It's Only Forever

~That's Not Long At All~ Jean - I made a LADS blog - Eventually I'll get brave and put my writing here.

[protoscars]

Hoo boy - it's been a long time since I've had a blog for my fics. And here LADS has gone and made me do it. Hi - I go by Jean, I'm 30, and Zayne Li is ruining my life. Eventually I'll get brave and start posting blurbs here. Asks are open - I promise I'm friendly, and I can't wait to get to know y'all! - Blog rules / FAQ / Etc. are coming soon! - This blog is 18+ only - MDNI!

[protoscars]

:: Dance in the Dark :: Part 1 of 2

Summary: You're a dancer in the N109 Zone, he's Akso's Chief Cardiac Surgeon - and he's determined to rescue you, even if you never wanted saving in the first place. Tags: ZaynexNonMC!Reader, Yandere!Zayne, Note: This is my first time writing for a nonmc fic. This is my first time writing a Yandere fic! This was supposed to be a oneshot - buuuuut....it's looking like it's at least 2 parts. I hope you all enjoy! TW: Stalking, Kidnapping, the usual Yandere stuff....

You knew she wasn't from the N109 Zone the first time you laid eyes on her. She was too bright, too shiny. The fog of the N109 Zone stuck to everything and everyone who stayed too long. And this girl? She practically fucking glowed compared to the average denizen of the zone. You didn't say anything of course. Keeping your head down was part of how you'd stayed alive this long.

You weren't sure if you'd ever been that bright. Maybe somewhere in the past, many years ago. Long before the gloam of this place had time to stain your skin.

You'd seen her in the club a few times now. She always appeared on the arm of the leader of Onychinus. As if she didn't attract enough attention as it was. He didn't seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to relish it. The way his red eyes flashed as he appraised the room, noting just how many people admired her. At the same time, that gaze was clearly a warning, a claim. Mine.

Maybe that was why you'd noticed the minute she crossed the threshold that evening. He wasn't there. Instead she had an equally shiny man at her side. Although, at least he made some attempt to blend in. His clothing was dark, his gaze downcast. Nonetheless, something about his posture, his bearing in the room, was off. He didn't move with shame or fear. Instead, he walked with calm authority. Slipping through the crowd with a confidence that didn't belong.

You couldn't look away.

He slid his coat off, and loosened his tie. One arm guiding the laughing shiny girl to a table. Protective, authoritative, almost fatherly. You had to fight not to stare any longer.

The girl, she laughed, she smiled, she was more animated than you'd ever seen her. She was, nervous? Yes, anxiety radiated off of her. You became more certain the longer you watched.

You'd watched many a soap opera play out from your stage. Spinning around in your sequins and nothing more, you had the perfect vantage point. They were either watching you, or engrossed in their own drama. No one noticed that while you put on a show, they were putting on a show for you.

The music continued to pulse softly around you. Muscle memory keeping your hips rotating in time to the beat. You couldn't help but notice that this new character wasn't watching the stage. He only looked at her. If his gaze slipped your way, he was looking determinedly past you, before returning his attention to the table or the girl.

You felt the heat of envy somewhere in the pit of your stomach. The way he gazed at her. His eyes were hazel-green, even at this distance. You couldn't help but imagine what it felt like to have them look at you.

Eventually her usual companion, the silver haired man, had appeared. The three of them had settled with drinks. He didn't partake from his. You had watched their introductions from the wings of the stage in-between dances. Her nerves had slowly dissipated, but the two men had stared at one another with something that you couldn't name.

Your attention was stolen by a commotion by the bar. The tall silver haired Onychinus boss had appeared. He'd pinned a shadowy figure to the wall. No one else in the club reacted. Just another Friday night in the N109 Zone.

It was your turn again. You stepped back onstage. You kept dancing.

If someone had asked you what happened next, you weren't sure you could give them an accurate answer.

Someone had thrown something. The sound of breaking glass a music all its own. Then red smoke had bloomed thick and angry across the room. Voices had raised, the sound of anger and fear a familiar soundtrack.

Until the air seemed to shiver. A wanderer coalescing near the front of the room. A sickening shift in the air and light filling the now blurry room. Someone screamed.

And then you'd felt it. A searing pain that tore from your shoulder and across your chest, accompanied by a strange warmth. A red more vibrant than you'd imagined it would be that poured over your breast. Stumbling backwards, you'd lost your balance. Your feet sliding out from under you, the floor rising to meet you with alarming speed.

Until your head cracked against the floor. Some distant part of you was surprised by how loud it was. The crack of your skull against the dance floor.

And then he was there. His eyes as beautiful as you had imagined as the world began to swim.

"Stay with me." His voice was calm, a contrast against the panic of the room.

"Didn't plan on going anywhere." You hear your own voice, although it feels out of sync with your lips. He smiles wryly in response to your sardonic response, one hand cradling your head, the other gingerly lowering the sparkling strap on your shoulder, now stained with blood.

"I'm a doctor -" You snort, and cut him off.

"If I had a dollar for every time I'd heard that one." You feel your hand meet his, and surprised to feel just how sticky and wet your own blood is. You hear gunfire, but he doesn't flinch.

He gently moves your hand, concern flickering across his face. Despite the pain, the chaos, you can't help but find yourself fixated on the man above you.

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

The pain is what pulls you back to reality. You fight it while you can, knowing that it's preferable to stay in the haze of darkness. But there is only so much you can do as the tether of your consciousness inevitably pulls you back to earth.

You're in a room, far too white. Far too bright. You squint and try to sit up, only to be rewarded by the pain magnifying itself by several magnitudes. A whimper escapes your lips. A bandage is wound around your right shoulder and across your chest. Someone has dressed you in soft linen hospital pants and a loose scrub top.

"You're awake." The voice is familiar, and it makes your heart leap. It's him.

He's as clean and white as the room. Wearing a pressed shirt tailored to his well postured frame, and a doctor's coat that hangs squarely from his shoulders as if it were made only for him. His dark hair and features punctuate his pale face, contrasting starkly in a way that takes your breath away.

But it's his eyes that you can't look away from. Hazel green with a burning intensity that freezes you on the spot for just a moment.

"You weren't lying, Doctor." You manage with a breathless laugh.

He doesn't laugh, but you see a hint of a smile at his lips. He crosses the room in two purposeful strides, his eyes fixed on the monitor above your bed.

"Doctor Zayne." He replies. "You should lay back down." His tone is matter of fact, it brooks no argument. You gingerly acquiesce. "You're in Akso hospital, you -"

"What?" You shoot back up without thinking, and the pain screams back into your body.

"-you were injured by a wanderer attack." He continues as if you haven't interrupted him. "And sustained a laceration to your right clavicle and arm requiring surgical repair, and a minor concussion with loss of consciousness."

