u/Realistic_Badger_708

Hey DSW crew!

First time making an official post here and grateful to be sharing it with you all.

So, some context. This excerpt is part of a story where a team of agents are trying to find a reality warper. The excerpt in question is a transitional scene from the start (where the main character grounds herself, sets the scene, and takes stock of the characters) and the first power use (where reality starts changing). The purpose of this transitional scene is to get a feel for this reality warper and to set a "normal" feeling before the rug gets pulled underneath everyone's feet. However, I'm worried that the scene takes too long to get to the action but feel the info provided is necessary.

This excerpt is at 788 words, and essentially I'm looking to know if pacing, tension, and characterization are on point and if your attention holds out or stops somewhere in the passage. Thank you for your time and hope you enjoy reading.

***

“Thanks for not throwing your drink in my face. I wouldn’t blame you if you did. Would’ve deserved it, but still… thanks, Valerie.”

“We all say stupid things sometimes,” I replied, keeping my voice light as I watched for any sudden movement. I hadn’t expected him to be this open, though it meant my cover identity was doing its job. Could use that. “But why say, 'You can call me Hollywood because I’m a self-absorbed arsehole with commitment issues'? Do you say that to everyone else or did you think that was my type?”

He snorted under his breath, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I... don't know to be honest.” He shrugged with a helpless grin. “It felt like it needed to be forced out. Like a sneeze you can’t stop. Terrible timing.” His eyes held mine, sharper now as I stared back at him. “But we’re past it.” He paused, taking a bite of salad close to his mouth before stopping. He set his fork down, leaning in slightly. “What are you thinking about right now? I’d like a second shot at not sounding like an idiot.”

I gave him a small shrug and let my fingers rest around the stem of my glass. “Why did you leave your table for mine? You don’t strike me as someone who moves without a reason.” 

“Cha-” He stopped and shook his head while chuckling. “Force of habit and not the right time.”

Force of habit? Not the right time? I blinked, filing the half-syllable away for now. “That other woman you were talking with. She looked like she was having a good time with you.”

Glancing around the dining room, I reached with my energy. A server refilling water, a couple laughing too loud, the table Hollywood had left now empty. Still nothing. No sign Hollywood had twisted the room. Nothing I could use to tilt things in my favor.

“She was fine, but when I saw you... You have a certain pull,” he said, flashing a quick grin. “A spotlight look.”

I tilted my head at him. “And what does that pull feel like to you?”

“The jury is still out on that,” he shot back without hesitation. “But you’re not the only one with a pull.”

That earned a reluctant smile from me. For a second, the mission felt miles away, and the young man in front of me was just an awkward kid trying too hard. I caught myself leaning in before pulling back. The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. Coat Guy was still watching us from his booth, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass, lips thinned. The ballad from the stage washed over us, piano and voice weaving together. I let it steady my breathing, not to relax but to stay loose. To stay ready.

Hollywood poked at the wilted remains of his salad, then let out a low chuckle.

“Are your friends coming back?” he asked. He went still, his eyes darting around. “I remembered seeing you coming with your friends.”

“They’re not coming back. Don’t worry about them.” I let out a short breath, my jittery leg bouncing. Sure enough, looking past Hollywood, Ryan gave an annoyed look before nodding slightly. Yeah, he’d have a word or two for me for going off-script. Oh well, one problem at a time. “It's just you and me now,” I said, returning my focus to Hollywood. “Two people in a fancy restaurant, having a normal conversation.”

“Normal.” He chuckled. “You're alright with normal?”

I tilted my head. Interesting that he honed in on that. “I like to start normal. It gives me a good baseline before I figure out who I’m dealing with.”

He leaned back slightly, studying me. “Interesting.” A long pause. His eyes didn’t leave me as my body locked up. “You’re… different than I expected.”

“I could say the same about you,” I replied carefully, running the odds as my shoulders relaxed. If he was our warper, he was the best actor I’d ever met.

He looked at me for a moment, the smile lingering before fading into uncertainty. “I forgot how this felt,” he murmured, almost to himself.

I raised an eyebrow. “How ‘what’ felt?” Around our table, the conversation had gone quiet. Not silent, but muffled, like someone had lowered the volume. I felt my energy twisting inside me. I glanced up. Ryan was still near the stage, Carmen still at the bar. Neither had reacted. Either I was the only one who felt it, or they were better at hiding it than I was.

Instead of answering, he leaned forward slightly, his face brightening.

“So, Val… want to start over? This conversation?”

Hey all!

Looking for prompts where someone encounters an object or person. They don't necessarily need to know what is being hidden under the object/person but that their intention to interact with them was good in nature. Maybe they wanted to help out a friend or family member, the person/object they encountered, or even themself.

Original post by u/Alt-Akk25

CW: Dub-con

***

Harold’s knuckles went white on the steering wheel. The woman by the car ahead had beaten him out. Worse, she was taking her sweet time.

He squeezed his eyes shut, muttering, “Just get out of the car.”

Cracking an eye, he froze. She was bent over, leggings pulled taut across the swell of her glutes, the curve of her hamstrings sharp in the afternoon light. He watched the fabric shift with the smallest movement of her hips as she placed the bags into her trunk.

