Xavier only let out an impressed whistle.

“You’ve made the game much more interesting, Miss Hunter.”

You shot him a dry look. “You flatter me, my lord.”

“Only when deserved,” Xavier replied smoothly, inclining his head. “Shall we?”

Zayne, still lingering behind with Diana, observed as you effortlessly fell into step with Lord Shen, the two of you exchanging lighthearted words while making your way to the next wicket. 

It was, in truth, rather unfair how instinctively you understood others, how effortlessly you commanded attention without the slightest attempt. Conversation seemed to come to you as easily as breathing, as though you belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once.

And yet, for some reason, it bothered him more than it should.

“Doctor,” Diana drew him from his thoughts. “I must introduce you to Lord Rafayel Qi. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Zayne stilled, his brow furrowing slightly at the name. 

Lord Rafayel Qi. The man who once held your heart. Caleb had mentioned him once before, but now, the prospect of finally meeting him stirred something unexpectedly sharp in his chest.

What kind of man had once held your affections? What did he have that had drawn you in so completely? 

Before Zayne could so much as nod, she whisked him forward. You barely registered Xavier speaking at your side, your attention fixed on Diana leading Zayne toward Rafayel, her arm still linked with his, drawing him seamlessly into her world.

Rafayel stood tall, every bit the man you had once loved, his presence commanding and impossible to ignore. Dressed impeccably, he guided his wife with a hand resting lightly at the small of her back. Evelyn, for her part, maintained her cool composure as she greeted acquaintances and guests. 

She was beaming as she made the introductions, her enthusiasm unyielding. Zayne, composed as ever, offered a polite nod in greeting, his expression unreadable as he met your former paramour’s gaze.

And for some reason, it bothered you.

But it shouldn’t. This was the role you were meant to play, to ensure that Zayne, Diana, and all the unmarried of Linkon society, found their happiness.  

Yet that same sharp feeling took root in your chest, the same one that had nearly consumed you at the boat races. It crept in, settling deep in the hollow of your ribs. Your fingers curled against the fabric of your skirts, grasping for an anchor, but the world beneath your feet felt unsteady.

Xavier’s eyes narrowed with concern as you clutched your chest. “Miss Hunter?”

“If you’ll excuse me, my lord,” you forced a small smile as you turned, but before you could step away, he moved slightly closer, lowering his voice. 

“Are you quite well? Perhaps I should escort you—”

“No,” you interjected quickly. The tightness in your chest sharpened, but you swallowed it down, inhaling sharply, willing the ache to subside.

“I’ll be fine,” you insisted, though the words felt empty even to you.

“Truly.”

⟡

As the weeks passed, Zayne saw you less.

At first, it was easy to dismiss. You were busy, preoccupied with your work. This was, after all, the height of the season. It made sense that you would be swept up in a whirlwind of events and introductions. And yet, as your absence stretched on, something settled uneasily in his chest, a quiet, creeping feeling he dared not name.

“You haven’t insulted me once since I sat down. I’m growing concerned,” Caleb said, feigning heartbreak as he lounged in the chair opposite Zayne.

Zayne barely glanced up, stirring his tea absentmindedly. “Must you always assume the worst?”

“When it comes to you? Yes.”

Caleb studied him for a long moment, his gaze narrowing slightly, as though piecing together a puzzle he’d been turning over in his mind. After a few seconds of silence, he leaned back in his chair, the faintest smile playing at his lips.

“You’re dissociating. And I can’t help but wonder if it has something to do with a certain matchmaker.”

The sudden flush of color in Zayne’s cheeks was all the confirmation Caleb needed. He exhaled sharply, setting his spoon down with a quiet clink. 

“That is ridiculous.”

“Is it?” Caleb mused, arching a brow. “I must say, your visits to her home have been less frequent these days. Perhaps it has something to do with Y/N being sent away?”

Zayne froze, his entire body going stiff. 

“Sent away?”

Caleb hesitated, suddenly realizing his mistake. “It’s not—” He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. 

“It’s not as dire as you seem to think. Her family physician insisted she stay with her sister.”

His stomach twisted. He had been careful, so careful, to keep his distance. To remind himself that you were a professional connection, nothing more. And yet, the idea that you had been unwell, that you had been sent away, alone, without him even knowing, left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“She was ill and no one thought to tell me?”

Caleb shifted uncomfortably. “It wasn’t—”

“Wasn’t what?” Zayne snapped. “Any of my concern?”

Caleb exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “Zayne—” He stopped himself, reconsidering his next words. 

“Are you not about to move forward with formally courting Diana Carter?”

Zayne didn’t respond right away.

He should have nodded, should have sighed in that resigned way men did when discussing matters of duty. He should have confirmed that yes, of course, he was prepared to court Diana Carter formally. 

It was expected after all, given all of the time you’ve spent tutoring him just so that he could charm Diana and her family. But instead of thinking about Diana Carter, all Zayne could picture was you.

Were you being tended to? Was someone there to care for you, to ease whatever ailment had sent you away? His attention snapped back to Caleb as he noticed the pause in the conversation. 

Caleb’s brow furrowed, his fingers nervously tapping on his glass, his eyes avoiding Zayne’s gaze.

Zayne’s impatience grew. "Where is she? Where was she sent?"

Caleb shifted uncomfortably, clearly reluctant to answer, but Zayne wasn’t giving him an option.

“Does it matter? She’s taking time for herself. Which, frankly, she deserves.”

“Caleb.”

Zayne could feel his patience fraying. 

Caleb groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re impossible, you know that?” He muttered something under his breath before finally revealing your location.

“Whitesand Bay.”

That night, you rushed home, your heart pounding, not from exertion, but from something far more insidious. A tight, unrelenting pain had you clenching your chest, while your fingers tingled uselessly at your sides. You tried to steady yourself, but your legs wobbled beneath you.

Your mother noticed first. The moment she saw you gripping the doorway for balance, your breath coming in short, shallow gasps, she was at your side, calling for the servants, demanding water, a chair, anything to steady you.

Which was how you found yourself subjected to Dr. Ulysses’ diagnosis of emotional duress.

A statement that, of course, sent your parents into a flurry of panic.

“What does that mean?” your mother cried. “Is she dying?”

“It means,” he said, with the patience of a weary saint, “that she requires a change of scenery. I suggest she take residence with your other daughter at once.”

And so, you had been unceremoniously sent off to your sister’s estate in Whitesand Bay, where the seaside was supposed to heal whatever affliction had taken hold of you.

Yet, despite the distance, the whispers of the ton still found their way to you. You tried to ignore them, retreating into the quiet of your own mind, willing the words away as if sheer force alone could make them untrue.

"Dr. Li is planning to return to Bloomshore! And Miss Carter has been seen in his company so often. Surely she’ll be going with him?"

"It’s only natural that a proposal would follow!"

And now, here you were, lying motionless on the floor of your sister’s drawing room, staring blankly at the ceiling, mourning a fate that had not yet come to pass, but one that felt inevitable.

“What are you doing?”

“Wasting away.”

“Care for a pillow?” Sylus chimed in from the doorway. Your sister shot her husband a withering glare before turning back to you. 

“You cannot possibly lie there forever.”

“Dr. Ulysses recommended I take residence here and I am doing just that.”

She sighed, moving to sit on the settee beside you. “For someone who insists on matchmaking others, you are alarmingly terrible at managing your own affairs.”

You had always maintained a fine line between yourself and your clients. It was strictly professional, nothing more. You had spent years matchmaking, priding yourself on identifying the subtlest signs of romantic inclination in others.

But now?

Now you were beginning to question your own sanity.

Perhaps it was the relentless pressure of your work and the constant need to anticipate emotions before they were even felt. 

Perhaps it was exhaustion, making you see things that weren’t there. That had to be it.

And yet, despite the demands of your job, at the center of all these expectations and obligations was a certain doctor.

He was intelligent, perceptive, and shy, not cold, as so many wrongly assumed. He was measured and thoughtful, with a dry wit that caught you off guard and lingered long after a conversation had ended.

Perhaps you had grown accustomed to his attention. To the way his gaze always seemed to seek yours in a crowded room. You had spent so much time considering who would be a good match for him that you had never stopped to consider what it might feel like to watch him be matched.

“If you’re so keen on finding something to do,” Sylus remarked, far too amused for your liking, “perhaps responding to a letter from Lord Shen may be in order.”

You sat up, furrowing your brow. “Xavier?”

The maid approached, placing the letter in Sylus’s hand before you rose up from the depths of the floor and snatched it from him. Ignoring his protest, you unfolded the letter and began to read aloud:

Dear Miss Hunter,

I hope this letter finds you in better health. 

My mother, by way of your mother, has informed me that you are recuperating in Whitesand Bay. I imagine the sea air must be a welcome change, though I confess, I have never spent much time by the coast myself.

I will be passing through Whitesand Bay on my way to Philos to visit my grandfather. Is it true that the seafood is as remarkable as people claim? I have heard outrageous tales of oysters the size of one’s head. 

Wishing you a swift recovery.

X.

“You’ve made a little friend,” Sylus cooed. 

You shot him a look, tucking Xavier’s letter against your palm. “I simply invited him to join our party at pall mall. The man was standing off to the side on his own.”

“One would suspect they were avoiding him for a reason. Perhaps they fear his mother’s wrath,” your sister quipped. 

“Lady Miranda of Philos could strike fear into anyone’s heart.”

You hummed, considering the thought. Xavier’s mother was indeed an imposing woman, it was no wonder her son found himself on the fringes of society, few were willing to risk her displeasure.

You hesitated, fingers grazing the edges of the letter. “I suppose I will write to him,” you admitted. 

“It was kind of him to reach out.”

As you returned to your room with Xavier’s letter in hand, you sat at your writing desk and smoothed out a fresh sheet of parchment. But as you dipped your pen into the inkwell, another thought crept in, unbidden.

Zayne.

You froze for a moment, your hand hovering above the parchment. It was for the best that you didn’t entertain such notions. He was a busy man bound to his job and future bride. And you...you were merely his matchmaker. A professional connection. Nothing more.

With a steady hand, you began writing, but the weight of Zayne’s presence lingered in your chest.

Part 2

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

The assistant p.4

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this one shot of Lewis x assistant, I hope you like it and if you want to read part 3 here it is or more stories of mine here's my masterlist.

Ever since that stormy night in the elevator, everything had changed.

What had started as tension—an impossible, burning kind of desire—had become something far deeper. My relationship with Lewis blurred the lines between pleasure and work, between fantasy and reality. He made me feel things I didn’t know I could. At the office, we still played our roles. But behind closed doors… it was something else entirely.

He had awakened something in me, something wild and messy and utterly insatiable. Every touch, every kiss, every command… it wasn’t just physical. It was emotional. It was intoxicating.

So when I started to feel off lately—nausea in the mornings, dizziness—I didn’t think much of it at first. Stress, maybe. Not sleeping enough. Skipping lunch to do paperwork. But when I nearly passed out in the hallway and had to steady myself against the wall, Lewis had noticed.

"You’re finally going to the doctor, I don't care if I have to carry you myself," he said, firmly, no room for argument.

Which is how I found myself sitting on a cold examination table, swinging my feet nervously while the doctor typed something into her computer.

"Well," she finally said, turning toward me with a soft smile. "Congratulations. You're pregnant."

My heart stopped.

Pregnant.

It was like the word echoed around the room, bouncing off every wall. My mouth went dry.

"I—what? Are you sure?"

She nodded. "About five or six weeks. Everything looks fine, but you’ll need a full check-up soon. Do you have a partner you’d like to involve?"

Lewis’ face flashed in my mind. His smile. His touch. The way he’d call me his sweet girl. My stomach twisted, and not from nausea.

This… changed everything.

That night, I invited Lewis to dinner.

"I’ve got a surprise for you," I had texted.

"You in lingerie again? Because that’s my favorite surprise," he replied instantly, with a winking emoji that made me both laugh and panic a little harder.

I had cleaned my apartment twice over. Changed outfits three times. Nearly burned the food. Finally, I settled on a cozy sweater dress that hugged my curves and was just short enough to tease without trying too hard. I placed a small, neatly wrapped box on the table and paced nervously until the buzzer rang.

When I opened the door, Lewis looked as dangerously good as always. Black sweater hugging his chest, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, a little smirk tugging at his lips.

"Smells good in here," he said, stepping in and kissing me softly. His hand cupped my cheek like it always did, and I almost broke down right then.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Mhm," I lied.

We sat down and began eating, but I was quiet. Too quiet.

"You’re not talking," he said, narrowing his eyes. "That’s suspicious. You’re always babbling about how cute Roscoe looked in his sweater or how you tripped in the lobby again. What’s going on?"

I laughed nervously, pushing my plate away. "I told you I have a surprise."

I slid the box across the table.

Lewis raised an eyebrow, picking it up and unwrapping it. Inside was a small, soft baby onesie. Ferrari red. It said: "Daddy’s Little Pit Crew."

He blinked, then looked at me, confused. "This is for… Roscoe?"

The moment he said it, I burst out laughing. And crying.

"Oh my God, no," I said, covering my face with my hands. "No, Lewis. Think about it."

His eyes searched mine. Then slowly, realization dawned. His lips parted, his breath caught, and suddenly he was up from the table, sweeping me into his arms.

"Are you pregnant?" he whispered, his voice thick.

I nodded against his chest.

"You’re… you’re going to have my baby?"

I looked up at him, tears slipping down my cheeks. "Yes."

And then he kissed me. A long, tender, overwhelming kiss that had none of the urgency we usually shared. It was soft. Meaningful. His hand cradled the back of my neck, the other resting protectively over my stomach.

"I didn’t think I could love you more," he whispered. "But right now? I do. So much."

I giggled through my tears. "Even if I’m a clumsy assistant who printed twenty pages upside down this morning?"

He grinned. "Especially because of that."

We stood in the middle of my apartment, wrapped in each other, the future settling between us like a fragile, beautiful thing. And somehow, it felt right.

Maybe it wouldn’t be easy. Maybe everything would change.

But everything would be just fine, cause our baby was already on the way.

@rageshots, @krltkselsl, @mmm777mmm777, @doncockstah, @hhhs7

[martinkhall]

Just caught the most recent episode of Doctor Who. I was under the impression it was coming out next week. Here are a few theories I have about what's going on with Belinda Chandra.

Timelord. Probably using a chameleon arch. That's my main theory because she used the word TARDIS before the Doctor did. Likely a Timelord that long term viewers will know.

As others have noted her calling herself The Nurse when she realizes The Doctor is his name is reminiscent of the rogue Timelord habit of taking a title instead of a name.

Three likely candidates.

Susan: Of course she called it the TARDIS before he did, she named it.

The Rani: She would finally be played by a woman of Indian descent to go with the Indian derived name. Sarah Jane Adventures also featured a character named Rani Chandra. Yes, Chandra is a common Indian surname but that's also the kind of hint the writers have liked to drop in the past. See the multiple times The Master or Master was used as an anagram in the name of a character or a thing related to a character who later turned out to be The Master.

The Master: The previous season saw the tooth he was trapped in picked up by a mysterious figure. They can't hold back on him too long after that tease.

Belinda is an usual name these days, looking it up I found sites claiming it's meaning as "pretty one" but more thematically appropriate for The Master "serpent", "beautiful snake", "bright serpent", or "bright snake".

While sites telling you what names mean should be take with a grain of salt if a writer is looking to give a name significant meaning they will likely be looking at similar sources to the ones I found by just asking a search engine what the name meant.

Chandra incidentally is also the name of the Hindu god of the moon, also known as Soma. I don't currently relate that to any of my theories (focusing instead on Rani Chandra pointing me the direction of The Rani) but maybe someone else can make something of that.

But while The Master has many serpentine qualities (especially as relates to the Biblical serpent) the snake related meanings of her name point me in another direction to theorize. One of the Pantheon of Discord that RTD has been playing with lately.

No, not Sutekh who I'm sure we're done with. For the moment at least. No, I'm talking about The Evil Ones. The Father of Lies. God of Beasts.

Mara: They were mentioned last season. According to tardis.fandom.com "It spread itself by manifesting within the Dark Places of the Inside, but it required a host in the real world before it could appear in its true, snakelike form."

I'm currently considering this the least likely as she currently shows no symptoms of Mara possession (although we have not seen her arm).

"Those possessed by the Mara developed a snake mark on their arm and had reddened eyes and teeth and the ability to share voices between themselves. In one case, they developed red, moulted skin. They had access to the Mara's hive mind and could be returned control if the Mara so desired, though this was usually done by the Mara to taunt people. The marks themselves could become real Mara, developing like a rash until they burst from the skin and infected anyone they touched."

I would be a fool to ignore the member of the Pantheon that actually takes the form of a snake when a mysterious figure has a name with snake associations though and will be keeping my eye out for signs.

I'm also sure that if any of my theories or anything similar is correct Belinda is currently unaware of it being the case and thinks she's just a normal person. I'm not calling her an active and willing threat and if she turns out to be Susan I'm sure that while she might be pissed at her grandfather for how things ended between them she's not going to become a villain.

The Rani could probably go either way depending on if she's developed more of a conscience since her previous two incarnations. And could be someone he could cooperate with short term to stop something worse. Like one or more members of the Pantheon of Chaos.

And my understanding is that if someone is possessed by Mara the snake thing using them as a host can just be removed.

So only her being The Master would be an almost sure fire villainous threat. (The threat in the case of Mara possession would be the possessing Mara not her.)

[do-androids-dream-ao3acc]

I Didn't Know How To Love You (Final Chapter)

[Chapter 1][Chapter 2][Chapter 3] [Chapter 4][Chapter 5] AO3 Version

Shoutout to @vanitasmorgue for the artwork, I commissioned on very short notice and I'm super happy :) Also thanks to @li-nox for Eddie (and a lot more!)

Buck spends almost three weeks in hospital, most of it in a state of haze. After he realizes that he’s survived, that they have all survived, his mind and body shut down for a while. But he comes back, and when he does, Tommy is there. He’s been there all the time, sitting for hours beside his bed, holding his hand; those are things that find their way into Buck’s dreams. This time, they’re peaceful dreams, beautiful even, and he holds on to them as long as he can.