You fall back against the pillows, cursing every star you know to name. "I have to go back."

He pauses, his routine interrupted. "Back where? I can assure you the club sustained enough damage that it won't be open for-"

You groan, placing your hands over your face. "No, no, no. Back to the N109 Zone. I can't be here."

"I can assure you, that the hospital is exactly where you belong." He replies curtly, a tone of annoyance edging at his voice.

You sigh and grit your teeth, and then remove your head from your hands.

"Thank you, so much. Truly, I can't thank you enough." You begin, while carefully sitting the rest of the way up and swinging your legs over the edge of the bed. "But I don't belong here." You carefully begn to remove the wires attached to your chest.

"The hospital is exactly where you belong." He's standing in front of you now. A wall of man blocking your path as you shakily stand. You shake your head in wordless disagreement, ignoring how the room swims when you do.

You step past him and he doesn't say another word as you leave, but you feel his eyes on you with every step you take.

Crossing the thresh hold you quicken your pace, and you nearly slam straight into her. She's beautiful up close. Her elfin features and lithe figure seem almost otherworldly, you think.

"It's you!" She exclaims, as if you're old friends. "From the club! I'm so glad you're ok! Dr. Zayne said..." her words fade into a buzz of chatter as you see her gaze slip past you and over your shoulder. You glance behind you and see him standing in the doorway to the room you just exited. He's looking at her like the rest of the world doesn't exist. He's looking at her in a way that makes your chest ache in a way that isn't related to your injury, but much, much, worse.

You almost feel like you're intruding on something. You duck your head and step to the side. "I really have to go..."

You leave without looking back.

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

A week later your stitches have mostly dissolved, and the clanging headache you've been fighting has begun to fade. The club re-opens tonight. The N109 Zone is no stranger to rebuilding, and they have it down to a science rather than an art. You've carefully chosen a high necked top to hide the healing gash, and you've prepared yourself to step on stage once more.

No one speaks of the attack. It's not worth mentioning in a place like this. Instead the music plays and you follow its lead, the familiar cadence of lights and bass a welcome relief.

You're lost somewhere in the song when you see him. He's seated at a table by himself and his white dress shirt nearly glows in the darkened room. His sleeves are rolled up past the elbow, his tie loose but still around his neck, and he rests his chin on top of folded, thoughtful hands, but his eyes are fixed only on you.

For a split second, you freeze, before finding the beat again. You can't tell from this distance, but you'd swear that he notices and almost smiles.

The night passes from there in a way that you can only describe as agonizingly slow.

He remains seated the entire night, watching you dance. Slowly, the club empties. As the morning draws closer the last few stragglers finish their dels and drinks and slink towards the exits. And as you wind down and the music fades, he stands, and approaches the stage.

You step to the edge of the worn wooden platform and lower yourself carefully down, sitting with your legs dangling over the edge.

"You came back." You state it as a fact, but the surprise is evident in your voice.

"I came back." He answers with a succinct nod. "You didn't come to your follow up."

You laugh, and it's short and shocked. "I didn't know I had one."

"You're lucky." He replies, crossing his arms across his chest. "I don't know many doctors who make house calls."

You slide off the stage so that you are standing before him, although even in your heels you have to look up at him.

"Lucky?" You raise one eyebrow in faux disbelief. Carefully removing one arm from your top, you reveal the healing wound beneath. You see his gaze drop to your revealed breast, and a light pink flushes his ears.

"Usually I charge for this." You grin, and watch the flush creep further up his neck. "And we're sure you're a doctor?" You tease, although you aren't feeling half as bold as you're acting.

He makes a disapproving noise in response as his graceful fingers begin to gently explore the forming scar. You have to think about your breathing in order not to hold your breath.

"Are you experiencing any pain?" His brow has furrowed ever so slightly, and he's pressing gently at the base of the scar. You shake your head and resist the temptation to reach out and touch him in turn.

"It itches a bit, but it doesn't hurt." You're entranced by the way his eyes look through his long dark lashes, and your voice comes out softer and breathier than you mean for it.

Slowly he pulls away and looks up. The electricity still crackling silently in the air between you. "And your head?"

You grin, "Oh, don't worry. I'm just as dumb as I was before." He doesn't look impressed, but instead sighs softly.

"That's not what I meant."

You slide your arm back into your top and pull it back down. "So, what do I owe you for this house call, doctor?"

He waves your question off with a dismissive hand. "I'm simply caring for my patient."

"It's a dangerous thing to owe people favors in the N109 Zone." You purse your lips. "I know you aren't from around here, but -"

"But-" he interrupts you, "-You don't want to be in my debt?"

You nod, wordlessly. The club is empty now, and the dim lights illuminate dingy velvet and well worn carpets that have long ago lost their luster in the light of day.

"Then don't be." He says, matter of factly. "Just...don't waste my work." His eyes have gone cold and distant, as if he's turned a switch off somewhere inside, and he turns to leave. You feel your stomach sink unexpectedly, and you fight a sudden instinct to find an excuse for him to stay.

Before you can find words, he's gone. You shake your head, as if you can free yourself from the recurring image of him gently, tenderly, reaching for you. And you remind yourself exactly where you are.

He belongs with someone like the shiny girl from before. Someone who still radiates light.

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

The wound faded to a pink and pale scar, neat but raised. And the nights faded into one another again, neon lights the comforting companions to the N109 Zone's familiar darkness.

You still saw her sometimes, laughing, an oddity in the N109 zone. Always accompanied by her red eyed and powerful companion. They'd clearly grown closer, if even possible. They moved in sync, and his arm was usually wrapped tightly around her waist or shoulders.

Every time you saw them, your heart fluttered. Not because of his unsettling stare, not because of her strange light, but because there was always a chance, perhaps even a hope, that Zayne might be there too. Even his name felt dangerous - like thinking it, let alone saying it out loud, was too great a risk to take. So you simply, didn't.

You kept to yourself the growing fear that sat deep in your chest. The feeling that something just wasn't quite right. You'd been through a traumatic event, you told yourself. Of course you wouldn't feel great. But glances over your shoulder on the way home told a different story, unease becoming a constant companion.

And there was the fact that work wasn't the same either. Your usual customers, your 'regulars' as it were, were either missing, or not themselves. It wasn't unusual in the N109 zone for people to disappear, or even to reappear after disappearing for weeks. But this was different. Three of them just never returned to the club after the night Zayne came to check on you. And the others no longer requested dances in private rooms. If you approached them on the floor, they would shy away, and if you didn't know better - you would swear you saw them looking over their shoulders in fear. Some of them you were glad to see go, lecherous and handsy types that they were. But you couldn't pretend it wasn't affecting you. You had certainly begun to feel it when you counted your payout at the end of the night.

However, in the place of their eyes, you felt new ones watching you. You tried to explain them away. Telling yourself the years of hypervigilance were coming to claim their toll. That it was simply the decades of looking over your back morphing into something greater.