Shutting his eyes only made it worse. The stranger dissolved, and Jennifer took her place. Now bent over the hood of his car, she looked at him over one shoulder, that old wicked grin curling her lips. You made me wait, she seemed to say. Take what’s yours. He could almost feel the heat of her skin under his palms, the way she used to arch into him when he stepped close.

“No.”

He hauled himself out, slammed the door harder than necessary, and stalked toward the entrance. Summer heat had turned the lot into a catwalk. Thin straps clinging to damp shoulders, sundresses riding up every step, a flash of bare midriff as a woman stretched for her trunk. But none of them were Jennifer. He forced his eyes forward and pressed on.

The AC hit his damp collar like a slap, but it did nothing to cool the heat creeping up his neck. He grabbed a cart but stood there for a moment, letting the cold air wash over him.

I’m not perverted. Pause. Okay, technically I am. But I’ve only got eyes for her, and it’s been so long.

He remembered the time she’d worn that black dress, nothing underneath, to a rooftop bar. She’d leaned over the railing just to watch him squirm, the city lights tracing the line of her spine. Later, in the cab, after making out in the bathroom, she’d whisper exactly what she wanted him to do when they got home, and he’d nearly asked the driver to pull over so he could fuck her on the approaching bench. She’d laughed, that low, throaty sound, and pressed her palm against his thigh for the rest of the ride.

Then marriage came.

He grabbed a bottle of her favorite red, the one they’d drunk on their first anniversary, and set it in the cart.

Fun. He snorted, dropping a pair of pillar candles next to the wine. They used to have fun.

Somewhere between the promotions and the 10 PM emails, she’d traded her lace for blazers, her laughter for calendar invites. He’d come home with takeout and a hopeful grin, but she’d wave him off with a Bluetooth earpiece still blinking. Worse, when he reached for her at night, she’d curl away, muttering about an early meeting. Always busy. Always tired. Always cold.

His teeth ground together. He white-knuckled the and let out a slow, shaking breath as he made a turn.

He’d do anything to get her back, to bring that woman back to life. The one who’d once pinned him against a refrigerator in the middle of a house party, her mouth hot on his neck while guests milled around them. Tonight, he’d try again. Candles. Wine. The good china. Maybe it would be enough.

He turned the corner and stopped.

A small display stood by the bakery.

One Wish Willow
You only get ONE WISH

***

The candles had burned down to stubs by the time they sat. It was nearly nine as the dining room felt smaller than it used to.

Harold took his usual end of the table. Jennifer sat opposite, her blazer draped over the chair beside her. She’d undone the top button of her blouse as he caught the pale hollow of her throat. His thumb twitched, remembering how it felt to press there, to feel her pulse quicken under his touch. He looked away.

“The AC gave out at noon,” Jennifer said, dabbing her forehead with her napkin. A strand of hair from her bun stuck to her temple, giving her that flushed look. “I opened every window. Still felt like a sauna.”

He grunted, spearing a piece of chicken without looking up.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “So,” she said, trying to sound brighter, “how was your day?”

He glanced up, then back down. “Same as always. Boxes, tape, a sore back.” He rolled one shoulder as it cracked.

The corner of her mouth curved. “I imagine your boss appreciates those arms of yours. All that lifting.” Her gaze flicked down to his forearm before looking up at him.

His breath caught. That look, the one she used to give him before dragging him into a supply closet, her mouth already on his. He coughed, grabbing his wine glass. Was she teasing him? Testing him? He set the glass down carefully.

“Can we not talk about work?” His voice came out rougher than he intended. “It’s all we ever talk about.” Then he muttered. “When we talk at all.”

Her smile vanished. “Fine.” She set her fork down with a soft clink. “This is your dinner. You planned it. You cooked it. You get to decide what we discuss.”

He reached across the table, his fingers brushing the back of her hand. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

She pulled her hand back before looking up at him directly. “Do you want to have sex, Harold?”

“What?”

“Don’t.” Her fingers tightened around the stem of her wine glass until her knuckles went pale. The wine sloshed to one side. “Don’t you dare act surprised.”

“I’m not-”

“Every dinner. Every ‘favor’. Every time you look at me like I’m a problem you’re trying to solve.” She leaned forward, and he saw her hand tremble against the glass. “You never ask what I want, Harold. You just wait for me to notice what you want.”

He shoved back from the table. His chair scraped against the hardwood as his fork clattered onto his plate. “Because you’re always buried in that office!” His voice cracked. “I want my wife back. The one who used to laugh with me. The one who used to want me.”

Jennifer stood slowly. “And I want my husband back.” She grabbed her blazer from the chair and the wine bottle by the neck before walking away. However, at the foot of the stairs, she paused, just for a second.

Harold could only stare from his seat as she finally said, “You keep asking where the old me went. You never ask who I am now.”

Then she was gone, her footsteps heavy on the stairs as she retreated from view. A door clicked shut upstairs, the final note on what was left of the dinner.