He sleeps a lot. Sometimes, when he comes to, he’s not sure if he’s been woken by voices he seems to recognize or because of the dull pain that seems to be everywhere. It’s never there for very long, while the voices stay, and that’s fine. He’ll learn, much later, that he’s now got a titanium plate in his left arm, a fact that earns him the moniker „our most valuable coworker” by the rest of the 118. His other injuries were much more serious than a shattered radial bone, but his doctors are confident that he will make a full recovery, even though no one is leaving any doubt that it will be a long and arduous process. 

Sometimes, he’s not even sure if he’s awake or dreaming. The sun is shining in the room, and there’s Tommy, touching his hand and smiling. A blink of an eye later, it’s Maddie. He watches her as she’s staring at the floor, lost in thought, stroking her belly as if to say, that's your uncle, he does a lot of foolish things; but when he does, I'm there. Then, and it seems as if no time has passed, the room is dark, with the emergency lights casting eerie shadows. Even then, he’s not alone; Bobby’s there, his hands folded in silent prayer. One day, at noon or at night – it's hard to tell, really – it’s Violet sitting there. The first thing he hears is her saying, “…and then he bought me that dress, and I thought, what a fairy-tale prince.”

She chuckles, and again, it’s not a particularly happy sound. Buck understands that she’s been sitting there talking for quite some time, and he also understands that it doesn't matter if he listens, let alone answers. She looks in his direction, but stares into the void. In this way, he learns part of her story, at least until he falls asleep again, which doesn't take very long. It's not a story anybody would be happy to tell, and maybe that's what it's about. Buck is, after all, a stranger, and sometimes that just makes it easier. Much later, he’ll learn that she turned herself in and admitted starting the fire, and Bobby had played no small part in it. She’ll get off with a fine. On this day, however, she is sitting with Buck, a contemplative figure in the half-light, sadness still dripping from her words as she tells her story.

“Of course he wasn’t. Prince Charming, I mean,” Violet muses. “He’s a know-it-all, small-minded and possessive. And suddenly, I’m ten years old again, listening to my father telling me I’m good for nothing. It's like a pattern, you know? I always pick the wrong ones. And that morning, I was so tired of it. Everything was gray, except for the streets, which were dazzlingly bright. And it was so hot! That’s why those lunatics from the subsidiary on the 13th floor complained, because the server room is on their floor and supposedly drew power from their air conditioning. It was my job to go down there and explain to them that they were talking nonsense. There’s these two bitches, arguing about the ecological impact of saving water, while this guy yells at me to do something about the AC. I was so fed up! Locked myself in the bathroom upstairs and had a smoke. Then I got a text from Prince Charming, telling me he wasn't coming home that night because he’s going out with some Susan, and if I didn't like it, I needn’t call him again.”

After that, Violet snapped, that's the part she's leaving out. Buck will hear it from Athena, some other day: that Violet started to stub out her cigarette on the toilet paper before she set fire to the towels with her lighter. Whether she really wanted to jump after she got on the roof remains Violet's secret, though.

A lot of people come by, whispering their blessings at his bedside and placing get-well cards on the windowsill. Eddie sends one, too. In his big, scraggly handwriting, he scribbled, “Really, Buck…? Again?” while the carefully pinned line below is clearly penned by Christopher, saying “Dad’s an idiot. Miss you! Get well soon.” It's touching, but there's a wistful undertone suggesting Eddie isn't coming back. Maybe Maddie's right, Buck needs to make new friends, but how do you go about doing that? It's not like stocking up your pantry. If you run out of flour, you can replace it, but how do you replace the hole in your heart?

The same goes for Tommy. Buck hasn’t tried replacing him, where would he even start? He can have a fuck anytime, this city is packed with desperate singles, but it’s not what he wants. Most people don't know what they actually want, until someday, something’s missing, and they realize they already had it.

Tommy sits by his bedside every day; before his shift, after his shift, on his days off. At first, he doesn't say much, just strokes his hand, whispering “shh” and “it’s fine, just relax” whenever Buck stirs in his painkiller sleep. But eventually, he begins to talk. They’re lulling, soothing little stories from his working day, funny anecdotes  from conversations he had and things he’s experienced. Then, however, that changes. In his half-awake state, Buck hears him say, “My father wanted a normal son. At least that’s what he said to me.”

It’s an ominous statement, and Buck gets mere fragments of information about Tommy’s father while his mind is only half present; bits and pieces of his past. It’s a start, and it’s the moment he seriously endeavors to get well again, just to hear the whole story.

One day, his eyelids are not so heavy, everything is not so blurry; his voice is hoarse, but he says, “Tell me again. From the beginning.”

Tommy is not easily flustered, but now surprise raises his brows. He reaches for Buck's hand, but then seems to change his mind. Hesitantly, his fingers falter mid-air; he rests them on the edge of the bed asking, “Pardon?”

“You don’t get to sneak out of a proper conversation by confessing your past to me while I sleep.”

“Where’s this coming from now?” asks Tommy, his smile lopsided.

The door opens and a nurse enters, praising Buck for being awake, which is a strange kind of achievement, he thinks. She reads the monitors, checks his vitals; he can’t wait for her to leave; when she says she’s going to get a doctor, it sounds like a threat.

“Tell me again, now that I'm awake,” Buck repeats when she finally leaves. 

“You heard me?” Tommy asks softly.

“Not all of it. Didn't understand everything, either. But I think I finally understand one thing.”

“And what would that be?” Tommy asks with a wink.

His voice is lenient, the patient tone of a man who's put up with Buck's quirks before, never once rolling his eyes.  He surely thinks that Buck's sudden realization will have a lot to do with the fact that he’s been in a semi-comatose state for days. Buck doesn’t blame him; he knows Tommy will listen to him anyway, that's a constant of their time together.

“It sucked that you left,” he begins, and although there’s a hint of regret in Tommy's eyes that makes Buck’s heart sting, he needs to continue. If he doesn't say it now, he may never. No more chance for lost chances. “But I think you left because you love me. Pretty stupid of you, Tommy, because… I-I love you too.”

Buck is quite proud of the fact that his tongue only stumbles over one word. He watches Tommy closely, studies his expression as it scrunches in disbelief. Tommy doesn’t know where to look, what to do for a moment; his face seems to force him to smile, but his fingers claw at the hospital bed’s sheet.

“Well, I was stupid too, of course,” Buck admits. “Because I didn't understand what connects us. I thought about all these couples, wondering why they’re so happy. What holds them together? Why did they overcome their difficulties? Think of my sister and Howie. O-or Bobby and Athena. Oh, and Hen and Karen had some really rough times, too, but they're still together. Why?”

“Love, obviously,” Tommy says softly, maybe a bit too indulgently; Buck's heart skips a beat. Tommy’s so close to understanding, maybe he already has. It's more about finally admitting it. But also about something else.

“Yeah, but also, they tackled their issues. Together,” Buck adds. “They had their fair share of running away, one way or the other, but they always believed it was worth another try.”

“Evan,” says Tommy, and it still brings a smile to Buck's face. “I owe you an apology.”

“Well, sure. A-an explanation, too. For why you believed you weren’t worth it. I've had time to think about it, believe me, but I'm only now figuring it out. I thought you realized you can't stick with me any more than anyone else can. That it would break your heart because you didn't want to hurt me, because that's the kind of guy you are, Tommy. I was stupid, and pretty selfish, wasn't I? B-because it was never about that.”

“Is that how you felt?” Tommy asks softly, even now making it about Buck; and that’s the core to it all. “That I left because you're not worth it? You're miles off, I'm afraid. You never told me.”

His face crumples; for a minute, he looks worse than Buck feels, he’s falling apart right in front of him.

“Yes, exactly,” says Buck, his smile so radiant, he feels ridiculous. He almost tears out his IV as he reaches out to grab Tommy’s hand, still cramped in the sheet, but it doesn’t matter. “You sat here night after night telling me about your past, which I never asked about. And I realized that I didn't tell you a thing, either. We just didn't talk. I spent six months bathing in being wanted. It felt like... like…”

He gives a frustrated huff as his words fail him, but then Tommy, his face and voice so soft, chimes in, “It felt like we had known each other forever. As if we didn't need to talk because then, the magic would disappear. Because it can't be real. Because nothing is that good.”

Tommy takes a deep, but shaky breath; his eyes are fixed on the ceiling, yet he’s actually looking inward.

“I've felt that way my entire life,” Buck explains quietly, “that I'm never good enough. That it’s the reason why everybody leaves. With you, it was different. Nobody ever listened to my ramblings with... such a smitten look, Tommy. Nobody ever listened anyway. That's why it hurt so much.”

“I'm sorry,” says Tommy, it’s almost a sob, “I'm sorry.”

There’s still a patch on his forehead, and he lifts a hand to stroke it; pain is pain, no matter where it occurs. Tommy's is just as deep as Buck's. His other hand, however, is still in Buck's, who’s holding it firmly. Tommy has to learn to hold on to something. Buck has to learn a different thing.

“I'm sorry, too. I've spent my whole life craving attention, while you...”

“...while I've done everything to avoid it,” Tommy says slowly.  “That's right. Because it was so hard to admit who I am.”

“That was hard for me too. Obviously, being me was wrong to people. I get it now, you must have felt the same way. And I know… I know we’re both wrong.”

Tommy sighs. “We're pretty big idiots, aren't we?”

“Yes. You especially,” Buck returns, enjoying Tommy's moment of confusion as he squints at him.

“I thought we had just agreed on a 50-50,” says Tommy.

“Sure. But I’ve also confessed my love for you, and you haven't even kissed me.”

Tommy sucks in a breath like a fish out of water. He leans forward, intently watching Buck’s face.

“You also claimed that I loved you.”

“So, you admit it?”

“Maybe. But you're crazy if you think I'll kiss you while you smell of disinfectant and amoxicillin.”

He leans back, and his smile is so broad, he’s shining brighter than the sun. It’s a happy smile, a relieved one. Buck thinks he's never seen anything more beautiful. They still have a lot of catching up to do, they still have to talk; but this is a start, finally some progress. The future seems so much brighter now, something imaginable, almost tangible.

“But you know what?” asks Tommy suddenly, with that inimitable twinkle in his eye.

“Hm?”

“I'm gonna do it anyway,” he says, and it may not be the best kiss in Buck's life, but it's one he will never forget.

[nehswritesstuffs]

ghosts speak in whispers and lies; can’t know what’s real ‘til you’re the one who’s died - Part Three

Oh, yeah, so I should have mentioned this earlier, but please pronounce Angela here as the same as Angela Merkel, not Angela as in Angela Lansbury. Also, this is also the chapter where the sexy times start. Thank you.

Part One [FFN/AO3] - Part Two [FFN/AO3]

Robin has entered the dreamscape and is immediately put into a situation for which she is acutely under-prepared. [4684 words; Law/Robin]

It was the dead of night; muted stars speckled a sky brightened by light from the nearby towns and a damp chill hung in the air. Law and Robin laid on a blanket atop the grass, the remains of Oden Castle far enough away to be secluded, yet close enough to make it back if the need arose. They had yet to do much more than cuddle and kiss, but the night was young.

“How long do you think before we get a chance like this again?” Law asked. His head was nestled comfortably against Robin’s shoulder, their position much more relaxed and spread out than anything they could have achieved in his quarters on the Polar Tang. She scratched at his scalp—hat long-discarded—and hummed.

“Possibly never,” she said. “We are going to war, after all.”

“…but if we do make it out alive… will you come with me?”

“As much as I care about you, Torao,” she chuckled, “it’s Luffy I want to make the King of the Pirates. Once that happens, maybe then we can talk.”

“Then I’ll also search for it,” he decided. Law propped himself up on his elbows so he could gaze down at Robin. “We’re both curious about the People of the D., about the forbidden history, and out of everyone I’m the closest you’ve got to an academic equal.”

“You sell our crew’s doctor short.”

“Tony-ya’s a talented doctor—you got me there—but his foundations in traditional academia are… lacking, to be precise.” She raised an eyebrow and the embarrassment that ensued was intense. “He told me his background on the way to Dressrosa; a quack and a witch doctor might have worked for his specialization, but he never sat any broader subjects.”

A playful smirk twisted the corner of her mouth. “And you did?”

“Not only that, but I was top of my class,” he bragged. “All through my formal schooling, even. Those nuns were a rough group to please.”

“I see.” She reached up and gently flicked the end of his nose. “Just a pair of hopeless academics, coming home to one another at the end of the day?”

“Possibly.” He looked away, first at the grass, then the blanket, then his hands. “I feel like I’m towards the end of my career as a pirate. If I survive it, I want to put these hands and this Devil Fruit to good use helping people. I want to grow older than my father did.”

“How old was he?” She reached out and touched his hair again, stroking the soft strands tenderly.

“Forty-two, I think. That would have made my mother forty; what about yours?”

“I never knew my father, but my mother was about thirty-three if I remember correctly.” She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips, not one of passion but of assurance. It lingered afterwards, their faces close enough to share breath. “Olvia.”

“Angela,” he whispered. “Lars.” A deep breath. “Lami.”

“Those are wonderful names,” she replied hoarsely. “Maybe they can mean something else one day.”

“Possibly.”

It hurt to think about, so instead of continuing he reached down and caressed her leg, most of it still bare thanks to her shorts—their disguises were coming in the morning. She made a receptive noise, letting him know he was on a correct path for the night’s activities; an acceptable change in subject matter.

“Out in the open like this?” she teased. “That’s naughty, even for you.”

“I don’t have protection on me, but I have the next best thing,” he claimed. He then slid his hand down the front of her shorts and found her core, where she was warm but dry, deciding to fix the latter.

“You don’t want to detach part of your penis so that you ejaculate in the grass?” she wondered. He sank a finger into her and flexed, pulling a sigh from her lips.

“I want you to think of me every time you touch yourself while we’re apart,” he murmured in her ear. “Imagine they’re my fingers, working you open bit by bit.” He slid another finger in while rubbing her clit with his thumb. “Don’t think about what we might never have, but what we know is decidedly real.” A third finger, a little too quickly, and her back arched. “Promise me, Robin.”

She promised; she promised to him and the trees and the stars to think of him, breath hitched as she resisted caving too quickly. He kissed her as she came, hungrily gulping down her gasps as though they would feed him for days on-end. The more he concentrated on her, the less he thought of his own ghosts, and that was all he needed of the night… well, not everything, but it was a start.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

All systems looked stable as Chopper made his final adjustments to the devices that were monitoring Robin and Torao. Once he was done, they weren’t going to need to be moved for a while, and only then in the interest of bedsore prevention. Bepo was in the room as well, watching closely as the younger doctor cared for his captain.

“I’m going to take good care of Torao,” Chopper assured. He frowned when Bepo didn’t respond. “Are you alright?”

“I still think I should have gone in there,” the Mink replied, “or Penguin, or Shachi. We’ve known him the longest.”

“Don’t worry,” Chopper said cheerily. “Robin was a master spy before she joined our crew. She’s actually the best qualified out of all of us, even if it was one of you who got caught.”

“…but you and Jean Bart said that these things make people hallucinate things they want. Are you sure they’ll be able to tell what’s the dream and what isn’t?”

“Of course they will,” Chopper smiled. “I have my full trust in Robin! If she made a promise to Luffy, then she has to come back!”

“Okay…” Bepo didn’t fully believe it, but what choice did he have? He placed his paw on his captain’s shoulder and sighed, hoping that everything was going to work out as they wanted.

-_-_-_-_-_-_-

Robin inhaled sharply as she was flung into the dreamscape, it trying to convince her that she was catching herself from nodding off at a desk. She carefully looked around the room and took in her surroundings—it was very clearly an academic’s office, one that commanded some air of authority based on the simple fact there was the space to move around. There were many books, framed accolades, and photos lining the walls, so much so that it felt like something she wanted to stop and examine in order to see what sort of a dream the parasite placed her in. A flick of her wrist and a hand sprouted up from a stack of books—at least that was still the same.

To her surprise, many of the photos along the walls and on bookshelves were of her and her mother, or with Professor Clover, or both. They grew older with her in this scenario, it seemed. Ohara sat with a younger version of her in a photograph all on its own, clearly taken from the deck of a ship based on the angle. The accolades and certificates were from a variety of sources across the Cardinal Blues and the Grand Line, showing a trail of her journeys. Worn tomes sat upon their shelves riddled with bookmarks and inserted pages, demonstrating clear use. Three very specific frames sat upon the cluttered desk, next to a brass nameplate emblazoned with her name written in both the common script and Poneglyphs: Dr. Nico Robin – Professor of Archaeology and Anthropology. She studied each one individually, finding the subjects intriguing.

One photo had her with her mother and Professor Clover on a beach, celebrating some occasion. It looked warm and pleasant. Was she a teenager there…? She must have been…

Another had her with the Straw Hats, the entire group smiling for the camera-snail, none of them with a care in the world. No hint as to why they were drawn together in this existence… simply that they were…

…yet the third… she picked it up and marveled at it, not entirely certain she liked what she saw: it was her and Trafalgar Law, and they were kissing in a public park, implying a more visible sort of relationship than they were accustomed to leading.

Robin thought about it for a time before setting the frame back down on the desk. Whatever this parasite was doing, it was definitely either incredibly skilled or had help somehow. It took some of her deepest desires involving an alternate life—a successful archaeology career and the adults who cared about her getting to watch her grow to adulthood—and seemingly made them into a reality. She felt sick to her stomach at the level of manipulation that was involved; the possibility she wanted to explore with Torao was in the middle of being explored—they were actively and openly dating in this scarily complex hallucination. Was that specific detail something that she had brought into the mix, or was that something that had already been there due to Law’s own desires?

Well… there was only one way to find out.

Robin grabbed what looked like her personal bag and coat and left the office, acting as though there was nothing amiss as she walked through the university building. She didn’t recognize any of the people who waved to her and referred to her as “Professor Nico” or “Doctor Nico”, which was something she somewhat suspected. It seemed like a large university, however, with plenty of funding being passed along towards the humanities and social sciences. The thought of such a place even possibly existing broke her heart, let alone the idea of her working there. It was as though the halls of Ohara were recreated in thick and sturdy stone, more resistant to fire and attacks from those who wished to destroy true knowledge.