And yet - there was a nagging feeling of being watched that you couldn't quite shake.

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

By the time your arm had fully healed the air had turned cold. The last strains of Autumn's chorus still echoed in the N109 Zone, but the biting wind of early winter was determined to drown them out. You pulled your coat closer around you as you stepped out the back door of the club, letting the cool air of the night hit your face as you tipped your head back. A sigh escaped your lips, and you watched your breath appear in the air, dissipating upwards like smoke.

The walk home wasn't short, but it was at least a familiar path. Although since this new feeling of being watched had appeared, it had felt longer the colder the nights grew. You set out, heels from the club dangling loosely in one hand. You mused to yourself that perhaps in the N109 Zone one was always being watched, and that maybe, you had simply become aware of the eyes you couldn't see.

A street lamp flickered and you jumped. You chided yourself for your foolishness - and for showing weakness, and doubled your pace. The air grew colder, and you wondered if the howl of the wind was growing louder, or if it was your imagination. Rounding the final corner before your block, you almost walked straight into a darkly clad figure as they emerged from an alley.

"Sorry I -" The words froze on your lips as you looked up into a familiar face. "Dr. Zayne?" Your surprise registers in your voice coming out almost a squeak. In the flickering light of the now distant street lamps he looks different. The shadows on his face deeper, his eyes darker.

"I'm sorry." His voice is darker too, softer in a strange way, but tinged with something unfamiliar. "I didn't want to have to do this, but I can't keep you safe here any longer."

You blink in confusion, unsure of what he's saying, or what he means. And then you're in his arms, and there's a sharp prick at your neck, and the world spins around you. His scent is sharp and clean, and even in the chill of the evening his hands are cold on your skin, but his face, his face is soft, his eyes are gentle, and you wonder why he looks so sad, as the world fades away.

[protoscars]

Which oneshot draft should I finish/publish?

Yandere!Zayne x Non!MCReader

N109 Zone SnowCrow Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Neither - I have a third better idea which I will tell you.

Idc but I do want you to write more smut

Voting ended onMay 28

I'm staring at two half finished drafts based on anon requests - both will get written eventually, but I'm struggling with knowing which to finish. Alternatively - you can always distract me with more ideas/requests.

[protoscars]

The people have spoken! Yandere!Zayne x Non!MCReader oneshot coming this weekend. Aiming to publish Saturday night. Stay tuned.

[protoscars]

Which oneshot draft should I finish/publish?

Yandere!Zayne x Non!MCReader

N109 Zone SnowCrow Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Neither - I have a third better idea which I will tell you.

Idc but I do want you to write more smut

Voting ended onMay 28

I'm staring at two half finished drafts based on anon requests - both will get written eventually, but I'm struggling with knowing which to finish. Alternatively - you can always distract me with more ideas/requests.

[protoscars]

Exposed

Just a little hurt/comfort/fluff with Reader x Zayne

There is a long pause as Zayne looks at you carefully over the edges of his silver rimmed reading glasses. Then he slowly, methodically, sets down his coffee mug, and lowers the paper he was reading.

"Say that again?" It's part question, part command the way he intones it, his piercing eyes fully settling on you.

You've already screwed up all your courage, there's no going back now. Yet still you quirm a bit under his stare.

"I...I just wanted to know, would you see me naked if you did heart surgery on me?" You can feel the flush creeping onto your face now, a burning embarrassment that bleeds across your the apples of your cheeks.

You don't get the immediate and clinical answer you expect. Instead, he removes the glasses, folding them gently. You can't be certain, but you almost think a soft sigh escapes his lips as he stands from the breakfast table, coffee now abandoned, and steps around it to place himself at your side.

With your boyfriend towering over you, you can't help but look up at him. You are engulfed by his shadow, which eclipses the early morning light. It's a strangely comforting place to be.

Then the sun is blinding your eyes once again, as he crouches, one knee down, to bring his face level with yours, intimately close.

"My love, I have seen you naked countless times." His tone is measured, but soft, and he seems to be resisting the urge to reach out and trace the flush on your cheeks, something akin to mirth but much kinder dancing in his eyes. "Why are you asking this now?"

You finally break yourself away, choosing to focus on a button near the top of his shirt, rather than his penetrating gaze.

"Because..." You begin softly, but are interrupted by a hand on your chin, gently lifting your head, and eyes, back up to meet his, not giving you the choice to look away. "Because...then it wouldn't just be you. It would be everyone else in the operating room. It would be Greyson, and- and-..." you choke on the tears that are just starting to spill over your cheeks.

His thumb wipes them away, and before you can react, he is rising from the floor in front of you to lift you from the chair and take your place, while placing you in his lap in one smooth motion.

You bury your face in his chest without thinking about it, the comfort of his scent welcome and grounding. One hand cups the back of your head, a possessive and comforting motion, the other rubbing small circles on your back.

His voice rumbles in his chest when he speaks, and you feel his next words as you hear them. "I can tell you all about how we protect a patient's modesty, and I can tell you all about how no one is thinking about anything besides what is inside that perfect chest of yours, but this isn't about that, is it?" It's a true question this time, asked so kindly you all but melt into him.

He gives you time. Continuing his motions of gentle reassurance and soothing. Daring to lift your head from his chest and peer up at the man who holds you like you're the most precious thing in the world, you nod slightly. "How do you always know?"

"Mmm..." He hums and removes his hand from your head long enough to wipe away a few more stray tears, "Because, my love, I know you." You reach up and catch his wrist, a soft smile managing to find its way onto your face.

"That's not a real answer." You tease, and he smiles, ever so slightly, back down at you.

"And you haven't given me one, either." He lets your hand slide from his wrist up into his. But his other hand doesn't leave your back, pressing ever so gently into your lower spine.

"I just...I guess...I suppose..." You start three times without finding the right words, but he continues to watch you with a patience that seemingly knows no end. You fiddle with his fingers, slotting yours through his, marveling for the thousandth time at the size of his hands, and the precision of the acts they perform.

Eventually, you try again, "I was thinking about what it must be like for you, in surgery." You see his brows lower, the look on his face telling you that he is weighing every word you say as if they are insights more valuable than any researcher or physician could offer.

"I was thinking about what it must be like for you, in surgery." You repeat yourself, letting the words feel more comfortable in your mouth this time. "And it made me think...how it must feel...to see someone, so helpless, so...exposed. Laid out in front of you." Your eyes are searching his now, looking for any clue as to what lies behind his composure. "And how you...how...how intimate...that has to be..." You trail off for a moment, and lick your lips, struggling to find the right words. "And I wondered...if you've ever seen me that way?"

Zayne reaches down, his face blocking out the sun once more, and you blink in the sudden change of light. His hand begins to trace the contours of your face, as if he can commit them to memory simply through touch.