Once she stepped outside Robin knew precisely where the university was: Flevance. Everything around her was whites and pastels, the Amber Lead having not been completely excised from the community but existing in a sort of stasis. She walked over to a tree and touched its off-white bark, curious about what was going on. The white and pale colors had been caused by Amber Lead if she remembered correctly, and not only was she there, making a life amongst the poisoned plants and buildings, but the people as well. Was this a version of Flevance that had found a cure? Did Amber Lead not have the same effects on the Human body as it did in the real world? Whatever the answer was, it was a cruel alternate reality for Torao to live through.

Then again, she knew exactly what that was like, didn’t she? How many times did she wish for something like this as a child with Ohara as the location in-question? She spent a long time wishing she could turn back time, as her foes in Onigashima predicted, and now… now she was at least at peace with the past. Had it been terrible? Uncomfortable? Devoid of true justice? Of course, but it still happened and nothing could change it. Did Flevance being the setting of the dream meant that Torao was still not accepting his past? In such an environment, how could she present the danger they were truly in, despite the calm nature of their surroundings?

“Oh, hey Robin!” She turned at the sound of her name, blinking curiously as a young woman jogged up to her. She seemed like she could have been a student at the university, but was she one of her students…? No, otherwise she would have been Professor or Doctor or Ms. or Miss.“Have you spoken to Law-nii yet today?”

“No, I haven’t,” Robin replied. The young woman looked largely unfamiliar, with exception of her amber eyes. She felt something tighten in her chest as she realized that those were the eyes she had gazed into many a time already; this was Law’s younger sister. “Is there something I should know about, Lami?”

“No; I was just wondering if you were going to do anything after dinner tonight other than sit around and visit with our parents,” the young woman pouted. “I was hoping we could go out and have some fun afterwards; conversations with my parents and brother always devolve into medical talk.”

“I thought the point of having dinner with someone’s family was to meet and get to know them.”

“Well, yeah, but they’re boring about it. They’re always boring about it.” Suddenly, the bell in the nearby clocktower started tolling ominously. “Shit, got to get to class—see you later!”

Robin bid Lami goodbye and watched as the young woman ran into the university. The entire situation seemed… odd, to say the least. There almost seemed to be a haze over most of the other citizens, as though their rendering had not been completed, yet Lami was clear as could be, along with a few seemingly-random folks she saw as she walked down the street. She wondered if this was simply the limit of the parasite’s powers or if it was merely the result of Law’s mind getting stretched too thin. What would Ohara look like, if she was the one who had been taken first? She shivered at the very thought.

Stepping inside of a bakery, Robin went through the bag that she took from the office, pretending to look for some money. Instead she found exactly what she was looking for: an ID that gave an address. ‘28C Rivierstraat.’ She then excused herself from the shop and went in search of this Rivierstraat, hoping it wasn’t too far. It wasn’t, and once there she found a leafy street that had a canal in the middle. She had to hand it to him—Torao was able to come up with some romantic scenery.

A few minutes longer and Robin finally came to the numberplate for 28C. She took the set of keys from her bag and tried the one that looked closest to the lock—it worked. A couple flights of stairs and she was at another door, which she was able to unlock with another key in the set. She stepped into the flat to discover that it was a gorgeous open loft space, with tons of books and plants and various bric-a-brac that showed that this was truly a home. Everything flowed seamlessly from one area of the flat to the other, with sagging bookshelves serving as walls and plenty of light pouring in from the windows and skylights. The second-hand furniture was mismatched yet comfortable-looking and the kitchen seemed well-used. There was even a door to a small patio next to the kitchen, just enough room to have a table for two to eat dinner under the stars or breakfast watching the sun rise.

The flat seemed so well-suited to their needs that Robin had one question that she kept coming back to: had she invented this space or had he? Little things here and there suggested that he was at the very least a frequent visitor: comic books, commemorative coins, some clothes here and there… more photo frames sat around the space, of him, of her, of them. Yet when she looked at the details, they were very her. It was comfortable and academic… it was a space she could have imagined living in.

Robin picked a hooded sweatshirt up from the couch and sniffed it cautiously. It smelled like Torao, though with a hint of perfume that she knew meant she’d been the last to wear it. A thought flashed in her mind, of wearing the sweatshirt during a particularly bad cold snap as she and Torao shared the space, sometimes snuggled on the couch with their own books, with other times at the table for tea as their combined work was spread out between them. False memories began to fill her brain with study dates and nights out on the town; of romantic trips to the park as well as lurid sex in the small sanctuary the flat provided. She had to concentrate to keep the thoughts and fake memories from their attempt to overtake her consciousness—it was bad enough that Torao was under the parasite’s influence, which meant that succumbing was not an option no matter how tempting. Hanging up her coat, she began to mentally catalog the false memories as they came to her, hoping that there would at least be something in them that would be of any use.

Suddenly, Robin heard the lock to the door downstairs get jostled—someone else was coming! She tested her Devil Fruit ability and found that her normal range was preserved within the dreamscape, so she very quickly conjured a pair of eyes on the wall outside so that she could see who it was.

Law.

Robin’s chest began to feel tight. Up until now, she had a firm grip on the conceit of the situation she found herself in. The goal was to navigate the dreamscape and save Torao, but what sort of grasp did it have on him? How well would she be able to communicate with him their situation? She had wanted a bit of time exploring the false Flevance first for context clues before approaching him and now it was too late as he was walking up the stairs.

Law opened the door and stepped into the flat, flinching in genuinely delighted surprise when he saw Robin. His face lit up at the sight of her and it made her heart ache and stomach flip. There was something about him standing there that almost felt right even though she knew the horrid truth behind the dreamscape. He held up a bouquet of flowers—large and fragrant white lilies with hare’s ear filling it out—and smiled awkwardly.

“I didn’t think you’d be in yet,” he admitted. There was something… off… about the way he was holding himself as they met each other in the entry to the flat. His demeanor and body language… they were very different from the variations of the guarded man she was falling in love with, and she needed to figure out why. Was it because they were alone or something else? “These were supposed to be waiting for you.”

“That is very sweet, thank you.” Robin took the bouquet and leaned into a kiss before bringing the flowers into the kitchen. She had to play the established girlfriend until the opportunity to convince Torao otherwise presented itself. If not done at the right time, the job was going to be leagues more difficult than it already was and that was something neither of them could afford. “I saw Lami after I got out of work.”

“She’s been hanging around the Humanities departments again?”

“She must be if she ran into me outside my building.” She found a ceramic vase under the sink and filled it with water, working on snipping the ends of the stems in the meantime. Once a dash of both bleach and an open bottle of cola from the refrigerator had been poured into the vase, she transplanted the simple bouquet to its new home before using her Devil Fruit to sprout a spare hand to pluck off the pollen-filled anthers. “Let me guess: mention nothing about it?”

“I know our parents want us to be happy, but I know they still think that Lami’s just not found the right area of medicine yet that interests her,” he said. He took off his jacket and deposited it on the couch, completely ignoring the coat rack. “It’s hard to see the writing on the wall when you’ve been planning her entire life, especially for Moer.”

“They mean well. She means well.”

“Yeah, though maybe they’ll be distracted enough tonight from meeting you that Lami and I can drop a couple more solid hints.” Law watched as Robin placed the vase on the dining room table amongst the varied medical and archaeological journals. He wrapped his arms around her waist as he hugged her from behind, leaning down slightly to kiss her neck. The feeling of his lips on her skin sent a shiver through her entire body—how was this still just a dream? “We have some time before we have to leave.”

“…and what do you suppose we should do with that time?” she wondered playfully. The more she could get out of him the better; she needed to figure out how to tell him about the parasite’s lies without driving him away. Turning around in his grasp, she found herself staring directly into his amber eyes and felt as though she was melting.

“I have some ideas.” His grin spoke volumes—she knew what he was hinting at. “What good is being a hopeless pair of academics if we don’t take advantage of our schedules now and then?”

“I’m the academic; you’re a surgeon.”

“True, though, you know what I mean.” He bent his head down and kissed her, his hands instead finding their way down to her rear. Robin held the kiss as she unbuttoned his shirt, chuckling as she slid her thigh between his legs and felt he was already hardening. Law quickly opened a Room and transported them to the bed, allowing the two of them to collapse on the soft, plush mattress in a handsy heap.

It felt amazing as Robin let Law touch her, practiced fingers moving just how she liked it, ghosting along her skin and making quick work of her blouse and skirt. She watched him as he paused to shuck off his shirt and alarm bells began to ring in her head—this wasn’t right. His chest and arms were untouched by ink, as were his hands, now that she really saw them. Gold still glinted in his earlobes, but the rest of him was so bare that it was wrong.

The life Law must have lived in this fantasy never had the need for the tattoos, she surmised, and therefore the hallucination found no reason to keep them. No pirate crest, no viruses, no DEATH across his knuckles to remind him of what was always nipping at his heels, and least of all, no heart across his chest in memory of the one who saved him. He literally carried his benefactor’s memory on his shoulders and now… nothing. While she did not need the tattoos to be there to find him attractive, their absence was more than conspicuous in the soft light filtering in through moving clouds and the trees outside the building.

That was what changed, she realized: how he held himself in the lack of carrying that invisible weight. It was not a lack of confidence or change in personality, but a shift in the things he carried with him. He was lighter now—freer—and the legacies he carried were different. The man undoing his belt buckle between her legs was not the last of a nation, nor had he ever tasted true revenge, but was the normal person he had always yearned to be… the one who found his Devil Fruit by chance and not through desperation.

“Are you alright, Robin…?” he asked, pausing in concern. He leaned down, resting his weight on his elbows so that he could look her in the eyes. “You’re not yourself…”

Trafalgar D. Water Law was not a man with a nation of ghosts haunting him, no more than Nico Robin was the only Oharan scholar left after her world was erased in flame and ash.

“Nervous about tonight, is all,” she lied, putting on a practiced smile. Oh, how many men had she tricked with it before? Dozens, and yet none of them hurt nearly half as much.

“You don’t have to worry,” he murmured. “My parents are going to love you… Lami already loves you… I just wish your mom could have been in town so she could come along as well.” He pushed himself up to be on his hands and knees, drinking in the sight of the wonderful woman splayed beneath him. “We’ve survived meeting each other’s friends—I think we can survive tonight.”

At that, he leaned back down and kissed her, infused with a sort of desire unlike anything he had done in real life. She shoved his now-loose pants from his hips to his knees and he pounced on her soon as he kicked them off, both now just in their underwear. There was no hesitation in his desire, no holding back due to a lifetime of pain, no worry as to the aching yearning that would fill the void when the alliance was finally dissolved. He was offering his entire self to her as he kissed and nipped and caressed and took care of the final barriers between their skin. He was hard and dripping as he fumbled around between the bed and the nook walls it was set into, not wanting to take his lips from her skin as he searched.

Finally Law pulled away from Robin and held up his prize with a grin: a battered condom box. He pulled one out and laid on his back as he lazily tossed the box towards their feet and unwrapped the condom. Once it had been rolled on, he gently pawed at Robin, silently begging for her to ride him. She complied, straddling his hips and guiding him in, the satisfying burn of his girth opening her up while not fully-prepped distracting from the absurdity of the situation. Closing her eyes, she kept pushing him further and further in until their bodies were flush against each other and he was completely enveloped. His hips bucked desperately against hers, though she held him in place as she adjusted to the feel of him, almost ready to burst.

Slowly, Robin set the pace, rocking gently to ease moans out of them both. She opened her eyes to look around, making sure there was nothing she was missing. There was no danger, nothing out of place; it was just a normal flat in a normal building in a normal—if romantic—neighborhood. Law’s imagination had given them the perfect hideaway…

…except, as she threw her head back at a thrust that was aimed rather well, Robin saw something she should not have amongst the varied plants lining the wall: a flower. It was pure-white and had many petals, the cactus branch it was hanging off being something she recognized as something that did not bloom for longer than a single night. The fact it was conspicuously in bloom in the afternoon was proof there was something very not-right and she kept her eyes on it as they rolled their hips together in what felt like well-practiced lovemaking. Desperate gulps for air and filthy moans were the only things that passed between their lips, filling the flat with lewd sounds that would have made either of their crews blush.

Entire body slick with sweat, Law sat up and wrapped in arms tightly around Robin’s torso as he trembled, his pleasure building low in his gut. She held him gently, keeping his face buried between her breasts as she conjured arms from his back to help hold him up against the mattress. Her own orgasm was creeping upon her, not yet there as he nearly shouted into her chest as his body went rigid. He waited until the aftershocks had passed before reaching between them and finding her clit, rubbing small circles until she lost control of her Devil Fruit as she teetered over the edge, washing over her with more force than she was going to admit. They collapsed on the bed, Law smiling hazily up at Robin as though she was the only person in the world that mattered.

“Welcome home.”

Maybe she should have taken Bepo’s offer after all.

[loverslantern]

The Hunter and The Witch: Dean Winchester x Fem! reader

Description: A small town where dark secrets unfold isn’t anything new to these seasoned hunters, except when it has something to do with urban legends…apparently.

Warnings: cannon violence, mentions/talk of suicide, mentions of gruesome death, eye bleeding, Blood Mary (idk if this would be a warning but like 🤷🏼‍♀️), mentions of murder, witchy stuff

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld , @okayiamkassandra ,@fablesrose

A/N: I’m so sorry this took so long to get out again my AP class is really AP-ing and has taken up literally all my time. I spent four days working on a 20 pages packet that took forever meaning I had zero time for this. Again so so sorry.

Word count: 7,719

Bloody Mary

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Next Chapter)

“Sam, wake up.” Dean nudges the man in question, the car in park.

Sam wakes, confused, he sits up and looks around. “I take it I was having a nightmare.”

“Yeah, another one.” Dean confirms, and I nod too a frown on my face.

“Hey, at least I got some sleep.” Sam offers

“Sam” I stretch out his name, “that cannot be your positive to this.”

“You know, sooner or later we're gonna have to talk about this.” Dean adds.

But Sam ignores us, avoids the whole conversation, “Are we here?”

Dean lets him avoid the whole ordeal and I have to wonder how long he will let his brother lie. Though I guess I'm no better. “Yup. Welcome to Toledo, Ohio.”

Sam picks up a newspaper that sat on the console of the car, the obituary of Steven Shoemaker circled.

‘The Shoemaker family is sad to announce the sudden death of their beloved husband and father Steven Shoemarker. Steven was 46. A short service will be held on Wednesday, [...] 31 at 2:00 p.m. at the Toledo [...] and cherish you [...] Your [...]’ The article read.

“So what do you think really happened to this guy?” Sam asks us.

“That's what we're gonna find out.” Dean answers, turning off the car. “Let's go.”

We exit the car, entering the large hospital building that stood in front of us walking up to the two desks that lie in the room. One of them is empty with a name tag that reads, ‘Dr. D. Feiklowicz.’ The other one however was occupied by a Morgue technician in blue scrubs, “Hey” the man greets us as we approach.

“Hey.” Dean answers back.

“Can I help you?” The technician asks, looking between the three of us.

“Yeah. We're the, uh...med students.” Dean lies.

“Sorry?” The man asks back.

“Oh, Doctor—“ Dean stammers over the name, “—Figlavitch didn't tell you? We talked to him on the phone. He, uh, we're from Ohio State. He's supposed to show us the Shoemarker corpse. It's for our paper.”

“Well, I'm sorry, he's at lunch.” The tech informs us.

“Oh well he said, uh—“ Dean sighs, “—oh, well, you know, it doesn't matter. You don't mind just showing us the body, do you?”

“Sorry, I can't. Doc will be back in an hour. You can wait for him if you want.” He tells us, gesturing to the seats on the side of the room.

“An hour? Ooh. We gotta be heading back to Columbus by then.” Dean looks at me and Sam as if queuing us to lie with him.

“Yeah.” Sam and I say at the same time, “Jinx” I mumble underneath my breath just loud enough for Sam to hear me who in return gives me a scrunched face.

“Uh, look, man, this paper's like half our grade, so if you don't mind helping us out—“ Dena explains getting cut off by the man in scrubs, “Uh, look, man...no.”

Dean laughs a little. He turns around to face us, mumbling, “I'm gonna hit him in his face I swear.”

But I mean we can’t really blame the guy he’s just doing his job.

Sam hits his brother on the arm, taking a step in front of him he opens his wallet and pulls out some twenties. He lays a few of them, at least five, down on the desk. The Morgue Tech picks up the money, “Follow me.”

The technician gets up and leaves. I go to follow, seeing in the corner of my eye Dean grabbing Sam when he too tries to follow, forcing me to stop and go back a step to see what they are on about.

“Dude, I earned that money.” Dean complains.

“You won it in a poker game.” Sam clarifies.

“Yeah.” Dean answers.

Sam rolls his eyes, pulling away from his brother to follow the technician.

“You’ll make it back” I say, patting Dean on the back shortly to go follow the morgue man.

Dean stays back a half a second before following after us.

“Now the newspaper said his daughter found him. She said his eyes were bleeding.” Sam said as the Morgue Tech pulled back the sheet over Steven’s face. Revealing a pale, long faced man with dark hair, blood stained on his cheeks below his eyes as if he had cried them.

“More than that. They practically liquefied.” The tech scuffs.

“Any sign of a struggle? Maybe somebody did it to him?” Dean asks him.

“Nope. Besides the daughter, he was all alone.” He answers.

“What's the official cause of death?” Sam questioned.

“Ah, Doc's not sure. He's thinking massive stroke, maybe an aneurysm? Something burst up in there, that's for sure.” He replied.

“You mean like cerebral bleeding?” I ask, wanting to clarify.

“Yeah. This guy had more blood in his skull than anyone I've ever seen.” He responded.

“The eyes & mash;what would cause something like that?” Sam asked.

“Capillaries can burst. See a lot of bloodshot eyes with stroke victims.” The technician explains.

“Yeah? You ever see exploding eyeballs?” Dean scuffs.

“That's a first for me, but hey, I'm not the doctor.” The tech shrugs.

“Hey, think we could take a look at that police report? You know for, uh...our paper.” Dean requests.