"I have." He answers simply, but with an intensity briefly takes your breath away. His hands never falter, they are tracing your body now, finding their way down your shoulders, as if still trying to memorize every inch of your skin.

"But more importantly - I have had the privilege of knowing that you in ways that matter even more." He pauses, drawing you closer to him, a certain and firm guiding of your chest to his, as he encircles you with his arms. "And most importantly, you have known me." His voice dips low, and he lowers his forehead to yours.

"I have bared my heart to you, and you alone, my Jasmine." You feel his breath with each word, and his heart beating against your own. "What can there be left to fear?"

[kokovenus]

Zayne vs LADS men

Part 2

☆synopsis: A busy nonchalant doctor and his never ending struggle to deal with the other LADS men.

☆a/n: Thank you for showing the previous part so much love. Here’s a part 2. I hope you all enjoy.☺️

Part 1 | Part 2

[protoscars]

"Really, Zayne, it's not a big deal. I dealt with it." You try to catch his wrist as he turns away, only managing to catch him by the hem of his white coat's sleeve.

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It was supposed to be a sweet gesture, a fun way to see him on a Saturday he was working. You'd gotten up early and made a trip to the convenience store for a box of fresh donuts - making sure to get enough for the entire Akso cardiology crew.

Yvonne had greeted you at the desk with a smile far too chipper for a Saturday morning at seven in the morning, and promised that Zayne would be back from his rounds soon. So you'd stood around giggling and gossiping with the nurse who had long ago become your friend, not realizing that Zayne had arrived behind you as you had told her about the creep who had cat called you outside the store, and the donut you had rather impulsively winged at him.

Zayne hadn't found the story nearly as amusing as you did. You didn't think he would - in fact you had very much had intended for Zayne not to find out about the incident.

You had turned around just in time to see a dark shadow had fall over Zayne's expression, before it was replaced with carefully composed neutrality. Then he'd spun on his heel, the donuts forgotten.

You didn't want to know where he thought he was going.

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

"I brought treats!" You give his sleeve a tug, trying desperately to redirect him from whatever warpath he's chosen. But his back is fully to you now and he's pulling his phone out of his pocket, typing quickly and efficiently, but with a little too much force.

With a click the phone is put away and he turns back to you.

"You're alright?" It's both a question and a statement, almost a reassurance meant for himself. He steps forwards, cradling your face gently with one hand as his eyes scan your body from head to toe, taking a clinical inventory.

"I'm fine." You emphasize the second word, placing your hand on his wrist as you lean into his palm. "It was just some random creep. I handled it."

He raises an eyebrow in response, lifting his free hand to wipe some icing gently from the corner of your mouth. His thumb gently caressing your cheek, as his hand slides down to your neck, not so subtly taking your pulse from your neck.

"Well, he won't bother you again." His words are calm, perhaps a little too calm.

"What did you do?" Suspicion flits across your face, furrowing your brow. "Who did you text?"

"You brought donuts?" Zayne gestures behind you, starting to spin you gently back towards the desk, and Yvonne who is working a little too hard to stay focused on her computer screen.

"You're not distracting me." You plant your feet firmly and refuse to be spun, leaning to block his path to the sweet pastries. "No donuts until I have answers. Who were you texting?" You lean in, narrowing your eyes in what you hope is an intimidating manner.

Zayne opens his mouth, and then shuts it again, failing to come up with an excuse, but managing to maintain his calm facade.

"No donuts?" He manages to sound a little wounded - but his hesitation is all you need to dive for his pocket, snatching his phone before the poor doctor can react.

One glance at the screen is all it takes for your blood to run cold. The reply buzzes softly in your hand, your other boyfriend's red eyes staring unblinkingly back at you from his contact photo.

"Already found him. On my way."

Got catcalled on my way to work this morning in a truly unpleasant experience. Spent the next hour daydreaming about how SnowCrow would react. Came home and wrote a quick drabble. Nothing fancy, no proofing, but definitely cathartic. Hope you all enjoy.

[protoscars]

Big yearning hours.

Want to write - but experiencing incredible writer's block.

[protoscars]

IT HAPPENED BABBBYYYY.

[protoscars]

:: In Deep Midwinter ::

Summary: "Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That does not bite so nigh As benefits forgot: Though thou the waters warp, Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remembered not." - John Rutter, "Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind" Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, ZaynexReader, NonMC!ReaderxZayne Note: This one is for the very kind anon who requested angst and hurt/comfort with a nonmc!reader. This is my first time writing for a nonmc fic, I hope you all enjoy! Also note - truly no proof reading has been done here. Apologies in advance.

It would be easier if he got angry, or sad, or upset the way you did. But he didn't. Instead he got quiet. The sort of quiet that had weight to it. The sort of quiet that you felt gnawing at the edges of reality the longer it stretched on. The sort of quiet you wanted to shatter, but instead you found made you grow quieter too. It wasn't your silence to break.

So you tiptoed around the house, giving him space, giving him time, giving him the quiet. Trying to give him whatever it was he needed, without fracturing the stillness that he had created.

Your first winter together you thought it was all in your head. That you were imagining it. You weren't close enough yet to be sure. Your second winter together you had overcome the awkward early stages of the relationship - and then he just, disappeared. A nearly whispered sentence about someone named Dr. Carter and some arctic research center.

You'd put the pieces together while he was gone. Mostly because you saw her for the first time. She came to the hospital to see Dr. Greyson, and she was beautiful. She was petite but strong, her presence at once impressive and gentle, a study in contradictions. And she hung, nervously, you thought, on the arm of a tall silver haired man with eyes that you swore glowed with red light. They cut quite the picture as they made their way through the lobby.

When the two of you had started dating, an office romance beginning to blossom - you'd heard the rumors. A secretary heard everything. A girl who'd all but disappeared. The braver nurses who whispered that she'd faked her own death in order to be with the man she loved. You'd rolled your eyes.

You weren't naive to the fact that someone had broken his heart. You'd never asked him for the story - it wasn't yours to ask for. But when you saw her, eyes laughing at something the tall baroque man had murmured in her ear, you felt your stomach sink.

You'd watched her slowly peel off his arm and approach Dr. Zayne's office with what you could only describe as reverence. She'd knocked, and of course he hadn't answered. You'd gently cleared your throat, and softly told her that the doctor was away on research. She'd looked at you like you were a ghost, a surprising apparition who didn't belong in a landscape she was at home in.

When she'd left, her head hung slightly, and his arm encircled her protectively, consolingly. And you'd understood enough.

Now it was your third winter together, a proper couple now, and this time he didn't disappear. But by late January the quiet had settled over Zayne's flat like a heavy snow. And now you were certain - she was the ghost haunting the narrative, and you could see her reflected in the frost that fogged the windows, and feel her presence in the cold that snuck in under door frames and around the heavy curtains, no matter how you tried to keep it out.

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

Saturday morning dawned with the sort of grey light that only January can bring. You roll over in bed and groan, wondering if there's a way to deny the fact that it's already morning. The bed next to you is already empty, you don't have to look to know. The warmth and shape of Zayne is an absence you can't help but feel like an ache.

You could tell yourself he got called in. He got paged and decided to slip away to the hospital without waking you. But you can hear him downstairs, and smell the coffee he's already brewed. And you've never been a good liar, even to yourself.

So instead you slide your feet into slippers, and your robe over your shoulders, and make your way down the stairs. He's sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in one hand, and a crossword in the other. You mutter a "g'morning" as you pass, but he doesn't respond.

The motions are familiar, merciful in that they don't require thought to complete. You fill your cup with coffee, you find a granola bar, you shuffle to the table and take your seat at his right hand.

The wordless silence stretches on.

You stare out the window over his shoulder, allowing yourself to be transfixed by the small black and white bird on the bird feeder, the lone creature bold enough to venture out in the chill of the morning. You dread its eventual departure, knowing that when it takes wing, it takes with it your excuse not to look at him.

But eventually the coffee runs out, and the bird flies away. And you are left at the table with the shadows under Zayne's eyes.

He speaks first, to your surprise. But the hope that comes with hearing his voice is quickly dashed when he says, "I may have to go in to work today." All you manage to do is nod.

There's a pause.

You point to the paper in front of him. "Neglected." "What?" There's a delay before he startles slightly as if your voice has surprised him after reaching him from a ways off.

"Your puzzle. Thirty two across, nine letters, "A field left barren."

He nods, offering you a soft hum of affirmation, followed by his pen moving in neat strokes, filling in the letters one by one. You watch quietly, for a moment content to focus on his hands. You trace the scars that cross his upper wrists with your eyes, familiar patterns that you know all too well.

Your reverie is broken by the soft scrape of his chair against the floor.

"I'm going in to work."

"Oh." Is all you manage in response. He's already placing his cup in the sink, you try to force yourself to focus on the crossword in front of you, each square now neatly filled. But the letters swim and dance before your eyes as you blink back tears.

You beat them back with a mixture of determination and a long drink of your coffee. By the time you stand from the table he's already shrugging on his coat.

"Will you be back for lunch?" Your question hangs in the air and you wish you could take it back, at least try again, try to say it in a voice that sounds less needy, less hopeful.

He opens the door and the cold air cuts through the room like a knife. The black wool of his coat throws him into stark contrast against the white landscape beyond him.

"I don't know." His voice is as gentle and calm as ever, but his answer makes you shiver harder than the frigid wind that has hungrily swept into the room. "Stay inside, you won't last long in this cold." It's a protective sort of warning, and you almost find it comforting. Almost. He shuts the door gently, and is gone from sight.

You're left painfully, chillingly, alone.

----------------------------------------------------- By lunchtime you've pulled yourself together. Just enough makeup to feel like yourself. A favorite sweatshirt that you know every seam of, a spot on the couch, a familiar movie playing softly in the background. These things should be cozy, comforting even. But instead they feel more like distant memories that you are somehow inhabiting.

The fact that he's at the hospital shouldn't bother you. He's always at the hospital. But today, today you can't help but see her there too. You can't help but imagine her there with him, probably because you can't help but think that's what he's doing.

You think maybe it would be easier if you could hate her. Or at least be mad at her. But you don't have that in you. You saw the way she looked for him. Reached for Zayne's door like it was the portal to something sacred she was too profane to touch. And you saw the way she looked at the man she was with, like he was the only light she'd ever seen in the dark. Hell, you'd seen the way he held her as the left - like she was the only thing in the world worth holding. So as much as you wanted to, you couldn't even be mad at her.

You couldn't be her either.

You didn't remember pulling your knees to your chest, but at some point you had. You didn't remember crying either, but the damp streaks down your cheeks told a different story.

That was how you found yourself when the sound of the front door opening pulled you back to reality.

He enters the living room before you have a chance to finish wiping the tears off your face. The snow still clings to the edges of his hair, and his coat is thrown over one arm.

And when he sees your face, the silence finally breaks.

He falls to his knees before you, the coat forgotten and dropped in a heap.

"What's wrong?" His hands are cupping your face, familiar, gentle, and firm. He is using one thumb to gently wipe the remnants of the tears away.

It only makes you cry harder.

"Are you alright?" The worry in his voice is warm and it makes you suddenly aware of how cold you've been. All you can do is wordlessly nod, as you fall forwards into his arms. He lifts you gently, placing the two of you side by side on the couch. He strokes your hair, making soft hushing noises and letting you weep.

As the tears slow and become soft sniffles, you lifts your chin.

"Can you tell me?" He asks in a way that is so gentle it almost makes you start to cry again. With great effort you meet his eyes, your own hands finding a place to rest on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry I can't be her." The words come unbidden, unwished for, without trying. You watch his brow crease and furrow, and he brushes your hair from your face with tender care. You recognize confusion in his eyes.

"Who?" He finally asks, struggling to follow your thought.

There's a moment of silence - and you shake your head ever so slightly. "The girl before me, the girl you loved, the one you miss every year at this time."

Realization dawns on his face, and it is accompanied almost instantly by a deep pain that makes you wish you could take every word back. The pause stretches on, and you see him searching for words, reaching and grasping for something you don't understand.

When he next speaks it is only after he has grasped your face in his hands, and turned your gaze unequivocally to his.

"She has nothing to do with this, my love." His voice is pained, but raw. "I have failed you. And for that, I am sorry." He punctuates each of the last three words with a gentle squeeze, never looking away from you. "I should have been honest with you a long time ago." You can see tears beginning to form at the corners of his hazel-green eyes. "But I didn't want you to have to carry my grief." His next breath in is ragged, his shoulders almost shaking. "And I didn't have the words to tell you."

Over the next hour he tells you a story you wish he didn't know. Of a long dark night on a mountain. Of a friend who died. And you get the feeling he doesn't tell you the whole story, or at least, not the parts that he still doesn't have words for. But he shares his grief, at least the parts that he knows how to share.

And the ghosts leave in the light of the words between you.

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

Sunday morning was as grey as the previous morning. But as the light opened your eyes, you felt arms around you. Blinking away the last remnants of sleep, Zayne's face slowly comes into focus.

"Good morning." his voice rumbles deep in his chest, and you can't help but giggle as his arms wrap around you, pulling you close.

"Your hands are freezing cold!" You exclaim with a squeal, although you don't try to escape.

"Then warm them up for me." You feel his words as breath on your neck and he's placing kisses slowly behind them.

The bleak midwinter can't reach either of you here. And the chill leaves with the silence.