“I'm not really supposed to show you that.” He answers, stretching out ‘that.’

Sam sighs clearly annoyed, as he pulls out his wallet.

Now leaving the hospital, walking down the stairs Sam suggests, “Might not be one of ours. Might just be some freak medical thing.”

“How many times in Dad's long and varied career has it actually been a freak medical thing and not some sign of an awful supernatural death?” Dean points out.

“Uh, almost never.” Sam answers.

“Exactly.”

“Well then, let's go talk to the daughter.” I announce”

We walk into Steven’s funeral, a picture of him on the desk.

All the men in the room are wearing black suits and the women adorned in black dresses, everyone except us. Dean points this very fact out, “Feel like we're underdressed.” I nod in agreement, my lips in a tight line, the guilt of interrupting these people’s mourning with not only us being undressed but also for not having a reasonable explanation of us being here.

But no one stops us as we keep walking through the house, all the way towards the back and outside to the backyard.

A man points us towards Donna and Lily Shoemarker, the daughters of the man we had seen on a metal table only moments before, who are standing near two people whom I can only assume is a friend or family member.

“You must be Donna, right?” Dean greets the eldest daughter as we approach the group of people.

“Yeah.” She answers sadly brushing her short brunette hair out of her face.

“Hi, uh—we're really sorry.” Sam says.

“Thank you.” She replies, and I know she must have heard that same phrase of ‘i’m sorry’ and must have answered the same ‘thank you’ over and over to each person here. As if the death of her father hadn’t broken what’s inside her enough.

“I'm Sam, this is Dean, and that’s Y/N. We worked with your dad.” He explains.

She looks at one of the adults near her and then back at us, “You did?” And I feel bad for lying to her about this to give her a connection to her father that had never existed.

“Yeah. This whole thing. I mean, a stroke.” Dean goes on.

“I don't think she really wants to talk about this right now” One of the men with her say, stepping in.

“It's okay. I'm okay.” Donna says, with a sharp nod.

“Were there any symptoms? Dizziness? Migraines?” Dean asks, listing out various options.

“No.” She says simply.

Lily, the youngest daughter, turns around, “That's because it wasn't a stroke.”

“Lily, don’t say that.” Donna snaps.

“What?” Sam asks.

“I'm sorry, she's just upset.” Donna explains.

“No, it happened because of me.” Lily speaks up.

“Sweetie, it didn't.” Donna tries to convince.

“Oh Lily”, I say sadly crouching down to be closer to her eye level, “What makes you think that?” I knew what it felt like to blame yourself for someone else’s death, especially your parents, especially when it happens twice and you're too young to understand why this would happen to you. I feel the eyes of the people around me bore into me, especially from the brothers behind me.

“Right before he died, I said it.” Lily answers.

“Said what?” I ask her.

“Bloody Mary, three times in the bathroom mirror.” She explains, pausing, “She took his eyes, that's what she does.” My eyes go wide, not exactly expecting that answer.

“That's not why Dad died. This isn't your fault.” Donna reasons.

“I think your sister's right, Lily. There's no way it could have been Bloody Mary. Your dad didn't say it, did he?” Dean offers, giving the kid some logic to combat what she believes.

“No, I don't think so.” Lily answers. But I know it will take her years to really believe it wasn’t her fault, if ever.

Saying ‘bye’ to the grief rickened family we head back inside the house, but instead of truly leaving we sneak upstairs, approaching the bathroom.

Sam pushes the door open, dried blood stained to the white tiled floor, “The Bloody Mary legend...Dad ever find any evidence that it was a real thing?”

“Not that I know of.” Dean answers, him and I trailing in after Sam who stoops to the floor touching the dried blood, “I mean, everywhere else all over the country, kids will play Bloody Mary, and as far as we know, nobody dies from it.”

I grimace, why would he touch the blood?

“Yeah, well, maybe everywhere it's just a story, but here it's actually happening.” Dean offers.

“The place where the legend began?” Sam asks and we both shrug, Dean opening the medicine cabinet.

“But according to the legend, the person who says B—“ Sam looks at the medicine cabinet mirror, it now facing him, he closes it before continuing, “The person who says you know what gets it. But here—“

“Mr.Shoemaker gets it instead” I finish his sentence.

“Right.”

“Never heard anything like that before. Still, the guy did die right in front of the mirror, and the daughter's right. The way the legend goes, you know who scratches your eyes out.” Dean adds.

“It's worth checking in to.” Sam concludes, as we leave the bathroom.

“What are you doing up here?” A blonde woman stops us, the same woman who was comforting the daughters outside.

“We—we, had to go to the bathroom.” Dean lies, poorly, because it makes perfect sense for three people to be using a private bathroom all at once.

“Who are you?” She asks us, naturally not accepting the poorly down lie.

“Like we said downstairs, we worked with Donna's dad.” Dean confirms.

“He was a day trader or something. He worked by himself.” She counters, and we should really start researching these people before we make up lies of how we know them.

Dean tries to cover, “No, I know, I meant—“

“And all those weird questions downstairs, what was that? So you tell me what's going on, or I start screaming.” She tells us, leaving no more room for any nonsense.

“All right, all right. We think something happened to Donna's dad.” Sam begins.

“Yeah, a stroke.” She answers.

“But it isn’t a typical sign of stroke, it might be something else.” I say softly, ashamed for suggesting such a thing to someone who has no knowledge of our world. These people are going through so much the last thing they need is some random people questioning what they know, I wouldn’t blame her if she did scream.

“Like what?” She scoffs, crossing her arms in front of her.

Sam explains this time probably sensing my unease with all this, “Honestly? We don't know yet. But we don't want it to happen to anyone else. That's the truth.”

Dean tilts his head, “So, if you're gonna scream, go right ahead.” My eyes widened, snapping to look at him, and suddenly that unease I felt vanished, replaced by a burning hot feeling that rushed through my veins and brought a flush to my face. I gulped, trying to push down the feeling a simple sentence that wasn’t even directed towards me made me feel. The cockiness it held as well as the allowance in his voice…it shouldn’t have affected me, and really shouldn’t have created a burning-longing in my gut.

“Who are you, cops?” The woman questions us, but my eyes haven’t left Dean as if he was light and I a moth.

I catch Sam and Dean looking at each other, speaking without words, in my peripheral vision. “Something like that” Dean answers.

It’s then that Dean must have felt my gaze on him, my lips slightly agape as I looked at him through my lashes. His attention turned to me as Sam continued the conversation that I had long blanked out of. Dean looked me over, eyes trailing over my very being, only worsening the burning I had felt within. His eyes met mine again giving me that devilish smirk of his, I swallowed again my eyes falling to his lips.

Sam clears his throat, nudging his brothers hard enough that he knocks into me slightly. Effectively catching our attention.

“Let’s go” He tells us, the woman still in front of us this time her attention to a small piece of white paper that I assume has some sort of contact information on it.

“All right, say Bloody Mary really is haunting this town. There's gonna be some sort of proof—Like a local woman who died nasty.” Dean begins as we walk into the oddly dark library, the stale smell of cleaning products surrounding us.

“Yeah but Blood Mary is a widespread legend with tons of versions of who she actually is, with no clear answer. There’s the mutilated bride, a spirit conjured to tell the future, a witch, and a whole lot more” I answer.

“All right so what are we supposed to be looking for?” Dean asks.

“Well in every version's got a few things in common. It's always a woman named Mary, and she always dies right in front of a mirror. So we've gotta search local newspapers—public records as far back as they go. See if we can find a Mary who fits the bill.” Sam adds, answering.

“Well that sounds annoying” Dean admits.

“No it won't be so bad, as long as we…” Sam trails off looking over to the table lined with computers all that say ‘Out of Order’, he chuckles “I take it back. This will be very annoying.”

We quickly turned around, heading back to the motel we were staying at to do our research there. Dean sat leaning with his head on his hand on the small table in the room on his brother's laptop. The younger brother in question had fallen asleep on one of the beds, the rustling of the sheets giving away the fact he was tossing and turning. I however sat crisscrossed on the other bed Deans to be specific, not like he cared anyways, researching on my laptop trying to find any relevant info on a Mary in this town or deaths relating to mirrors.

“Why'd you let me fall asleep?” Sam suddenly speaks up, voice evident with sleep.

“Cause I'm an awesome brother” Dean scoffs, he’d never admit it was really because Sam hadn’t been able to sleep or at least sleep long for the last couple of weeks.

“And what’s your excuse Y/N?” Sam questions me, leaning on his side with one arm propped up.

“You were sleepy!” I admit simply, smiling at him. He rolls his eyes, huffing a laugh.

“So what did you dream about?” Dean asks him, though what he was really asking was ‘did you have another nightmare?’

“Lollipops and candy canes.” He answers sarcastically. So sassy and for what?

“Yum” I reply, my eyes going back to my laptop.

“Did you find anything?” Sam asks us.

“Oh besides a whole new level of frustration?” Dean huffs, making Sam sit up, “No. We’ve looked at everything. A few local women, a Laura and a Catherine committed suicide in front of a mirror, and a giant mirror fell on a guy named Dave, but uh, no Mary.”

Sam falls back on the bed, the crisp sheets making a ‘whoosh’ noise beneath him, “Maybe we just haven't found it yet.”

“Thing is, there’s also been no strange deaths in the area, no other eyeball bleeding. Nothing. Which you know is good in hindsight but not quite helpful for us.” I explain.

Dean adds on, “Whatever's happening here, maybe it just ain't Mary.”

Almost as if on cue Sam’s phone rings, he answers, still laying down. “Hello?”

Charlie, the blonde woman who questioned us before, sat on the park bench slightly hunched. I sat next to her to offer some comfort, while Dean sat on the back on the bench, his leg nearly brushing my back.

“And they found her on the bathroom floor. And her—her eyes. They were gone.” Charlie nearly sobbed, having explained everything that happened with her friend Jill.

Jill, who had wanted to tease the blonde women about believing in such a legend, saying the name in the mirror and winding up dead. Her death being in the same manner as Mr. Shoemaker.

“I'm sorry.” Sam answered, eyebrows scrunched together.

“And she said it. I heard her say it. But it couldn't be because of that. I'm insane, right?” She whimpered, using the back of her hands to clear the wetness from her cheeks.

“You aren’t insane” I tell her clearly.

“Oh God, that makes me feel so much worse.” She whines and I try to not let it hurt me, because she's griefing, even though it does.

“Look. We think something's happening here. Something that can't be explained” Sam explains. Dean adding, “And we're gonna stop it but we could use your help.”

Dean lifts me up again, this time to reach an elevated first floor window rather than a fence. His hands sliding from tight around my hips, to brushing down my thighs as he lifts me in reach of the window sill. The window wasn’t that high to reach in the first place but with my height, amidtely being shorter than both the boys, it wasn’t exactly comfortable or super easy to reach the window and pull myself up and in.

My hands grasp the cold white window sill, my rings clinking against the surface as I pull my body up. I swiftly slide my hips sideways making my butt land on the sill, in the same sort of movements you would use when you lift yourself out of a pool.

I move my legs inside the carpeted room, ducking slightly as to not hit my head on the open window. The room belonged to Jill, and as my feet hit the soft gray carpet I officially feel the disgust of intrusion creep up on me.

I slide off the windowsill moving into the room more, Sam quickly taking my place near the window to pick up the duffle Dean threw up at him. He catches it, putting it on the bed and immediately digging through it.

“So what did you tell Jill’s mom?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, the uncomfortability of being in someone’s bedroom let alone a dead girls bedroom crawling up my skin and in my bones.

“Just that I needed some time alone with Jill's pictures and things.” Charlie answers looking between us and the door nervously. Dean climbs through the window shutting the curtain behind and Sam pulls something out of the bag. “I hate lying to her” Charlie adds.

“Trust us, this is for the greater good. Hit the lights” Dean orders.

She goes over to the lights, “”What are you guys looking for?

“We'll let you know as soon as we find it.” Dean hums.

Sam hands him a camcorder on and ready, the object he got from the duffel, “Hey, night vision.” He recalls prompting the older brother to do so, his face scrunched with focus as he finds the button.

“Perfect.” Sam smiles.

The little screen of the camcorder is facing Dean, in a ‘selfie’ like mode, “Do I look like Paris Hilton?” He smiles.

I laugh, slapping a hand to his upper arm on instinct, “Sure you do, baby” I joke, the pet name not something I ever use slipping from my tongue before I could realize. His head turns to give me an amused and smug smirk. In his distractment Sam takes the camera back, going over to the closet door filming around the mirror.

“So I don't get it. I mean...the first victim didn't summon Mary, and the second victim did. How's she choosing them?” Sam asks out loud.

“Beats me.” Dean answers, focusing back on the situation at hand. “I want to know why Jill said it in the first place.”

“It was just a joke.” Charlie reasons.

“Yeah well somebody's gonna say it again, it's just a matter of time.” Dean replies.

Sam wandered into the bathroom now, looking at the mirror there. “Hey!” He calls out, getting us to turn and look at him. “There's a black light in the trunk, right?”

Dean immediately went off to go get it coming back rather swiftly, just as Sam placed the mirror on Jill’s bed laying it upside down after having carried it from the bathroom. With the black light now in hand, he peels off the brown paper that’s on the back of the mirror, shining the purple light on its back revealing a handprint and the name ‘Gary Bryman.’

“Gary Bryman?” Charlie reads out loud both as an acknowledgment and also a question.

“Do you know who that is?” I ask her.

“No.” She answers simply.

Back on the bench, in nearly the same positions, Sam recalls his findings. “So, Gary Bryman was an 8-year-old boy. Two years ago he was killed in a hit and run. The car was described as a black Toyota Camry. But nobody got the plates or saw the driver.”

“Oh my God.” Charlie gasps, horror in her eyes as she covers her mouth.

“What?” I ask the question we’re all thinking.

“Jill drove that car” She answers. Without looking for confirmation I know the boy's eyes are wide too, but there’s no room for the talking that comes after shock.

“We need to get back to your friend Donna’s house.

Somehow, with the help of Charlie, we convinced our way into Donna’s house back up to the bathroom we were in only hours before.

Hunched over the mirror with the black light, our suspicions were correct. There’s a handprint, one I have to say looks like the one in Jill’s bathroom, but I'm no criminologist. This time the name ‘Linda Shoemaker’ is written on it.

We all look at each other, knowing it’s likely that Steven killed his wife hence why Bloody Mary went for him and not the young girl who chanted her name. But the only way to have any idea of this theory is correct is to ask the brunette teenager downstairs.

“Why are you asking me this?” Donna asks us.

“I’m really sorry, Donna, but this is important.” I try to explain, but I know it won’t make sense to her. I mean we are total strangers asking her uncomfortable questions about her dead mother.

“Yeah. Linda's my mom okay? She overdosed on sleeping pills, it was an accident, and that's it.” She fumes, eyebrows scrunched together in fury, “I think you should leave.”

“Now Donna, just listen.” Dean reaches a hand up, as if to motion ‘calm down.’ But it doesn't work. Teary eyed and a little red in the face she yells, “Get out of my house!” Swiftly she runs up the stairs, not giving us another option.

“Oh my God. Do you really think her dad could've killed her mom?” Charlie asks, finally picking up on our theory.

“Maybe.” Sam shrugs.

“I think I should stick around” Charlie announces, referring to staying with Donna, which is probably a good idea.

“All right. Whatever you do, don't—“ Dean tries to warn getting cut off, “Believe me, I won't say it.”

The crisp smell of old books and, oddly, cinnamon fill my nose as I take a deep breath, flexing my hand as I work out the cramping from writing a little too intensely in my small journal.

Dean sits next to me on the cold metal chairs in the library we decided to research in (different to the original one we were at), he’s typing away on the clunky computer the library has. Sam’s staring off at a bulletin board behind us with all sorts of things on it.

“Wait, wait, wait, you're doing a nationwide search?” He asks Dean, alerting us of him coming back to his seat on the other side of his brother.

“Yep. The NCIC, the FBI database—at this point any Mary who died in front of a mirror is good enough for me.” Dean answers.

“But if she's haunting the town, she should have died in the town.” Sam points out.

“I'm telling you there's nothing local, I've checked. So unless you got a better idea—“ Dean explains and as much as I love him I cut him off.

“Well, Mary’s victims have a pattern, which I know you guys already know so I'll just cut to the good part. Both victims had secrets relating to where people died and, here’s the good part, there’s a lot of folklore on mirrors, specifically that mirrors are a reflection of your soul. And with that your secrets and lies are revealed to the mirror.

Fun Fact! It was the Romans who believed that the soul would regenerate every seven years, so if you broke a mirror then you’d have to wait seven years until your soul was cleansed of the bad luck and misfortune.

And while I have more fun facts about mirrors I will end it there.” I smiled, satisfied with my information vomit as well as my fun fact because fun facts are wonderful.

Both boys look at me strangely, a mix of confusion and what I think is amazement (they should be amazed cause that was a really great fun fact). Dean seems to shake it off, “Right. So if you've got a secret, I mean like a really nasty one where someone died, then Mary sees it, and punishes you for it.”

Sam adding, “Whether you're the one that summoned her or not.”

“Correcto!” I answer, and by correct I mean that’s what I was thinking for our working theory.

“Then take a look at this.” Dean announces, clicking a few buttons on the computer before leaning over to the nearby printer, pulling out and handing us the paper. It’s a picture of a woman lying by a mirror in a puddle of blood. He prints out another picture, this time of a handprint and the letters “Tre.”

“Looks like the same handprint.” Sam points out and I nod in agreement.

“Her name was Mary Worthington—an unsolved murder in Fort Wayne, Indiana.”

“I was on the job for 35 years-detective for most of that. Now everybody packs it in with a few loose ends, but the Mary Worthington murder—that one still gets me.” The detective states, unfortunately I immediately forgot his name. It's not the nicest thing to happen but I was also really focused on his country accent that’s just a little too funny.

“What exactly happened?” Dean asked, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees.

“You boys and girl said you were reporters?” Mr. Detective questioned.

“We know Mary was 19, lived by herself. We know she won a few local beauty contests, dreamt of getting out of Indiana, being an actress. And we know the night of March 29th someone broke into her apartment and murdered her, cut out her eyes with a knife.” Sam recalls the gruesome story.