[protoscars]

OBSESSED with your Indiscretion zayne x reader!! Do you ever write angst? Maybe a hurt/comfort with zayne x nonmc!reader? I love your writing style btw

This is so kind. This message will power me through working this weekend. Thank you anon! I do write angst! And Hurt/Comfort is my favorite kind! I'll be honest - I have never published any of my angst blurbs! I've done plenty of them as one offs for friends, but I've never just put them out into the universe! I've never done Nonmc!reader! I'm excited to try! I'm working all day tomorrow - but if it's a slow day - you may just get one yet this weekend!

[protoscars]

:: Indiscretion ::

Summary: Trapped under Zayne's desk is an inconvenient place to be. Thankfully, you're the resourceful type. Tags: ZaynexReader, Fluff, MDNI, No proofreading we die like Grandma Josephine Note: This new card might be the death of me. While we wait, have some sexy fluff inspired by it.

The first time you left a note on his desk it was innocent. You'd simply swung by the hospital, and finding Zayne had gone into an emergent surgery, had left a note saying you stopped by. The second time was equally innocent, another result of happenstance. It was only when he reciprocated with a note that appeared on your desk early one morning that a pattern began to emerge.

He refused to acknowledge it when you thanked him for it. Acting innocently surprised, but with that knowing twinkle in his eye.

"It sounds like you have an admirer." He'd intoned without looking up from his computer. "He must be the thoughtful type."

"I only wish I knew who he was so I could thank him properly." You'd played along, nodding as a smile danced on your lips. To which he'd only responded with a thoughtful hum.

It was then that the game had truly begun - the two of you sneaking notes onto one another's desks with increasing frequency and secrecy, both intent on catching the other first. The game of cat and mouse had slowly escalated, with flowers and cards appearing at increasingly bizarre hours, and with increasing frequency.

You'd thought he had an unfair advantage, until a mischievously grinning Greyson had palmed you a card to your boyfriend's office. It was that small indiscretion that had led to your current predicament - and you mentally cursed Greyson as you listened to the footsteps growing closer.

Crouched underneath Zayne's desk you pressed yourself further back into the corner, feeling your heart racing in your chest. He wasn't supposed to return from rounds for another thirty minutes. You blamed yourself next. Of course Zayne would finish his work early, you should have accounted for that.

The sound of his footfalls were familiar, you were certain it was him just by his gait. Then the footsteps stopped, paper shuffled, and you heard a soft laugh from above you. No doubt Zayne finding the card you'd left this time. You squeeze your eyes shut as you hear his chair pull back from the desk.

He took a seat, and you squint one eye open just far enough to see Zayne's knee approaching at rapid speed, only to stop a hair's breadth from your nose.

Stuck between irrational terror and glee, you feel the same thrill as a child winning a game of hide and seek. You're immediately torn between the gloating joy of realizing you might yet get away with this, and the horror that you might be stuck for the foreseeable future.

You hear the soft clacking of keys, and then, in a stomach twisting moment, another voice.

Dawning realization hits as you realize he's entered an online meeting and you resist the urge to hiss in frustration. Already your right foot is beginning to tingle with a vague numbness, as you become aware you won't be able to stay frozen as long as you hoped.

Slowly, carefully, you begin the process of shifting your weight to the other side. Inch by inch you begin to lean to the left.

Above you, you hear Zayne's voice, calm and collected. "Of course, Director. You have absolutely no-" he pauses mid word, and you feel a large firm hand curl gently under your chin. "-thing to be concerned about." Zayne finishes his sentences as if nothing has happened.

There's a decisive tap on the keyboard as Zayne mutes his mic, and he slides his chair back just a few inches, just far enough to glance under his desk and make eye contact with you.

The look on his face betrays nothing, but his eyes speak volumes. There's admiration in there somewhere, you think. Although at the moment it's mixed with annoyance. You raise one hand and give a little wave, hoping that you look sufficiently apologetic.

You see his jaw tense ever so imperceptibly, and you know that at some level he's trying not to laugh. And just like that he's gone from sight again, his attention taken by whatever is occurring on screen. His hand leaves your face with a gentle caress, returning to the keys above you.

It is then, that faced with the fine wool of Zayne's trousers, an idea occurs to you. A beautiful, terrible, idea.

No longer constrained by the need to keep Zayne from finding you, you shift to your knees, angling yourself between legs. Your heart is racing even faster than before now, and you have to freeze for a moment to contain a giggle that threatens to escape.

Hesitantly at first, and then with growing confidence, you slide one hand up his leg. You reach his inner thigh before he claps his hand over yours, trapping it before you can reach your destination.

With your still free hand you begin to massage slow circles around his knee, inching upwards. You can't help but smile when he doesn't stop you knowing he needs at least one hand free.

There's a lull in the voices and you hear Zayne's mic click on again. He's speaking once more, but you aren't listening this time. His voice tone remains as calm as ever, even as you begin to slide your still free hand up his thigh. In response he tightens his grip on the hand he holds captive, giving you a warning squeeze.

You pause for a moment, let him finish speaking, and then continue. You lean forwards, palming him with your free hand, and knowing that he can now feel your hot breath on crotch.

It's then that you feel him release your hand, and begin to wind his fingers through your hair at the back of your head.

"If you'll excuse me, Director, someone is here to see me." His voice reaches you clearly, and you'd swear you can hear the smirk that he's surely barely concealing. You huff softly, one hand reaching for his waistband. Again, he catches it. Although he doesn't remove it. The hand at the back of your head presses more firmly, and you gasp, but find yourself muffled by the front of his pants.

"I think they want to, what was it...Thank me properly?"

[protoscars]

OH. OH WE ARE SO BACK, BABY.

We're HIDING under his desk?! They're reading our fics, and I couldn't be happier about it.

[mournfulroses]

Anaïs Nin, from a letter to Henry Miller written c. January 1933, featured in A Literate Passion

[protoscars]

Zayne who loves your strength, knows what a privilege it is when you trust him enough to be weak...

Zayne who knows how hard it is for you to ask for help, so he doesn't wait for you to ask. He just does. It's part of your rhythm together. And on the day you do ask for help - he doesn't tease, he doesn't even act surprised - but you can see the quiet love in his eyes, tinged with something that looks like pride.

Zayne who is always keeping tabs on your health, often, you think, more so than he lets on - but who always waits for you to come to him. And the day you do - he acts almost like you've given him a gift as he examines your injured wrist.

Zayne who is trying hard not to smile or laugh when you admit to him you're tired as if it's a great secret, when you have had dark circles under your eyes for the last week, and have been acting like a crabby toddler for last two days.

Zayne who notices when you grow quiet and withdrawn, but doesn't say anything. Just slips some chocolate into your work bag and makes sure your water bottle is full. Whose patience for you means that he can wait.