“That's right.” He confirms.

“See sir, when we asked you what happened, we wanted to know what you think happened.” Sam clarifies for him, somewhere between a curious and condescending tone.

Mr. Detective eyes us over as if he’s contemplating something. He spins his wheely chair around swiftly getting up and going to a large file cabinet. “Technically I'm not supposed to have a copy of this” He huffs, pulling out a file and then a picture, the same picture Dean had already found on the computer. “Now see that there? T-R-E?” Detective reads out, even though unbeknownst to him it’s old news to us.

“Yeah” Dean answers.

“I think Mary was trying to spell out the name of her killer.” He theorizes.

“Do you know who it was, or any theories?” I ask, trying to get any sort of new answers.

“Not for sure. But there was a local man, a surgeon-Trevor Sampson.” He pulls out another photo, this time of this Trevor guy, he has an oval face with curly short hair definitely on the darker side but I can’t say exactly what color due to the black and white photo. He’s also wearing some sunglasses.

“And I think he cut her up good.” He finishes, his accent thick.

“Why do you think it’s him?” I question further.

“Her diary mentioned a man that she was seeing. She called him by his initial, ‘T’. Well, her last entry, she was gonna tell ‘T’'s wife about their affair.” He answers, and for a detective that truly means nothing.

“No offense but how does that directly correlate to Sampson… I mean there’s other people with the initial ‘T’ right?” I question him again, hoping it doesn't offend the man.

“It's hard to say, but the way her eyes were cut out...it was almost professional.” He explains.

“But you could never prove it?” Dean asks, chiming in.

“No. No prints, no witnesses. He was meticulous.” Mr. Detective nods.

“Is he still alive?” Dean follows up.

“Nope.” He sighs, sitting down. “If you ask me, Mary spent her last living moments trying to expose this guy's secret. But she never could.”

“Where's she buried?” Sam asks this time.

“She wasn't. She was cremated” He answers. No digging up bodies for us today.

“What about that mirror”, Dean nods towards the one in the photo, “It's not in some evidence lockup somewhere is it?”

“Ah, no. It was returned to Mary's family a long time ago.” He explains, leaning back in his chair.

“You have the names of her family by any chance?”

We drive down the roads, the sun setting behind us. Sam’s call dictates where we go, either to whatever location he gives us or back to the motel.

“Oh really? Ah that's too bad Mr. Worthington. I would have paid a lot for that mirror. Okay, well maybe next time. All right, thanks.” Sam hangs up, pocketing his phone.

“So?” Dean asks.

“So that was Mary's brother. The mirror was in the family for years, until he sold it one week ago to a store called Estate Antiques. A store in Toledo.” Sam stated.

“So wherever the mirror goes, that's where Mary goes?” Dean raises.

“Her spirit's definitely tied up with it somehow.” Sam simply puts it.

“Isn't there an old superstition that says mirrors can capture spirits?” Dean asks.

“Yeah! People would cover up the mirror when someone died so that their spirit/ soul wouldn’t get trapped.” I explain, happy to spew some more of my fun facts.

“So Mary dies in front of a mirror, and it draws in her spirit” Dean works through the facts.

“Yes! But I don’t know how she’s working through various mirrors” I admit.

“I don't know either, but if the mirror is the source, I say we find it and smash it.” Dean proposes.

“Yeah, I don't know, maybe.” Sam gets cut off by his own phone, “ Hello.” A look of concern washes over his face, becoming pale “Charlie?”

The motel room is colder, the rain outside causing that meek fact. Charlie’s sitting on Sam’s bed, her head on her knees, after we picked her up from school all terrified. All the curtains are drawn shut, all the mirrors and reflective surfaces are covered with sheets or turned aquas towards a wall or the floor there will be no bloody mary getting in here.

Sam sits next to Charlie, “Hey, hey it's ok. Hey, you can open up your eyes Charlie. It's okay, all right?” She looks up reluctantly and slowly, “Now listen. You're gonna stay right here on this bed, and you're not gonna look at glass, or anything else that has a reflection, okay? And as long as you do that, she cannot get you.”

“But I can't keep that up forever. I'm gonna die, aren't I?” Her voice wobbled, fresh tears running down her cheeks.

“No. No. Not anytime soon.” Sam comforts, but I don’t think it helps.

Dean sits on the bed too, “All right Charlie. We need to know what happened.”

“We were in the bathroom. Donna said it.” She answers simply, rocking herself slightly.

“That's not what we're talking about. Something happened, didn't it? In your life...a secret...where someone got hurt. Can you tell us about it?” Dean pushes.

She looks around uncomfortably, swallowing she begins, “I had this boyfriend. I loved him. But he kind of scared me too, you know?” She looks over at me for confirmation knowing without any previous conversation about it that I would understand. And she was right. It was as if bad boyfriends were sewed into the fabrics of being a woman, it would be a little strange if you hadn’t had one.

I nod and she continues, “And one night, at his house, we got in this fight. Then I broke up with him, and he got upset, and he said he needed me and he loved me, and he said "Charlie, if you walk out that door right now, I'm gonna kill myself." And you know what I said? I said "Go ahead." And I left. How could I say that? How could I leave him like that? I just...I didn't believe him, you know? I should have.” She cries harder, going back to her previous position.

I move towards her, Sam getting up to allow me to sit close to her. I hug her, holding her close despite her awkward position. “That’s not your fault” I told her simply, and I meant it too. She uncurls herself, quickly wrapping her arms around me and stuffing her face into my neck. I hold her tighter. “You did the right thing, leaving him” I mutter.

Dean huffs, gripping the steering wheel slightly tighter, “You were right back there Y/N, her boyfriend killing himself, that's not really Charlie's fault.”

“You guys should know as well as I do that spirits don't exactly see shades of gray. Charlie had a secret, someone died, that's good enough for Mary.” Sam reasons.

“I guess” Dean sighs.

“You know, I've been thinking. It might not be enough to just smash that mirror.” Sam suggests.

“Oh, what do you mean?” I ask with a tilt of my head.

“Well Mary's hard to pin down, right? I mean she moves around from mirror to mirror so who's to say that she's not just gonna keep hiding in them forever? So maybe we should try to pin her down, you know, summon her to her mirror and then smash it.” Sam explains.

“Well how do you know that's going to work?” Dean questions.

“I don't, not for sure.” Sam shrugs.

“Well who's gonna summon her?” Dean follows up.

“I will. She'll come after me.” Sam states as if it’s the most obvious answer and with no care for himself.

“You know what, that's it.” Dean nearly shouts, pulling the car over quickly and roughly making my body shift nearly knocking into the door.

“This is about Jessica, isn't it? You think that's your dirty little secret that you killed her somehow? Sam, this has got to stop, man. I mean, the nightmares and calling her name out in the middle of the night—it's gonna kill you.” Dean fumes, not quite yelling but also not quite talking.

“Now listen to me—It wasn't your fault. If you wanna blame something, then blame the thing that killed her. Or hell, why don't you take a swing at me? I mean I'm the one that dragged you away from her in the first place.”

“I don't blame you.” Sam answers plainly, almost in defeat

“Well you shouldn't blame yourself, because there's nothing you could've done.” Dean adds.

“I could've warned her.” Sam sighs, and the pain in his voice makes me want to cry.

“Sam…you couldn’t have known that would happen.” I chime in, though it doesn't quite feel like my place.

“And besides, all of this isn't a secret, I mean we know all about it. It's not gonna work with Mary anyway.” Dean exclaims.

“No you don't.” Sam states, no further explanation given.

“I don't what?” Dean asks.

“You don't know all about it. I haven't told you everything.” Sam shrugs.

“What are you talking about?” Dean questions, face full of confusion.

“Well it wouldn't really be a secret if I told you, would it?” He replied sassily.

Dean looks surprised, “No. I don't like it. It's not gonna happen, forget it.”

“Dean, that girl back there is going to die unless we do something about it. And you know what? Who knows how many more people are gonna die after that? Now we're doing this. You've got to let me do this.” But Sam doesn't get any answers, with a roll of his eyes Dean drives off. Conversation over.

Sam is trying to pick the lock on the shop's door, somehow without any word he became the designated lock picker. The dark oak door opens and all around the store are mirrors, mirrors of all shapes and sizes and varieties. Truly the worst place to be in this situation.

“Well...that's just great, '' Dean sighs, pulling out the photo of Mary’s corpse to look at the mirror, the one we’re looking for being a wooden frame. Not very helpful considering our location where there are countless mirrors that look exactly the same. “All right let's start looking.”

I nod in agreement handing both boys their crowbars. I shifted my baseball bat in my hand, there wasn’t a third crowbar and there was no reason for it anyways, a baseball bat is just as good at smashing.

We enter the dark store, flashlights on, splitting up we look for our specific mirror.

“Maybe they've already sold it.” Dean suggests, from some part of the store.

“I don't think so.” Sam says, stopping in his tracks. Dean and I walk over on either side of the taller man, Dean pulls out the picture again comparing the two. It’s our mirror.

“That's it.” Dean sighs, “You sure about this?”

Sam hands over his flashlight and sighs, “Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary.” He looks between the both of us, “Bloody Mary.”

A light shines through the store windows, illuminating the room.

“I'll go check that out. You guys stay here, be careful. Smash anything that moves.” Dean shuffles away.

I grip my bat tighter as a breath that isn’t mine nor Sam’s surrounds us. He turns around quickly but I keep my back towards him, “Nothing?” I ask and he hums in confirmation.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Mary in one of the mirrors, I step forward swinging my bat back and then forward hard. The glass shatters falling to the floor around my feet. Then Sam hits a mirror behind me, before swiftly turning back to her mirror.

“Come on. Come into this one.” He mutters underneath his breath.

He tilts his head watching his regeneration weirdly when suddenly he starts breathing heavily grabbing at his chest.

“Sam!” I shout, grabbing his arm. His eyes begin to bleed, blood trickling down his cheeks. He drops his crowbar, the metal clinking against the floor loudly.

“It's your fault. You killed her. You killed Jessica.” A voice rings out, one that sounds like Sam’s though I know it’s not him speaking. I help him to the floor carefully as he grabs his chest harder.

“You never told her the truth—who you really were. But it's more than that, isn't it?” The voice fumes.

I get up leaving Sam to the floor, “That’s enough of you” I mutter, gripping my baseball bat tight. I hit her mirror, the glass shatters around me.

I hear Sam take a deep breath in, when I look down at him he’s no longer holding his chest. He holds a thumb up to me, weakly.

But for some reason the voice didn’t stop, Mary was no longer hurting Sam but her accusations wouldn’t stop.

“Those nightmares you've been having of Jessica dying, screaming, burning—You had them for days before she died. Didn't you!?! You were so desperate to ignore them, to believe they were just dreams. How could you ignore them like that? How could you leave her alone to die!?! You dreamt it would happen!!!”

I smash three more mirrors, anything to get it to stop by it doesn't.

“SAM, SAMMY!” Dean shouts, rushing into the room and crouching down to his brother.

“It's Sam” He answers meekly.

Dean holds onto his brother's face gently, eyeing his face and the blood on it, “God, are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah.” Sam replies, a little unsure though considering the circumstances I get it.

“Come on, come on.” He pulls Sam up, bringing his arm around his neck with a nod of his head towards the door. I follow the boys towards the exit.

A sudden crunching noise forces us to turn around. Mary crawls out of the frame of her mirror, her long black hair covering her face, she walks over the broken glass with no care, her head tilting to the side as she crawls towards us. Her dark nearly black eyes bore into us, somehow she forces us to the floor.

My chest feels tight as if someone was squeezing my heart, I try to crawl backwards on my hands like a crab walk when a sharp pain surges through my hand followed by my eyes. I bring my hand in front of me, a large slash runs through my palm, a piece of glass sticking out of it. The ache in my eyes I know is not caused by glass but by Mary, I reach my gold hand up to my cheek blood trickling down my face. I suck in a breath, the pain not helping the already pain I was feeling. I look over to the boys on the left of me nearly on top of each other as blood runs down both their cheeks.

Mary stands approaching us with a head tilt and a limp. I grumble holding up a shaky hand, waving my hand once, slowly, making long mirrors form in a line in front of Mary acting as a wall between us.

“You killed them! All those people! You killed them!” A female voice cried out, Mary’s voice.

She looks at her reflections scared, when she begins to choke. She grabs on to her throat and her chest, crumbling down to the ground she shrieks, turning to a puddle of blood

With another wave of my hand the wall of mirrors shatters, glass falling to the floor loudly.

“Hey Y/N?”

“Yeah?” I hum feeling a little defeated.

“This has got to be like...what? 600 years of bad luck?” He asks me and I can’t help the big smile that falls on my face.

“Mmm I can’t wait” I laugh, the sarcastic comment coming to me with ease.

The sun rises in front of us, gleaming on the Impala. Our faves are cleaned up, ridden of blood and the event that unfolded. The only proof of it happening being my hand that’s carefully wrapped in white gauze, the glass now out and the cut cleaned.

Charlie sits next to me in the back seat as we pull up to her house, it's odd having someone else back here with me.

“So this is really over?” She asks us, her eyes puffy from her night of crying.

Dean looks at her through the rearview mirror, nodding, “Yeah, it's over.”

“Thank you.” She says, Dean reaching back to shake her hand. She turns to me next, arms open in a hug. I close the gap between us and give her a good squeeze.

She smiles a little sadly at me, getting out of the car.

“Charlie?” Sam calls out, stopping the woman in her tracks. She turns around, “Your boyfriend's death...you really should try to forgive yourself. No matter what you did, you probably couldn't have stopped it. Sometimes bad things just happen.”

She smiles faintly, turning back around to go into her house.

Dean hits his brother's arm gently, “That's good advice.”

We drive off the car falling silent for a beat before Dean talks again, “Hey Sam?”

“Yeah?” He answers.

“Now that this is all over, I want you to tell me what that secret is.” Dean tells him, looking between him and the road.

“Look...you're my brother and I'd die for you, but there are some things I need to keep to myself.” He admits with a sigh, looking out the window.

The car falls silent again.

Healing isn’t easy. It's not something you can put a bandaid on and expect to be fine, and maybe all that Sam shared will be enough for now but that’s not something we can gauge.

That is times doing, and time isn’t something we can control.

God knows i’ve tried.

[welcometothejianghu]

Welcome to another round of W2 Tells You What You Should See, where W2 (me) tries to sell you (you) on something you should be watching. Today's choice: สามเราต้องรอด / 3 Will Be Free.

3 Will Be Free is a 2019 bisexual Thai thriller about a complicated and extremely sexy trio on the run because they've been accused of some crimes they mildly to moderately very much did commit.

If you love an earnest and often frankly absurd revenge drama with smokin' hot people from across the gender spectrum who like to kiss other people from across the gender spectrum, then strap in, buddy, because this is just what a certain kind of doctor ordered. It's a blockbuster concept on a street-food budget. Its greatest joy is finding flimsy excuses to take off its male characters' shirts.

One of the best things the show has going for it is that it's a relatively quick bite -- ten fast-paced, 50-minute episodes, long enough to tell the story, but short enough that it doesn't overstay its welcome. If I've caught your attention, keep on reading for a somewhat brief five reasons you might have a good time here.

1. Hope you're horny...ish

I feel this is obvious but still worth saying: All three of the main characters are stupidly hot. They are, left to right in the photo below, a very tall bisexual boy, a fairly short ostensibly straight girl, and a regular-sized gay boy. Two of them are sex workers who know exactly how sexy they are, and the third is a complete virgin.

The tall boy is Neo, a sexy club dancer whose initial character brief was clearly "bisexual Magic Mike." The girl in the middle is Miw, a sexy club host who is a bitch and I love her so much. The gay boy in glasses is Shin, a sexy art weenie who has disappointed his mafioso father for many reasons (though being gay is not among them!).

And yes, they all hook up. I know sometimes with me, it's hard to tell because I talk about things like they're textually gay when they aren't actually, but these three hook up canonically, onscreen, and it's hot.

And yet -- and this is going to sound so weird, but go with me on it -- it's not very salacious, as horniness goes. Like, someone's pretty much always sitting there consumed by lust, but onscreen you don't get to see as much as a butt crack. It's kind of PG-13 horniness, perfect for people who are cool with the idea of sex, but not into seeing it. It's basically the radio edit of a much steamier show. You could have aired this on USA in the '90s, right after Silk Stalkings, and it would have fit right in. It's Kidz Bop Kinnporsche.

I should note that I don't think the show's choice of slightly coy tone is necessarily a good or a bad thing. It is, however, something you should know about before going in, in part because the promotional material definitely implies something far pornier than what you're actually going to get out of watching it. But if you like looking at sexy people and then having imagination adventures about the parts you didn't get to see, this is a can't-miss experience.

2. Mae, my beloved

Mae has done exactly one thing wrong in her life, and that is her hairstyle. Your face was not made for those bangs, baby, to say nothing of whatever you think you're doing with that little topknot. Grow those out, brush it all back, and it'll be perfect.

Mae has the most complex character arc of anyone in this series. When you meet her, she's a mild-mannered waitress saving up for bottom surgery and dating a kind and loving thug who's going to do one more job before he gets out of the thug game for good, so you know that's going to go real well for her.

I love that the show knows exactly how loveable she is. Two different hot guys fall for her, and you know exactly why!

3 Will Be Free has some incredible moments of tonal mismatch, where the fairly uncomplicated action narrative of the main getaway plot suddenly slips and reveals something almost profound. My wife made the very astute comment that whenever one of Mae's scenes starts, it's like the show has cut away from Fun Action Television Time! to a (slightly less bizarre) season of Fargo. The moments and conversations she has with her boys are intense and often heartbreaking, which is a big part of one of the unexpected features of the show...

3. When it's good it's weirdly great

It is at this point I am going to talk about episode 5.

This episode kind of knocked me on my ass. It's almost like they ported it over from a different, better show. It slows down and does some backstory for Neo and Shin, which means that we get a long stretch where no one is shooting or fleeing or doing crime. It's just two people getting their footing around one another while posing nude for an art class, semi-crashing a bachelorette party, running into old flames at a restaurant, and playing badminton.

And it is the episode that, hands-down, gets the best acting out of those two goobers.

They are not bad actors! They are actually quite good at their craft! I've never seen them in anything else, but people who have seem to enjoy their work! It's just that this drama is, by and large ... well, I'm not going to call it badly written, especially since I'm consuming it via somewhat roughly translated subtitles, which puts me in no place to judge. It's just not especially meaty, as far as the material goes. It's mostly lot of panic! and bad feelings! and misunderstandings! that add up to some artificially melodramatic moments.

Here, though, the drama demonstrates its ability to build some great dynamics between its characters, not just for a single scene, but for a whole episode. The boys get some room to just roll around in their characters, and I more than slightly suspect they got a chance to do some ad-libbing too. Nothing even really happens in the episode! And yet it makes you feel like everything that does happen matters.

When I got to this episode, my ears perked up! I was like, wait, is this show going to be Actually Good from now on? Am I going to have to start taking this junk-food series seriously? ...Well, no. As soon as this episode was over, the show settled back into what it had been before -- which, I hope I've made clear, is a whole lot of fun! But high-quality television, it ain't.

I joked at first that this episode must have been done by the second unit. But no, what I suspect actually happened is that this episode is much more the director's real speed. That'd also explain why all the quiet, tense moments with Mae are so good! This drama is an action series made by someone who comes across as way more comfortable setting the camera down and letting two people talk.

Or, you know, make eyes at one another from across the room.

You could probably just watch episode 5 by itself. Minus some foreknowledge you need from the main story, this episode would actually stand pretty well on its own as a little oneshot BL piece. But if you did that, of course, you'd miss...

4. My Little Miw Miw

Shout out to the beautiful and incredibly named Mild Lapassalan Jiravechsoontornkul for hands-down being the best actor in the whole cast.

...Which, unfortunately, is a bit of damning by faint praise, considering a lot of the cast sounds like they learned to act from a career of being side characters in gay porn. So let me be clear: She does a fantasic job, and in doing so, she makes Miw a real, solid, loveable character -- and that's important, because Miw is kind of the glue that holds the whole series together.

Having a character who's a bitch is tough! You have to write her so she inhabits a space between so bitchy that you actually find her offputting and so toothless that she's not fun anymore. Miw is just right in that sweet spot where she's definitely cruel, but you can also tell that being recreationally mean is just her home language. A lot of the time when she's around her boys, it's kind of that drag-queen mean, the verbal equivalent of slapping someone's ass hard enough to sting. Neo knows exactly what this is like, so he can have fun with it.

Shin does not, though, which makes his and Miw's relationship fascinating. He does not have any natural immunity to play-fighting, so he reads it all as real fighting. She's ready for them to wrestle and chomp one another on their way to friendship, while he's certain that this means she hates him forever. This is the leg of the OT3 triangle that is the weakest -- something the show acknowledges in so many words -- but it's still absolutely necessary.

Miw is frankly inspirational. She has been kicked in the teeth by life so many times, and yet she's still going. She's got that perfect cockroach motherfucker vibe, the kind that lets you know the girl has Seen Some Shit. But she has put on her big-girl panties and decided to just fucking deal with it, like the legend she is.

I suppose I'm especially grateful for Miw because of the number of trio-based things I've seen where there are two fully fleshed-out male characters who have rich internal lives and reasons for what they do, and then there's The Girl. Even if The Girl is cool in theory, in practice she's at best an accessory to the men's stories. You could replace her with a sexy lamp that said sassy things occasionally, and mostly you wouldn't notice the difference.

Neither, though, is Miw some superhuman Strong Female Character whose job is to be smarter and stronger than the boys at things (until, of course, the boys become smarter and stronger than she is). She's as out of her depth as Shin and Neo are. She does not have some special training. She just knows that she wants to survive, and she's willing to do whatever is necessary. She's done it before.

She's also just stupidly gorgeous. What a babe.

5. Diversity Win! This Local Mafia Kingpin Supports the LGBTQ+ Community!

One of the things that weirdly warmed my heart about the show was how it never went for homophobia or transphobia as a cheap villain characteristic. It would've been easy to jump to making the bad guys extra-nasty about the queer and trans characters, and that's never what happens.

This is perhaps most prominent in the case of Mafia Dad, Shin's father. He's the major antagonist of the series and an objectively bad father in many respects, but he completely absorbs the idea that his son is gay without blinking. He's even weirdly supportive!

There is a point near the end where someone says, almost verbatim, '[character] is at the transgender clinic with his transgender girlfriend!' and Mafia Dad's reponse is, 'Oh, so he's trying to live a normal life now, huh?' And we just cracked up, because, yeah, to this show? Normal life.

It's not a world where homophobia and transphobia don't exist. The show acknowledges that legal and medical things can be rough for gay and trans people, and there are of course a couple outright jerkfaces here and there. But on the whole, the main conflicts in the show are fairly agnostic on categories of gender and sexuality. Sleeping with the wrong person gets you in trouble no matter what your genital situations are!

It's a great example, too, of how the answer to bad representation is more representation. Neo has two trans/gender non-conforming neighbors (pictured above) who are there as sexualized fujoshi comic relief. If they were all the trans representation you got, then yeah, that might not be great. But they're two of several! So because they're not bearing the burden of being the show's entire commentary on trans existence, they're allowed to live the truth that trans people can be just as annoying as cis people are.

This is not to say that the show is a perfect queer utopian fantasy. It's more than a little hung up on cishet ideals. For all it tries to be very LOVE IS LOVE! about things, it can't quite escape an understanding of the world that will allow queer and genderqueer variations on bodies and relationships, but only so far as they mimic and do not challenge the supremacy of cisheteronormative standards. The director is openly gay and makes other gay media, but even that's sometimes not enough to break out of the tyranny of "normal."

It's also not a perfect polyamorous utopian fantasy either. The ending takes a kind of hard left into pushing pair-bonded relationships the true ideal happily ever after. How you feel about this is going to depend a lot on how you feel about a certain character who gets introduced in the back half of the show. It doesn't sink the OT3 ship by any means, so you don't have to worry. But it does get in the way of it, and that's all I'm going to say about that.

If that's all going to frustrate you, then yeah, that's going to frustrate you. (It did me!) But if you can roll with the fact that it's trying (and it is!), you can be charmed by how it's getting there. (Also me!)

Ready to jump in?

This YouTube playlist has you covered! All of the episodes are broken into four parts each based on commercial breaks, which comes in handy if you ever don't have time to sit through a full episode.

You may notice the playlist is longer than what's needed to cover a mere ten episodes. That's because the last hundred videos on the playlist are clips, trailers, and reaction videos -- so if you want to get an even better sense of what the show is like, well, there you go! Beware of spoilers, of course, both in the clips and in the thumbnails.

I will be the first to admit that I am probably cutting this show a lot of slack because I am starved for actual onscreen ongoing bisexual representation, where it's not just a boy who makes out with a few girls, then falls for another boy and never goes un-gay. Is it my ideal bisexual polyamorous love story? Oh, heavens no. But it's what we've got, and what we've got is fortunately pretty darn fun.

They're free now!

[wolfofcelestia]

So I went through all the dub voices for both Sylus and Zayne

And here's how I'd rank them and my thoughts on each one

(Long and rambling post lmao)

Sylus:

Trad. CN > English > Japanese > Korean > Sim. CN

Ok listen, I don't really know the difference between the two CNs but I can understand Trad. CN a tiny bit more and holy shit what a difference between the two. Trad. CN sounds much more confident and stronger. He has the smugness that Eng and JP has. And while I usually go for the JP dub, Sylus's seiyuu just happens to be one I don't really like lol

If I actually understood Chinese (LMAO), Trad. CN Sylus could have probably won me over more but me disappointing my ancestors made sure I went with the doctor instead of the criminal adslkjgjchf

(Also he actually made a sound when he bit her hand so that's a plus lmao)

Korean Sylus sounds... soft but kind of mysterious I guess? He has an aura that a high ranking leader should have, minus the smugness and... the brashness that JP and ENG have? His voice is clean and polished but lacks an edge. It does sound nice, objectively, but considering the language barrier, it's a little hard for me to get into his voice

Japanese Sylus just sounds like Bubs GBF, I'm sorry. I can't be seduced by Bubs pls. But he has the smugness, arrogance, and confidence that you'd expect from Sylus, so objectively, it's a good fit for him. Just not for me lmao. If I didn't have a personal distaste for his voice, I'd probably put him at #2

Sim. CN Sylus just confuses me tbh. He doesn't sound like what I'd expect Sylus to sound like. He just sounds like some random guy. There's no forcefulness, no smugness, or arrogance. He's just. There.

English Sylus is (MIRACULOUSLY) my main Sylus... which I defaulted to because I can't be seduced by Bubs (lol) and because it's the only other language I can understand. I do have big criticisms about his voice, but he is starting to hit a few targets in me.

Yes, petnames and all. I feel like he's the type of guy to keep using them, ESPECIALLY if you get annoyed by them. But him using petnames for the person he likes also feels like an in-character power move. He won't call you by your name. Instead, he'd call you a name he chose for you

English Sylus does have the confidence, smugness, and arrogance that you'd expect from him, but he just... needs to speak faster and fix the weird inflections that make it sound like he's reading from a script

Zayne:

Japanese > Korean = Trad. CN > Sim. CN

(I already dunked on Eng Zayne enough today so I'm just not gonna include him here lmao. He just doesn't exist to me)

Ok so... Trad. CN Li Shen made me tear up fROM BEING SO FUCKING SOFT AND WHISPERY AAHHHHHH 😭😭😭😭. He's blindsided me about three times in such a short test period. He sounds so fucking comfy, I could curl up in his voice. He gets more flustered when you touch his dick too lmao

Yeah I'm sorry Lee Seoeon, I thought you were my only #2 but you're just gonna have to share that spot with this guy

If I actually understood Chinese more, I'd have like... two... husbands... Li Shen and Rei. So like. Li Shen x 4 and Rei x 4. I'd have... 8 husbands... who are all the same person 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

OG Li Shen sounds fine. I don't really have any strong feelings about him. He sounds like how he should sound and I really hear how SatoTaku incorporated his nuances into his portrayal of Rei. This Li Shen feels familiar mainly because of that. He's just the Chinese version of Rei

I could freely accept this version of him and consider him just Rei speaking Chinese... that's how familiar he is to me, but also... he feels a little more distant because of that language barrier

Lee Seoeon feels like he's constantly trying to seduce me uwu. The moment I switched to Korean and heard his voice, I just stopped breathing for a few seconds 😭😭 Sir, I have no idea what you're saying but if you'd like to take me home, I would not refuse adfasldkfj we could just stay in the office tho

Rei is undoubtedly my favourite for personal, sentimental reasons and because of his voice performance, of course. His voice is comforting, a breath of fresh air, and is the perfect amount of warmth and confidence. And when the situation calls for it, SatoTaku can put out absolute banger acting skills too

Li Shen(s) and Lee Seoeon are fine and all but Rei is my Rei 🥰

[bunbeeplays]

The Lemon Legacy: Generation 1, Chapter 137 - Life as Normal

It's time for a check up!

Doctor: Welcome back! Baby number three, huh?

Ophelia: Third pregnancy, but we did adopt a little boy since the last time we saw you.

Doctor: Oh, how wonderful. Are he, Gemma and Lulu excited for the new baby?

Ophelia: As excited as toddlers can be.

Doctor: Alright, there they are. One healthy baby. Do you want to know the sex?

Ophelia: We agreed we wanted this one to be a surprise.

Doctor: Okay. Everything looks normal, let me print off the sonogram.

Ophelia and Xander look at the monitor. Their household will be full after this, so they know they can't have any more kids after this little one. While pregnancy isn't exactly easy, Ophelia will be sure to treasure her last pregnancy, and this last addition to their family.

Lulu may be cheeky, but she's a girl of her word. The next time she has to go potty, she gets a grown-up and gives this potty training thing a fair shake. It's kind of weird she still doesn't have to take her pants off, but hey, if it makes her parents happy.

Since the baby will move into the nursery, Lulu is sharing Gemma's room now. Her mommy and daddy got her a new kitty cat nightlight, though, so she can't be too bitter.

As Ophelia's pregnancy progresses, she keeps taking care of herself, and the little life growing inside of her. She'll love her little one no matter what, but she thinks having another boy would be fun for Jaden.

This baby must be destined to roll the vegetarian trait, because Ophelia has been craving lots of veggies.

Ophelia: You love these flower spring rolls Daddy made us, don't you?

Xander: Maybe next time the kid can crave something with some protein in it. I'm starving.

Jaden, spring roll in hand, comes to join his sisters, who are babbling at each other in the living room.

Jaden: Whatcha talkin' about?

Gemma: I think the baby's gonna be a boy!

Lulu: I think it's a girl!

Gemma: What do you think it is, Jadey?

Jaden: I want the baby to be a girl.

Lulu: Really?

Gemma: But you're a boy! Don'tcha want another boy to play with?

Jaden: Not really.

Jaden played okay with boys, but he had more in common with girls. They liked playing fun stuff and they didn't wrestle as much.

Before Xander has to go to the bar, Mom and Dad end the last night of the second trimester by reading their little one a story.

Xander: It's so impressive how you can read while holding the book upside down.

Ophelia: Oh. Didn't even realize. Guess it's pregnancy brain.

Ophelia: So what food-themed nickname are you giving this kid?

Xander: I don't know what you're talking about.

Ophelia: Gemma's muffin, Jaden's short-stack, and Lulu's cupcake. It'd be weird if one kid didn't get one.

Xander: I have to wait 'til I see them.

Lulu did extra good with her potty training today, so Ophelia gives her a bubble bath as a treat. She doesn't really need a bath, but this kid loves playing in the water, so it proves to be a good incentive.

After drying Lulu off, Ophelia comes to check on Jaden, who changed himself into his pajamas.

Ophelia: Look at you, big boy. What's with the sad face?

Jaden: Gemma and Lulu came from your belly too, like this new baby?

Ophelia: Yes.

Jaden: But I didn't.

Jaden: I lived someplace else, 'fore you and Daddy were my Mommy and Daddy.

Ophelia nods. It had been so long since Jaden lived with Anna and Calvin, but she supposes he still remembers his days before the Lemons, even if it mostly seems like he's blocked that out.

Jaden: Do you like the new baby more than me? Cuz I didn't grow in your belly?

Ophelia: Of course not. There's lots of different ways to become a family. Sometimes you're born into them, and sometimes you find each other. We love you, your sisters and the new baby just the same.

Jaden seems to believe her.

Ophelia: Now how can I turn that frown upside down, huh?

Jaden: Story?

Ophelia: You've got it.

Ophelia's back is killing her, and she's so tired, but she'll do what she has to in order to show her little boy how loved he is, no matter what.

Gemma seems to have tucked herself in, the independent queen, but Lulu's still running around.

Ophelia: Hey, you, bedtime!

Lulu: Playtime!

Ophelia: No, no playtime. You played enough when you splashed all your bath water on me. Bed!

Ophelia: Will a story help make bedtime easier?

Lulu: Story!

While Jaden has his own struggles with being adopted, becoming a big sibling will be a new transition for Lulu, and Ophelia wants to make sure she knows she'll always be there for her. One more story won't kill her.

Right as Lulu starts to doze off, our light sleeper stumbles over.

Gemma: Story? Momma, I want a story!

Gemma is independent, Ophelia knows that, but it's still important to make time for her eldest child, so Ophelia tells one last story. She can sleep when the kids are grown.

All that work to get everyone in bed only for Lulu to wake up a couple hours later to go splash in the toilet. This kid, I swear.

[petercapaldi-press]

INTERVIEW/ARTICLE

Peter Capaldi: 'I had a sense of inferiority which went back to not being English'

Sun 12 Dec 2010 01.02 CET

Mariella Frostrup

The Thick of It star tells Mariella Frostrup about the Scottish psyche and the dangers of camels

I glance up from my newspaper to see a hit man striding towards me. Black coat, grey trousers, dark shades, short hair and the graveyard complexion of one who spends too long indoors cleaning his Colt. With winter sunlight reflecting on the black ebony and gilding of its 20s mobster interior, the one-time Wolseley car showroom, now a restaurant on London's Piccadilly, is the perfect setting for such a strike.

It's only metres from here that the Russian Alexander Litvinenko was fed his lethal polonium. I comfort myself with knowledge that I haven't said a public word about Germaine Greer, my own devoted adversary recently, so begin to wonder why this professional is making a beeline for my table.

At the last second, as a smile flickers across the granite countenance the meticulously attired apparition reveals himself as the gangly, translucent-skinned boy I encountered more than three decades ago. Back in the 80s the actor and director Peter Capaldi was briefly in a band. For reasons neither of us can today recall I was volunteered to take delivery, on a London street corner, of the Dreamboys debut single when it arrived from a pressing plant in France. Capaldi swept up at the appointed time and relieved me of the boxes; it marked the beginning of his London life and the beginning and end of our relationship.

It's the first thing he brings up when he's slipped out of his Armani killer coat and settled into a cosy corner among the cluster of small tables that face the restaurant's imposing revolving door. It's the area where on any given day you might find Nigella, Ian McEwan, Martin Amis, Richard Eyre and other high achievers, while in the further reaches of the huge restaurant lies social Siberia. "It was an act of incredible kindness for which I am eternally grateful," he enthuses returning to our first encounter, "and it was so glamorous because it was you. I showed up a dumb punk from Glasgow with this elegant creature waiting for me on a street corner!"

He casts himself as the Glaswegian ingénu and me as the city sophisticate but as I was barely off the ferry from Dublin myself I suspect an element of romantic licence has crept into his memory. Of course I've seen him on screen in the intervening years, most famously as the coolly aggressive, foul-mouthed spin doctor Malcolm Tucker in The Thick of It. Capaldi inhabits Tucker with an ease that's surprising for an actor previously known for hapless innocents, from his debut in 1983 in Bill Forsyth's Local Hero. It's the reason he's so grateful to the show's creator, who saw in him the potential for the steely-eyed, mallet-mannered Tucker. "The fantastic thing was that Armando Iannucci cast me in a role that nobody else would think of me in. Although until I'd reached that age life wouldn't have beaten me around enough. You develop a collection of scars that give you a bit more anger or bitterness or hardness, so suddenly I was able to deploy all that."