Zayne who drops everything the first time you openly admit to him that you're not ok. He reminds you that patients can be rescheduled, and that Greyson has a job for a reason, as he appears on your doorstep, still in his scrubs.

Zayne who found out that the last time he was away on a medical mission you slept with his sweater. Who doesn't say anything. But who leaves one he wore the day before folded on the end of the bed every time he goes out of town after that.

Zayne who doesn't need to say anything when you reach for him in the dark of the night. Just silently pulls you closer, wrapping scarred arms around you tight. His heart feeling like it might break, just from knowing that you're willing to reach for him.

Zayne who kneels before you, one knee down, holding your tear stained face between gentle and firm hands - Promising you that you could never be a burden. His voice clear with such calm certainty that you begin to believe it.

[protoscars]

Somewhere I Can't Go :: A Modern Orpheus

Summary: You remember seeing him, lunging towards you, white coat billowing outwards from his body, before he was caught by the arms behind him. His eyes wild like a man mad with desperate need, his hands reaching, outstretched and grasping nothing but the air. You felt him call your name, more than you heard it, as the cold metal doors swung shut, obscuring him from view.

Note: This is a fic that I've slowly been working on and posting over on AO3 in mini-chapters. I figure I'll migrate it over here and then update it on both going forwards. If you don't want to wait - you can find the first eleven chapters already posted on AO3 HERE. (Full disclaimer: This is a long slow burn, with a lot of plot. If you want the romance and smut - skip ahead to chapter 10. It's intentionally written so you can do that if you want.)

Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Mutual Pining, Jealousy, Possessive Behavior, Endgame Zayne, ZaynexReader, ZaynexMC, CalebxReader, CalebxMC

Chapter 2: Invocation

It doesn’t feel any more real the next morning. Jenna gave you the next day off, well, Jenna made you take the next day off, and you wake up somewhere close to 10:30 feeling like you’ve slept for days. Rolling onto your stomach, you groan slightly as stiff muscles remind you how long you’ve been in bed. Blindly reaching for your phone, your hand hits plushie, another plushie, and then the cool smooth phone case. 

Bringing it in front of your still bleary eyes, you blink quickly and cuss quietly before tossing the device somewhere into the pile of plushies and pillows. The missed calls are legion, and the texts just as many. You’re not sure you have the strength to face them yet. 

Letting your head drop back into the pillow you lay there, face first, your own hot breath warming your nose, eyes squinted shut, doing your best to deny the world its existence. 

You don’t last long. Or at least not nearly as long as you’d like.

Dragging weary limbs upwards you roll towards the edge of the bed and find yourself on your feet. Stretching and tossing a wayward plushie back towards the head of the bed you consider the room in front of you. Everything sits exactly where it should, exactly where you left it, exactly as if this were any other day and not some horrifying dream turned reality. 

Before you can wonder exactly where the phone landed it reveals itself by lighting up and beginning to buzz softly. Grabbing it instinctively you freeze for a moment when you see the name on the screen. But sooner than you can choose to answer or ignore it, the front door opens and the voice of the caller rings out into your apartment. 

“Pipsqueak?” It’s tinged with worry, soft with concern, and yet it is at once question and demand. “You haven’t been answering so I -” 

“In here.” You cut him off and drop the phone back onto the bed, before pressing the palms of your hands into your eyes. “I was just sleeping in.” 

You don’t know if he’s heard yet - you can only assume he has. Your question is answered before you can ask it, as he appears in the doorway. 

“Why didn’t you call me yesterday? What the he-” You interrupt him again, this time by slamming into him full force. It’s not a conscious choice, just a reaction to his physical presence in the space. 

Caleb, for once, mercifully, is quiet. 

You feel his arms encompass you, and his chin lower to rest atop your head. You press your face further into his chest, as if somehow you might be able to disappear into his embrace, or use it to shield yourself from the world. Inhaling deeply you let the smell of his cologne and skin encompass you, letting the whole world turn into Caleb, for one brief, safe, moment. 

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.” You feel his voice rumble in his chest, your head is pressed so close. “You shouldn’t have had to face that alone.” 

With those words the tears start to flow, and if at first you weren’t sure if you were crying you are as you lift your head and see the tear stains on the crisp white of his fleet uniform shirt. Glancing behind him you see his hat, gloves, and coat thrown carelessly across the couch and floor by the front door, which you realize is still standing wide open. 

“You broke in?” The ridiculousness of the situation occurs to you, cutting through the emotions. “Did you break in to my apartment?” 

“Of course not!” He raises his hands in a gesture of innocence. “I made a copy of your key the last time you were in Skyhaven!” 

“You what?!” You push past him, crossing the living room in several quick strides. Slamming the door shut and picking up his uniform pieces, you turn to face him, pointing one glove at him accusatorily - “You can’t steal the keys to people’s houses!” 

“Relax, I didn’t steal it. I borrowed it, made a copy, and gave it back.” There’s a smirk dancing around the corners of his mouth. “Besides, I’d already given you a key to my place. It was more than fair.” 

Realizing you aren’t going to win this argument you toss the gloves into the hat and place it unceremoniously upside down atop the uniform coat on the arm of the couch. Swallowing hard, you realize that you don’t know what to say next. There’s a pause. He’s looking at you as though he’s angry, but like he doesn’t know how to be. As if you might be something fragile, something he could break if he wasn’t careful. For some reason this makes the anger rise in your own chest. An indignation hot and familiar. 

“I was going to call you this morning. But I didn’t have clearance to tell you anything yet. I’m sure you can understand that.” It’s not completely a lie, you don’t have clearance to tell anyone anything yet, although you’re sure that Jenna wouldn’t object to you telling Caleb, not that you remembered to ask. 

“I don’t need clearance, Pipsqueak. I’m the Colonel.” His tone makes it clear he’s not buying that excuse. He steps towards you, “I understand you were overwhelmed…” his voice softens, “I just want you to know that I’m here now. That’s what matters.” 

You want to believe him. You want to believe him with every ounce of your being. You feel like you’re vibrating, like every fiber of your being has been strummed and is resonating at a frequency just too fast to be comfortable. And yet - you remain steps away, incapable of returning to that embrace. 

“I know.” Is all you softly manage. “I…know.” You say it a second time, as if to wash the shame off of it with repetition. When you finally manage to lift your gaze again, this time you see the tears in his eyes. Not spilling over, but barely held back. 

“Caleb - I…” You feel as though you could fall to your knees. Saying his name feels like it releases some invisible tension and the vibration lowers. You say it again, “Caleb…” the words after it don’t feel necessary. 

He takes two steps towards you, slowly, carefully, like you might startle and run. “I’m here."

[protoscars]

:: Concentration ::

Summary: You find a new way to get Zayne's attention. Tags: ZaynexReader, fluff Note: My first drabble for Tumblr in many years. Shameless sexy fluff. Hope y'all enjoy!