It was only a matter of time before someone picked the Wolseley for an OFM lunch, but I'm surprised it was Capaldi. He clearly doesn't have a favourite on the menu and is embarrassed when his request for steak brings tartare topped with a raw egg instead of the grilled rib eye he is expecting. I said I wouldn't mention it so apologies, but in retrospect his reluctance to make waves by rejecting the dish, despite horror at the plate of raw protein, struck me as telling. Like so many of his Scottish contemporaries, insecurity about class and perceived discrimination have caused problems along the way. He says he went through a particularly angry, disillusioned stage about a decade ago which ended with a huge fight during the stage run of The Judas Kiss with Liam Neeson and Tom Hollander. He won't name names.

"I felt very privileged to be there, very inferior and very intimidated by it all. I blamed other people for how badly I was doing. A lot of my faults were my own, but ultimately they came from a feeling of inferiority which went back to class or even to not being English."

It's a position he credits as shaping much of his earlier life and judging by the case of the raw steak, it still causes discomfort. "I was always admiring people who seemed to conduct themselves with ease in the world. Maybe that's a great gift to give your kids if you can do that. Because they can move through the world without neurosis, this anxiety about everything, which our own parents gave us."

People do occasionally rave about the food at the Wolseley and I've never had a bad meal there but I'd be lying if I said Capaldi and I paid much attention to what we were eating. The waiter, returning swiftly with the rib eye whispered conspiratorially that he'd nicked it from another table, "Do you think he really has?" Capaldi asks. I hate to disappoint him but say I suspect this restaurant's great skill is in making everyone feel that they'd go to such lengths especially for them. I ask him why he chose it. "I didn't, I thought you did?"

It seems he had initially tried for a spot he really does frequent, a tapas bar in north London that's beyond delicious. "Turns out they don't do lunch," he says ruefully, "so I was going to ask them if they'd open up especially for us. Then I thought that's a bit weird so someone took me to Scott's and I thought maybe there, but then Michael Parkinson picked that." I'm beginning to feel enormously guilty for the trouble I've caused. "In the end my agent suggested here and I thought, 'Yes, that should be nice!'" A reluctant interviewee, he's here because he's starring as one of the three kings in the BBC's Nativity this Christmas. "I read it and it was beautiful. You forget about that story, yet it's buried deep in our psyches. I got quite teary at the end".

I have a bypass valve for actors gushing about parts, even sensible ones like Capaldi, so I change the subject to his co-star. "I once rode a camel," I offer. "Horrid creatures."

He agrees: "They never stop spitting, farting, shitting, vomiting – and those big teeth. At least a horse you can come to some terms with the relationship but a camel's, like, get the fuck off me. This is not going to end happily."

The success of The Thick of It and the follow-up movie In the Loop has led him to hustle for work around the globe. He's just returned from LA where he went out for a drive with his agent who became so animated during a phone call that Capaldi presumed that the role of Scottie in Star Trek had come his way at the very least.

"He goes, 'OK, yeah we can be there in 10 minutes and I say, Where are we going? He says, 'Doctor Cohen, who's the best finger doctor in LA, is suddenly available. If I don't go now I'll never get another appointment.' So instead of trying to rattle the tin and get my career going I'm keeping my agent company in Dr Cohen's waiting room. It's full of old withered people and they're all old actors. At one point a guy comes out with a clipboard and announces somebody's name, and an old guy replies, 'Tony di Marco... in puyson.' I thought, well, this is my LA, this is right for me!"

We decline dessert, embrace coffee and talk about how Capaldi, still the jobbing actor after all these years, would like to be remembered. "I gave somebody a Bafta and came on after what Jonathan Ross joked was the coveted post-obituaries slot, 'Those we have loved'. I realised that if I died then they'd have to have a clip of Malcolm Tucker but they wouldn't have him swearing, there'd be maudlin music and with me saying... who knows. I don't care. I won't be here. The people who know me will remember me for other things, hopefully." OFM

Nativity will screened on BBC1 over four nights in Christmas week.

[knackfandomarchive]

Rambling Contexts Behind My Crossover Headcanons and Drabbles: Kaiju No. 8 X KNACK.

Well the funny part is I won't actually get to the story; I just found this dusty thing in my drafts and am emptying it. Too many stories in my brain...

This is basically a huge lump of headcanons and brief summaries for the game and anime, that might have been important if I got around to writing a crossover. I go over KNACK, then Kaiju Number Eight, then a small amount of crossover, so you can skip to the headings you want.

KNACK

Knack is an off-duty Superhero in his home dimension among humans. Participating in a dodgy military operation to kneecap the goblins in a racial conflict after they threatened to even-out the battlefield, Knack provided much of the manpower alongside (and against) Viktor Industries' army of robots. In an ego-driven turn of events, Knack's father-figure - Dr. Vargas - competed with Viktor to find an Artifact thought to revolutionize the field of relic energy, only to wind up releasing a dangerous entity that threatened to destroy the planet. An entity that Knack put in the dirt for the last time.

Knack himself is composed of "relics" - devices of simple external geometry made from metal and carved stone that also serve as an infinite power source (with the right tech), thought to have come from a lost civilization. He can grow in size by picking up these or similar items.

My storytelling has him at 2 years old chronologically, but he has super-learning. His emotional maturity isn't quite as fast, but it's hard to pin down. He is playful and quiet, a teacher's pet, but he can be hateful, putting on a show of a trash-talking action hero. His behavior toward others depends on who they are to him. Naturally, I enhanced his propensity for mimicry due to his age. My impression of his character may be wrong, but I can't see him any other way.

Interestingly - and I wrote this headcanon long before I was made aware of Kaiju No. 8 - Knack is also making good on a childhood promise of sorts, and he's been awfully successful at it. *malignant gleam*

Knack and Lucas had inadvertently transported themselves into the Kaiju No. 8 universe. More details on how it happened here.

One power Knack has now: the ability to create portals within anything shaped like a ring or doorway, connecting the KNACK and Kaiju Number 8 universes. I add some powers thematic to his character, as well as required secondary ones, e.g, voice amplification or self-applied minor gravity distortion, respectively. In canon, he often has powers as the plot demands, but I'm pretty conservative about it, I think.

His crazier abilities are canonically powered by Sunstones. A Shockwave that sends relics flying with a burst of energetic force that radiates outwards, knocking away foes and things and doing more damage than a normal punch. A Relic Storm that swirls around him to protect him, which doesn't have the same reach or damage (as far as I could tell) as the Shockwave, but allows him to move his position a short distance with a kind of invulnerability. And what is essentially a Relic Cannon, which lobs balls of relics at up to three or four targets to do massive damage. I give him a fourth ability sometime within his stay with Kaiju Number 8, which I can't put here because Long.

Dr. Vargas's (wife? Girlfriend?), Charlotte, who is herself an intellectual powerhouse, mothers Knack and Lucas at their home dimension. She would be keenly curious about Knack's newfound abilities, though somehow I have trouble picturing the Doctor doing the same (he often puts his ego above scientific discovery, so I question his love of the craft. I might ask around some folks for their impressions of him). Doc's friend - and Lucas's uncle - Ryder is often busy exploring. I am curious how he might react to the portal thing and what lies beyond.

Lucas is effectively Knack's adopted human brother to me. He is also featured in the screenshots above. I have him at 13 or so; he's a lot like Reno in that he's smart and quick to criticize his mentor, though Lucas's relationship with Dr. Vargas is often strained instead.

Kaiju Number Eight

It's an anime and also a manga.

32-year-old Kafka Hibino worked for Monster Sweepers, cleaning up Kaiju corpses after Japan's Anti-Kaiju Defense Force sprays their guts everywhere. Incidentally, his childhood friend is now-27-year-old Mina Ashiro, Captain of the Third Division of the Defense Force. Kafka had given up joining a long time ago. Reno Ichikawa, 18, appeared as a new co-worker, treating the job like a stepping stone to get experience for the entrance exams to the force, and later explained to Kafka that the age barrier had been raised to 33.

Within the hour that Kafka decided to give getting into the Force one last try, a small insectoid kaiju appeared, supposedly looking for him. It took advantage of his shock at its appearance and entered his body through his mouth, transforming him into a humanoid Kaiju. He can return to human form for the most part, but can't fully relinquish his powers, and his new terrifying visage can "slip out" if he's not careful. He is among the weakest humans and the strongest Kaiju.

I can't quite boil down Kafka's character either. I love the way the anime does him subbed as a very emotional character. His doubts feel real and relatable, and he has a fatherly sort of tendency, but he's also silly. Knack might be a bit of an actor, but I like Kafka more honest and vulnerable.

Reno is just too cute. He reminds me of Lucas a whole lot somehow. He did this whole show of rivalry or whatever but when it came right down to it he would never leave Kafka behind.

Crossover

Kafka had appointed himself as guardian of Knack and Lucas, which had inadvertently cast some suspicion in his direction, as the latter two had no papers to their names. Knack always wore a mascot costume to cover his metal tusks, stony face, and pointy ears. But Lucas couldn't hide his unusual proportions - long arms and large hands mainly - as he was otherwise fully human.

Lucas was quick to explain to Japan's Anti-Kaju Defense Force (which had an assistant question him privately) that he was an orphan - which was true - and that his records must have been destroyed. When asked how he was related to Kafka in any way, he struggled to come up with a good lie, feigning forgetfulness. He alleged that he must have met Kafka when he was too young to remember, and that he definitely believed Kafka had a familiar face (another lie). For most questions, Lucas couldn't properly answer, in the end summoning some bad memories to start the waterworks. To others, his outburst seemed reasonable for a thirteen-year-old boy who'd been through some things. Lucas always maintained that Kafka was a familiar friend (which was true only recently) and that he never made Lucas uncomfortable or unsafe (completely true). Ultimately, that conversation soothed most of the worries the Force had at the time.

Knack never spoke with anyone on the Force, no matter the question. He feigned distress when anyone touched his costume, and his small stature lent an extremely youthful impression. Aside from the long arms occasionally seeming too articulate, Knack could come off as an eccentric toddler, even using his mysterious powers to lighten the weight of his stone-and-metal body. He utterly refused to have his costume removed for a picture. And there was only so much the Defense Force could reasonably do with a presumably-traumatized kid.

[drivemysoul]

it's new years eve, and i am not okay (i promise)

this year has been extremely difficult for me. that's putting it lightly. this year has also gotten me closer than ever to lifelong dreams. that's downplaying it.

this year has been absolutely tumultuous, with some of the highest highs and lowest lows of my life. i broke up, broke free, broke through, and broke down this year. i lost people, i lost myself, i made new connections, and came into my own in a way that i could only have anticipated in my most far-fetched, wildest daydreams.

this year has been my most rocky, insurmountable experience since march 2021 (iykyk) - i'm very grateful i'm here.

i'd like a moment to please rewind to the moments that defined my year, to put you there with me in a way that i wish you could have been. these private moments, lived offline, that i found comfort in without outside validation.

i'm standing in a crowd at a my chemical romance concert, screaming until i thought my throat would bleed with a crowd of strangers, "i am not afraid to keep on living." and i'd made it. i turn to my friend, the girl who raped me the month before, the one that would lead me to a suicide attempt later in the year, and i earnestly tell her "i'm so glad i survived." this is a moment i've never even allowed myself to dream of, thinking it was impossible, but there i was, and there they were, and i wasn't afraid to keep on living. i had no idea what would happen next, but for that small moment, everything and nothing made sense in the most comforting, exhilarating way.

i'm laying in the bathtub at one in the morning, crying while my mother sits next to the bath with her back to me. i'm dizzy, nauseous, violently sobbing, and begging for her to kill me. i'm having another bad moment of some mystery illness that i've still not got an official diagnosis for, and i'm having a ptsd attack on top of that. my mother asks me if i had sex with the friend i went to the concert with. i swallow my pride, silently apologise to her, and tell her that she had sex with me while i was asleep. i'm still too ashamed to call it rape. that night, i sleep in my mother's bed, because she's been in mine and it feels suffocating, and she buys me a pregnancy test the next day.

i'm lying face-down, my fading denim shorts pulled just under my ass cheek, sweat dripping down my forehead, trying to distract myself from the intense ache in my arm and anxiously anticipating the next round of pain as a heavily-tattooed man lies that it's not going to hurt, and then a needle is stabbing me in the ass cheek hundreds of times per second, and i'm regretting skipping numbing cream. i just got a tattoo of those same lyrics i've loved for so long, i am not afraid to keep on living", and now i'm getting a tattoo of a ghost cow that was drawn by two strangers-quickly-turned-friends that i met the day of that very concert. it's the most spontaneous, stupid decision of my entire life, and something in me comes alive as soon as i feel the needle first hit my skin. i'm a grown adult, and i can control my body and life. i don't have to plan everything a decade in advance, worrying about making the "wrong" decision. the cow on my ass changed my life.

i'm lying on a bed in a doctor's office, my bleach-damaged red hair staining the white paper pulled over the pillow, and another man, this time not tattooed at all, is approaching me with another needle - this one doesn't contain ink, it's testosterone. it's my first and last shot, because i turn out to be allergic to it, and that destroys me, but it's the most defining moment of my transition so far, and the pure joy and hope and life i feel afterwards makes up for the fact my ass and thigh hurt so badly i cannot sit for four days.

i'm sitting in a hairdresser's chair, watching as the hairdresser i've trusted for three years takes clippers to my beloved emo hair. i pretend i'm not about to cry. my mother's making me shave my hair, she doesn't like the dye and - silently - she doesn't like that it's something i have control of. i watch m hair fall in clumps of the floor, it's damaged beyond salvation and shaving it was really the best solution anyway, but it's been eight months now and i still feel a deep sense of shame and hatred when i see myself without a wig.

i'm kneeling on the floor in a hastily pulled-together cosplay of saeki from bible black, my hands trembling, heart pounding, phone positioned precariously in the holder of my ring light that threatens to fall over at any moment. i'm about to do something i've entertained the idea of for around a year but talked myself out of - i wasn't attractive enough, i was too nerdy, i was too shy, it would ruin my life, my family would kill me. i'm about to film my first porn video. i don't know it then, but that video would change and save my life in the most beautiful, wild way, and i will be so thankful that i didn't give in to the voice in my head telling me i'm never good enough.

i'm giggling texting my friends a screenshot of something nice someone said about me - something so simple and so inherently poetic that it sets off some kind of realisation in my head that i'm still walking through the hazy cloud of. "that's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," i say, listening to everything has changed on repeat and imagining that he might have heard these lyrics and thought of me too. "you're crushing on him," my friend replies, then a few minutes later it's followed by a simple "tell him. right now." i spend a week debating with my friends if he could like me, then i decide i'm inherently unlovable and stupidly optimistic. "i care about him way too much to ever risk jeopardising a friendship over my unrequited feelings," i say, with taylor swift's red album playing non-stop for a week, as if her heartbreak and hope is meant to suddenly stop my fear of rejection. it's a nice and terrifying feeling, falling in love, as if i've stepped from an airplane and am desperately waiting for someone else to pull my parachute cord before i shatter against the ground when i land. i've contented myself to admire this feeling from afar, but the thought that i'd remind anyone of such a poetic new beginning - spring - thawed something in the ice-frozen heart i'd tried to protect, and i'm content to send messages in bottles while i daydream of the kind of bright, burning, red love that inspired the album i've found myself turning to lately.

and then, i'm waking up in a hospital bed. my throat feels like i've swallowed glass, my limbs all feel like concrete, my headache feels like i've slammed it against a wall for an hour straight, and black dots are dancing around my vision as i struggle to not throw up. i'm struck by a deep shame and guilt, then humiliation. i've survived. fuck. i didn't want this to happen. i look around at my mom and younger brother crying, at my mother standing in the corner of the room looking exhausted, at my friend curled up in a chair beside my bed clutching the side of the bed while she sobs that she shouldn't have left me alone for the night, and all i feel is self-loathing. then i stay in a ward, stripped of my phone - my only connection to people - and my dignity, and i cry. and i think. i make plans. i get out of the ward and, slowly, cautiously, check tumblr. i see a post from one of my friends, then i see tags and comments and asks from people all mourning me. i see people saying they wished we'd been friends, they wished they'd reached out, that they loved me, that they wished i was happier where i'd ended up. and i cry. then i search for one URL, one name, one person who i desperately hoped to hear from, almost more than anyone else combined. and the name never appears. and i cry. i tell myself i'm stupid, worthless and would've been better off dead. and i cry. and i don't stop crying. but i do prioritise those people who showed up. the people who sent me their love and well-wishes. the people who reached out. the people who noticed. the people who asked if i was okay, who did everything they could to check in somehow. and i vow those people are the ones that i will listen to, the voices I'll try to hear clearly over the own voice in my head screaming my little self-worth and fear of inadequacy and rejection will overpower any love or hope i find.

this year has been difficult. it's also had good things. i swore off love this year, romantic and platonic. and i'm ending this year with a helpless crush that turns me into a giggling puddle of foolish hope, a group of people i am desperately hoping i'll get to know next year, and hell of a lot of love for myself. i love my gym, i love my job, i love my friends, i love my cat, i love my family. i love myself, and i'm learning to say that without being embarrassed or self-deprecating.

i started this year stuck in a relationship where i felt emotionally worthless. i'm ending this year prioritising people who think i'm worth something to them. i started this year hating every inch of my body because i felt physically undesirable. i'm ending this year as a porn star. i started this year worrying about not living up to my ten-year plan. i'm ending this year feeling more lost and free than ever before.

i'm on the precipice of everything i've dreamed of and worked for. i'm trying to cherish each and every second.

happy new year. i hope the next one is gentler.

love, taylor

[iknewiwouldregretthis]

i have not yet gotten a therapist like my doctor told me to do in february but i have a lot on my mind which means it’s time to make a long post so i can put those thoughts somewhere else

i like my job. it isn’t very fulfilling but i like the people i work with and i like that they let me work from home once a week so i can schedule all my appointments on that day and i like that as a company they want to support their employees and all that. but. it’s a very weird place and there’s also a lot of bad things. like the fact that i’ve had almost no work for six months and every time i ask for more work or suggest things i can do, there’s some reason it won’t work. “we’re not ready to pass that to you” or “that won’t be compatible with our new systems” or “the time it would take to build that system isn’t worth the small amount it would get used” and that’s fine! all of those are valid reasons for me not to do something! but every month i have like 35 total hours that i do work! and the rest of the time i’m just sitting there and i know it’s nice to have a salaried job where i get paid to do nothing but it’s miserable. i mentioned to my dad that i was thinking of getting a second job like some sort of low maintenance online data entry so i could do it on the down time of my first job and he was like “you should work on professional development instead. take classes. maybe see if you can get an MBA online. train skills that you’ll use in your next job. you don’t want to have one job forever, right?” which i hadn’t thought about. i’ve never had career goals and when i got this job all i was looking for was something officey that was pretty consistent. and i’ve been here almost 3 years which is the longest i’ve ever had a job (not including the three years i was an RA in college but that didn’t include summers so)

thinking about leaving is weird, but also being at the job has gotten weird and not just because i sit in my cube all day and do nothing. my best friend at work was having issues for months because she got a new supervisor who kept trying to micromanage her and thought she wasn’t doing work because my friend wasn’t doing the work in a visible way like the supervisor thought she should. my friend asked for a sabbatical or short term leave so she could take some time and get her shit together a bit and instead they fired her, citing that she was already on probation (which was a whole other bullshit thing. they wouldn’t let her transfer departments and wouldn’t tell her why but scheduled a meeting with HR that got pushed back 5 times over 2 months and when they eventually had the meeting they told her she was on probation because she was doing the work the same as she always had which worked for the old supervisor but not the new one. she got in trouble when i stopped by her desk to chat with her so we started doing weekly walks and all she could ever talk about was how she had another meeting with her supervisor where she asked for clear guidance and direction and got none). it’s been really weird at work without her and now one of my other best work friends is retiring. i still like my department except one, but i feel like all the people i like at work are slowly leaving. and if it’s just a job where i don’t like anyone and i don’t do anything then there’s no point in staying right? but also things might look up.

it’s still better than looking for a job but i’m not sure how long that’ll hold.

the other problem is that i’m bad at looking for jobs because i don’t have good quantifiable skills. i’m good at working with people and solving problems and doing a bunch of other things that don’t show up well on a resume. my friends make jokes about not knowing how i got this job but to be honest i’m not really sure how it happened either. they saw some sort of potential and i’m grateful for it because i sure do love acquiring money to live. and also a lot of the people. theoretically i could keep in touch with them but they all live in the next city or two over from me. and i have no idea how that’d go. when i lived with my sister i never did anything or went anywhere because i was always exhausted. maybe once i move into my new house i’ll have the energy to have friends at a slight distance. i hope so.

i also feel like maybe this isn’t really real problems. maybe i’ve been living in “get out of a bad situation” mode in my home life that once i finally got out of the bad situation, my brain didn’t know what to do and started looking for a new bad situation to worry about getting out of. maybe i’m overthinking it all because i’ve been living with my dad for almost seven weeks with another week and a half to go. even though it’s better than living with my sister by several orders of magnitude it’s still tiring being a long term guest in someone else’s house. i’m so ready to go home and move and finally live somewhere where comfort and contentment are on the table and readily available and then look at my life from there and see how i’m doing. and also then get a therapist because i will finally be able to look up therapists in the privacy of my own home with no one around (an inexplicable sticking point for my brain)

i can’t stop thinking about the “when it’s all okay i’m going to make a cherry pie post” because 1 cherry pie is my favorite and 2 it will all be okay when i move to the new house and it’ll be a little while before i can make a cherry pie from scratch but absolutely day 1 i am going to the grocery store to get a frozen one to cook so when i’m unpacking in my brand new house and putting my furniture together and may or may not have internet yet i will make the house smell like cherry pie and then i am going to eat it for dinner and probably breakfast the next day.

11 days.

[finishing-novel-shorts]

NOVEL SHORT 8335

When my mother died from an asthma attack, locked in her room by my son's prank, where was my doctor husband? He was at his ex-girlfriend's performance with our son. I was devastated.

I called my husband over a dozen times before he finally picked up. But before I could speak, he snapped, "What's your problem? It's just a performance with our kid. You're calling nonstop, like it's a matter of life and death. Always lying and making up excuses to get me home. Stop calling!" My son chimed in, "Mom, so annoying. I wish Emma could be my mom instead."

Emma took the phone. "Kids say the darndest things. Don't take it seriously, right?" she said. "Fine, I'll give you what you want," I addressed through the phone. "If you want her to be your mom, tell your dad to come back and divorce me."

My mother died with her eyes wide open. In just a few short hours, a living, breathing person turned into a box of ashes. The pain of losing my mother was soul-crushing. My phone pinged with a message from a friend forwarding Emma's Instagram post: "Performance wrapped up perfectly. Check out our six-handed piano play with my two clingy fans. How's our chemistry in the video?" My son and husband flanked Emma like two bodyguards. The three of them played the piano in perfect harmony, looking every bit like a happy family. My husband even commented, "Clingy already, you ungrateful little thing," to which Emma replied, "Hmm, you know very well how grateful I am, especially after last night."

The pain in my chest spread through my entire body. While my husband and his ex were playing piano with our son, my mother was having an asthma attack. With no one to help her while they were flirting shamelessly, my mother had already been taken to the crematorium, turned to ashes. They got their perfect moment, but what about my mom? Who's going to bring her back to life? I was filled with so much hatred.

When my mom called for help, I immediately called 911, but the ambulance couldn’t arrive fast enough. I drove home as fast as I could, desperately calling Jacob to go save my mom.

Emma's performance venue was close to our house. It would have taken him just a few minutes to go back and forth. But Jacob remained unmoved, thinking it was just an excuse to get him home. "Abigail, you know I hate being lied to."

His tone softened. "I don’t want to miss a second of Emma's performance. Be good and don’t cause trouble now." No matter how I explained, he wouldn’t listen. He was convinced I was lying, choking back tears. "For the sake of how my father once saved your entire family, I’m begging you to save my mom. I���m not lying." But my words only angered him further. "How long are you going to use your father's life to emotionally blackmail me?"

Our son urged him to hang up. "Dad, ignore Mom. Look, Emma's on stage!" I screamed desperately. "Don’t hang up, Jacob. I'm begging you, my mom is dying!" Jacob's patience ran out. "Then let her die." My mom died because she didn’t get help in time. While their six-handed piano video went viral online, Emma even gained a bunch of new followers because of it. After dealing with my mom's funeral and forcing myself to sign the divorce papers, I finally collapsed into a deep sleep. My husband and son returned three days later. "Is dinner ready? I texted you earlier. Why are you still sleeping?" Jacob barged in, roughly yanking the blanket off me, his face full of disgust as he questioned me from above. I must have looked a mess, but I couldn’t care less. Lucas pinched his nose in disgust. "Dad, I'm hungry. Let’s go find Emma. Let this dirty mom sleep to death."

My heart felt like it had plunged into an icy abyss. This was the son I had risked my life to give birth to. I almost died from massive blood loss during his birth. After he was born, he cried day and night. I held and comforted him around the clock, fed him until I was completely worn out. I had worked so hard to raise him to this age, yet his birthday wish was for Emma to be his mother. My son truly took after his father, even fancying the same woman. Looking at this flesh of my flesh, my heart shattered. It was because of him that I lost my mother.

Thinking of my mom, who died with her eyes open, I could no longer contain my emotions. I grabbed Lucas hysterically, demanding, "You knew Grandma had asthma. Why did you lock her alone in the room? Do you know you killed her?" I had never treated Lucas like this before. He was clearly scared, crying and hitting me. "Wow, Mom is so scary. I don’t want a bad mom. I want Emma."

Lucas’s fists kept landing on me. They didn’t hurt physically, but my insides felt like they were on fire. I cried back at him, "You don’t want me? I don’t want you either. Give me back my mom. I won’t want anyone else. I just want my mom." Lucas and I were both crying our eyes out. Jacob forcefully separated us, shielding Lucas behind him. He looked at me coldly. "Are we done here? Lucas was just playing around with your mom. It’s such a small thing. Why are you scaring him like this?"

"Playing around? That small thing killed my mom," I said, grief-stricken and angry. "But my mom is dead now. Your mom had her medicine in the room. How could anything have happened?"

"I know you're upset about me and Lucas going to Emma's performance, but you don’t need to make up such lies with your mom. Aren’t you afraid of jinxing her?"

Even now, he still thought I was jealous and deliberately using my mom as an excuse to make him feel guilty. The sorrow and anger made me want to laugh that moment.

Emma called. Jacob answered, and after a few words, he hurriedly prepared to leave. He spoke softly into the phone, "Don’t worry, I’ll be right there." Lucas followed closely behind him, looking at these two strangers before me. I suddenly laughed and handed Jacob the divorce papers on the table. "Before you go, sign these." Jacob didn’t even look at them before mocking, "You've really gone to great lengths to get my attention, haven’t you? Divorce? You think you can live without me?"

"And Lucas, stop these tricks. You’re just embarrassing yourself." With that, he left with Lucas.

In the past, every time we argued, no matter whose fault it was, I would always be the one to make up and apologize. But not anymore. As soon as they left, I quickly packed my things, dragged my suitcase out, and resolutely left. I returned to my mother’s old house. Family photos of the three of us still hung on the walls, but my beloved parents were gone.

Ten years ago, my father died saving Jacob’s entire family from a mudslide. Back then, Jacob held me and said, "Don’t cry, you still have me. I’ll be with you for life." Those words were deeply etched in my heart. Later, we got married and had a child. Jacob’s kindness made me believe we were soulmates, but everything changed when Emma appeared. He stopped sharing his daily life with me. He would often zone out inexplicably, staring at his phone with a silly grin.

On our wedding anniversary, Emma said she had a headache, and Jacob abandoned me to rush to her side. When I got into a car accident and needed his help dealing with threats, he was busy helping Emma dodge drinks. When I was sick and needed his care, he said he was busy washing Emma’s dog. No matter when or where, Jacob could drop everything and rush to Emma’s side at her slightest call or message. If I dared to question him, I was being unreasonable, emotionally blackmailing him, or trying to cash in on past favors. It was then that I realized what was nectar to me was poison to him. What I thought was mutual love was to him nothing but an obligation to repay a debt. Even my son was often taken to meet Emma. Lucas no longer hugged my neck, saying he loved me. Instead, he lamented why Emma couldn’t be his mother.

Holding back my pain, I asked Lucas why he preferred Emma’s food over mine. He said innocently, "Emma is gentler than Mom. She and Dad take me to eat things Mom doesn’t allow. Her cooking is better than Mom’s. She can play the piano, she never scolds me, and is very nice to me. Dad loves her too."

Lucas’s words hurt, but I thought it was just childish talk. I still tried to repair my relationship with him. When Emma and I both fell into the water, my husband and son unanimously went to save Emma. My husband pulled her out of the water while Lucas rushed to get towels and hot water. They fussed over her endlessly. I was invisible to them. At that moment, my suspended heart finally died. I decided to stop compromising myself. Just as I was about to divorce Jacob, my mom came from the countryside to visit. Her health wasn’t good, and I didn’t want to upset her, so I had to put off the divorce until after she left.

But in this short time, they went too far, directly causing my mother’s death. I was grief-stricken and desperate, not wanting my mom to be lonely on her journey. I asked the village uncles to help arrange a funeral for her. After the funeral, I returned home, exhausted. The empty house was silent, except for the ticking of the clock, a silence that bred despair. I called out of habit, "Mom, I’m home. What delicious food did you make for lunch?" But only endless silence answered me. Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably. "Oh, that’s right. My mom is dead."

Suddenly, the front door was kicked open with a bang. Jacob stormed in, his face cold as he glared at me fiercely. Emma and Lucas followed.

Jacob, Emma, and Lucas burst into the house, their faces a mix of frustration and detachment. Jacob’s irritation was palpable, Emma’s expression was haughty, and Lucas looked around with an unsettling indifference.

“Why are you here?” I demanded, my voice trembling with raw emotion and anger. The weight of my grief and the injustice of the situation had pushed me to the edge.

Jacob’s face twisted with irritation. “I came to see if you’ve finally gotten over this nonsense. We have better things to do.”

Emma added, her voice dripping with disdain, “Yes, Abigail. Your constant drama is exhausting. We have a life to live.”

Ignoring their dismissiveness, I thrust the divorce papers toward Jacob. “You want out? Here’s your way. But understand this: I don’t regret divorcing you. I regret ever believing in the illusion of our family. You and Emma can have your perfect life, but you need to know that your actions have consequences.”

Jacob barely glanced at the papers before dismissively tossing them aside. “You think this changes anything? You’re just trying to make me feel guilty.”

I turned to Emma, my eyes filled with a sorrowful fire. “I hope you find the happiness you’re searching for with Jacob. I hope it’s everything you’ve ever dreamed of.”

As Jacob grabbed Lucas to leave, I stopped them. “One last thing. Lucas needs to understand the truth about what happened. I will make sure he knows.”

I immediately called my lawyer and began the process of finalizing the divorce and securing my rights as a mother. My determination to ensure Lucas’s proper care was unwavering, even if it meant a lengthy legal battle.

A few days later, the gravity of the situation took a dramatic turn. I decided it was time to bring the truth to light. With the undeniable proof I had—texts, timestamps, and video footage—I prepared to expose the full story. The public had seen the viral video of Emma and Jacob’s performance, but they hadn’t connected it to the tragedy that had unfolded.

I held a press conference, my heart pounding as I stepped before the gathered journalists and cameras. The room was filled with a mix of curiosity and skepticism.

“Thank you for coming,” I began, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “I am here to reveal a story that has been kept hidden. It involves a tragic loss and a series of negligent actions that led to it.”

I displayed the video footage and the call logs on the screen. The timestamps clearly showed the exact moments when Jacob and Lucas were at Emma’s performance, while I had desperately tried to reach them. The text messages between Jacob and Emma, discussing their excitement about the performance and dismissing my pleas, were displayed for all to see.

“This footage and these messages are proof that my mother’s death was a direct result of their negligence,” I said, my voice trembling with emotion. “While they were celebrating their success, my mother was suffering and ultimately died because they chose to ignore my calls for help.”

The room fell silent as the journalists absorbed the gravity of the evidence. Gasps of shock and murmurs of disbelief filled the space. The connection between the performance and my mother’s death was undeniable, and the public reaction was swift and unforgiving.

News outlets picked up the story with fervor. Headlines blared with shocking revelations. “Performance Night: The Deadly Cost of Neglect,” read one headline. “The Tragic Death Linked to Emma’s Viral Video” was another. The public was outraged, and the condemnation was immediate.

Lucas, who was with Emma and Jacob when the news broke, was devastated. His once-carefree demeanor turned into one of anguish as he faced the reality of his actions. “Mom, I didn’t know,” he cried, his voice breaking as he struggled to comprehend the situation. “I didn’t mean to—”

Emma’s face went pale as she watched the news coverage. The image of her and Jacob’s performance, juxtaposed with the tragic details of my mother’s death, was overwhelming. She sank to her knees, her hands trembling as tears streamed down her face. “No, no, no,” she whispered. “This can’t be happening. We didn’t mean—”

Jacob’s reaction was one of shock and despair. He slumped into a chair, his face buried in his hands. “What have we done?” he murmured, the weight of his actions crashing down on him. “What have I done?”

The days that followed were a whirlwind of emotional collapse for all three. Emma faced intense public scorn, her once-promising career now marred by the backlash. Her attempts to salvage her image were futile as the public and media painted her as an opportunist who had callously ignored a tragedy for personal gain.

Jacob’s professional reputation was equally shattered. His name was dragged through the mud as reports of his negligence and betrayal made headlines. The fallout was severe, with professional and personal consequences that left him isolated and regretful.

Lucas’s distress was palpable. His once-bright eyes were now filled with tears and guilt. He struggled to cope with the knowledge that his actions had contributed to my mother’s death. The boy who had once looked up to Emma and Jacob now faced the harsh reality of their mistakes.

In a heart-wrenching scene, Lucas came to visit me, his young face etched with pain. He was overwhelmed with remorse and desperation. “Mom, please,” he sobbed, clinging to me. “I want to come back. I can’t stand it there. Please, take me back. I need you.”

I knelt down, looking into his tear-streaked face with a heavy heart. “Lucas, I love you more than anything in this world. But going back to that life would only make things worse. We both need to heal, and that can’t happen if we return to the chaos. I’m here for you, and I will support you, but I can’t go back to that life.”

Lucas’s sobs were heart-wrenching, and I could see the despair in his eyes. I held him close, my own tears mingling with his. “It’s not your fault,” I whispered. “But we need to move forward, not backwards.”

Jacob and Emma, observing from a distance, were deeply affected by the scene. Emma’s guilt and regret were evident as she faced the fallout from her actions. Jacob’s remorse was palpable as he came to terms with the devastating impact of his choices.

As they faced the consequences of their actions, their lives continued to unravel. Emma’s career never recovered, and Jacob’s professional reputation was irreparably damaged. The once-promising future they had envisioned together was replaced by a life of regret and unfulfilled ambitions.

Lucas, now living with me part-time, struggled to adjust. His visits were filled with quiet moments of reflection and attempts to rebuild the trust and love we once had. It was a slow process, but with counseling and support, he began to heal.

I found solace in the new life I had built with Daniel. Our home was filled with love and warmth, and we welcomed a new child into our lives. Though the pain of the past lingered, it no longer defined me. I embraced my new beginning with hope and resilience.

As I looked at my new family, I knew that while the journey had been filled with suffering and betrayal, it had ultimately led me to a place of renewal and hope. The past was a stark reminder of the cost of negligence and betrayal, but it had also made me stronger and more determined to find happiness again.

In the end, the echoes of that painful chapter served as a reminder of the importance of compassion and responsibility. I had survived the storm and emerged with a new sense of purpose, ready to face the future with hope and love.