Zayne had been particularly busy lately. Greyson was away on vacation, and as much as you knew the poor man needed it - you couldn't help but count the days until his return. Between his regular duties at the hospital, his research, and now the clinic shifts he was covering for his colleague, you felt like you barely saw him.

It wasn't that you weren't busy yourself, but between both of your schedules, time off was a precious rarity.

So when he finally had an afternoon off, and you had several protected days of recuperation post mission, you were particularly peeved when he chose to spend it - reading.

His promises of dinner that evening had done something to ameliorate your hurt feelings. And when he'd insisted he had to read the medical journals he was behind on before anything else, you had sighed, and agreed.

You'd tried to be patient at first. Even sat down in the sunny armchair near the window with a book of your own. Yet despite your best intentions, despite your genuine interest in the story pressed between your palms, your eyes wandered. They'd slipped off the page and over the edge of the clothbound spine, finding Zayne calmly turning pages on the couch. He appeared to suffer no such distractions, his green eyes flicking calmly across the page.

You'd studied him instead of the finely printed text. Reading his posture, studying his posture, finding illumination in the motion of his chest falling up and down.

You'd leaned forwards in your chair, fidgeting back and forth without thinking about it. Eventually you'd dropped all pretext of reading, setting the book aside.

And when you could no longer look, when there was no page left to turn in the story his body told - you'd sighed loudly, and he hadn't looked up.

You had stood, stretching like a lazy cat, keeping one eye on your prey. And he hadn't stirred.

You'd paced back and forth before the high windows, intentionally letting the light reflect off your lips and filter through your hair. You hadn't drawn more from him than one long, withering glance. Then he'd returned to his reading.

His face calm, his posture relaxed, his legs crossed.

You'd "accidentally" knocked a few things over. All that had earned you was a soft, "You are making it hard to concentrate."

The afternoon had passed in agonizing slowness.

So, the next afternoon, when he had returned to his chair, resuming his reading where he had left off - you had tried to hard to be good.

Instead of interrupting him, you'd removed yourself. Thinking perhaps if temptation were out of sight it would be easier. You'd gone to his room, telling yourself you'd take a nap. That by the time you awoke he would be all yours.

It was in the bedroom, sitting innocently on a shelf, that you'd found it. The smooth black rectangle now coated in a fine layer of dust.

The camera had come from Tara. She'd been on some sort of kick lately about the virtues of old technology. For Christmas she'd given Simone some sort of handheld CD player, Nero had been given a convoluted label maker, and you had gotten a polaroid camera.

Laughing, you'd used it to document the rest of the party. The camera's flash illuminating smiling faces, before the photo paper slid out, the fog slowly fading to reveal captured fragments of laughter. The picture of a stone faced Jenna in reindeer antlers had been a particular hit.

Zayne had picked you up from the party, and you had tipsily, laughingly, snapped his photo too. His expression startled, the distant glow of Christmas lights behind him, snowflakes just starting to blur the foreground. You treasured that photo.

But you had forgotten the camera. The camera that had been left at Zayne's place.

A smile slowly crept over your face as you reached for the camera, an idea forming in your mind. No, scratch that, not an idea, inspiration.

You kept them tasteful. No true nudes, just a few carefully composed shots. You grinned as you slid your sweater back over your head. It had been hard to angle a photo of yourself looking over your back, but if all went to plan, certainly worth it. Shaking the final print back and forth to hasten the developing process you took a moment to admire your work before carefully tucking the photos into the back of your own book.

And then you wait. It's ironic, really, you think. Sitting in the armchair, biding your time, watching the late afternoon sunlight catch in his hair. You have all the patience in the world when it comes to things like this.

It's almost a week before your opportunity comes, but come it does. It's a rare Saturday off, and you see the suspiciously high tower of medical journals has once again taken up residence on the table next to the couch. You slide the photos out of your book while he's making breakfast, and you carefully place the polaroids between the pages of titles such as "The Journal of Surgical Advancement" and "The Skyhaven Medical Journal."

That afternoon you don't read. You watch. You remember to turn a page now and then, but you can't look away. You think that perhaps your heart will give you away, because it races in your chest. As if he could somehow sense your pulse. The thrill of adventure speeding it along.

You keep your eyes trained on Zayne, watching him reach the end of his journal, fold the cover back around, and set it beside him. He picks up the next one, each motion as calm and deliberate as the last. Once more, he begins to read.

When he finds the first photo he almost doesn't look at it. He starts to set it aside, as if it's nothing more than a postcard for subscription, or an advertisement. Then comes the moment of realization when his eyes widen, and the tips of his ears turn a very adorable pink. You quickly lower your gaze, returning to the picture of innocence. You can feel his eyes on you, and it takes everything you have to keep a straight face.

The air is briefly thick and you feel, more than hear or see, him swallow hard.

Zayne clears his throat, and you look up, to see him frozen, looking at you with an intensity that would scare you, if you didn't know better.

"Yes?" You muster all the innocence you can. "Do you need some water?"

Zayne's eyes narrow, ever so slightly, but his composure doesn't slip.

"No. I'm fine." He replies with a calm that almost disappoints you. "I was simply wondering...if you'd...lost something." The cadence of each word is weighted.

"Not that I'm aware of." You reply, and using every bit of strength you have, return to looking at the book in your hand. The letters swim as you fight to keep a straight face, but you do.

Eventually you chance a glance back over the top of the pages of the book you're still pretending to read, and see he has returned to his own reading. The photo is resting face down, beside him. You swallow a grin.

They're right, revenge is sweet.

It takes about fifteen minutes before he finds the next photo. You know exactly which one it is by the noise he makes. You refuse to look up this time, although it kills you not to see the face you're sure he's making.

When you do chance a careful look up, you see that it has also been placed face down, a safe distance away.

The next one is only a few more pages in. By the speed with which he finds it, you're certain he's no longer actually reading. You hear him sigh this time, and you're not sure if it's exasperation or desperation. You allow yourself a small smile as you lower your book to see him pinching the bridge of his nose.

"How many are there?"

"How many what, Zayne?"

"You know what."

"I don't know what you're talking about." You pause, and then take the opening, "You are making it hard to concentrate."

You can feel the look he gives you, despite your dedication to staring a hole through the page you carefully position in front of your nose.

By the time he makes it to the fourth photo, he groans, and you give in and grin wickedly.

"Come here." His voice is low and almost hoarse. You slowly put your book down, not bothering to mark the page.

"Why?" You feign innocence one last time.

He rises in one smooth motion, and you can't help but wonder at the fact that the grace of hands seems to extend to the rest of his body as he crosses the room in two swift strides to stand over you. Your book is unceremoniously plucked from your hands, and tossed aside.

"Because, I know what I need to concentrate on."