The dining room swallowed the silence. Yet, Harold continued to sit there, chest heaving, staring at the half-empty plate across from him. His hand trembled as he picked up a candle stub, hers, and felt the faint warmth of the wax.

She was here. She was right here.

“Dammit.” Setting it down, he slammed his palm on the table, rattling the silverware.

He sat there for a long moment, breathing hard. Then, almost unconsciously, his hand drifted to his pocket. The small box had been there all night. He’d touched it twice during dinner. Once when she’d mentioned her boss, the other when she’d unbuttoned that top button. He didn’t even know why he bought the damn thing. A good luck charm. A joke. Something to hold onto.

Now he pulled it out.

The red-and-white box was warm against his palm, likely from how hot he was feeling. He pried the flap open. Inside, the black lay coiled like a waiting snake. The moment his fingers touched it, it chimed. The melody briefly hung in the air, too pure for the dingy dining room. Tiny pinprick lights flickered along its length as he pulled it out before it went still.

One wish.

He wasn’t a believer. This thing was absurd. Childish. Yet, as he turned it over in his palm, the wood felt cool and smooth despite the heat of his skin.

His grip tightened. He had to put this somewhere. This ache, this rage, this wanting that had no place else to go.

He should have wished for patience. For the guts to apologize. For one single evening where they could lower their guard. He almost said the right words. He opened his mouth, and forgiveness was right at the tip of his tongue.

Instead, he closed his eyes. His fingers grabbed both ends of the wand. He thought of her cold shoulder. Her turned back. The way she used to pull him into bed, her mouth on his neck, her fingers tangled in his hair. Yet she was upstairs. Alone.

Unreachable.

The words came out in a ragged whisper. “I wish Jennifer Collins was a total nymphomaniac.”

SNAP.

***

Upstairs, the hallway was dim. Harold raised his hand to knock before pausing. His palm was damp, which had nothing to do with the dishes he washed. 

This is stupid. She was probably drinking the bottle dry. Or worse, hunched over her laptop, already lost to another spreadsheet. He’d knock, she’d sigh, and he’d slink back to bed alone. He looked around. No light under the door. No clicking of keys.

Just silence.

He was already turning away, shoulders slumped, when the door swung open.

The room behind her was pitch-black, but the hallway light caught her silhouette. As he looked, his breathing stopped. Her hair, usually pinned in that severe bun, fell past her shoulders in dark, tangled waves. Her blouse hung open another two buttons, the fabric gaping just enough to show the shadowed curve of her breasts. She leaned against the doorframe, the wine bottle dangling from her fingers while the sweet, sharp smell of red wine rolled off in waves.

But it was the look on her face that made him freeze. Even in the dim light, he could see it. The slow, lazy grin that he hadn’t seen in years. Not the tight, polite smile she gave when she came home. This was the grin she’d worn the night they’d met, when she’d pulled him into a bathroom stall at a club. His skin prickled.

“Harold.” Her voice was a low purr as it sent a jolt straight down his spine.

He swallowed hard, finally finding his breath. “Are you feeling okay? You’re not still… you know. Mad?”

She tilted her head, a strand of hair falling across her cheek. “Mad? Why would I be mad?” A giggle bubbled out of her, high and bright, nothing like the woman who’d marched up the stairs an hour ago. She pressed her free hand to her mouth, stifling it before dropping her palm to her chest. “You know, I’m glad you’re here. I was thinking about you.”

His voice cracked. “You- you were?”

She stepped closer and pressed her palm flat against his chest. He felt her fingers curl slightly, gripping the fabric of his shirt. His heart slammed against her hand.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed you,” she breathed. “Your hands on me.”

He stepped back, and with it, her hand fell away. The absence of it was worse than the weight had been. His fingers twitched at his side, aching to reach for her. “That’s the wine talking,” he said, though his voice was thin. “You’ve had-”

She looked down at the bottle, blinking at it like she’d forgotten it was there. Then, she carefully set it on the floor before straightening herself. “I only took a sip. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” Her eyes found his again as something in them softened. “Harold, I was thinking about you when I was working. You were coming up behind me, your hands on my hips, your mouth on that spot behind my ear.” She shivered as a tremor ran through her shoulders. “But when I turned around, you weren’t there. You’re never there when I want-”

She stepped into him, her body pressing flush against his as his hands found her hips before his brain could stop them. Her fingers grazed his arm, light and teasing as they traced a path from his wrist to his bicep. She looked up at him, her face inches from his. In the dim light, her eyes were dark, pupils blown wide. “It’s been too long, Harold. I need you.”

She kissed him.

Her lips were soft, wine-warm, tasting like the red she’d been drinking. For a terrible, beautiful moment, he didn’t move. His hands stayed frozen on her hips. His mouth stayed still.

This is a dream. This is the wine. This is-

She made a small whimper, and with it, his resolve shattered. He kissed her back, hard, pulling her against him. She gasped against his mouth, and he felt her fingers grabbing his hair. The taste of her kiss, the wine and something sweeter underneath, flooded his senses. It didn’t take long for his hands to slide from her hips to her lower back, pressing her closer as she arched into him with a soft moan.

Finally, she pulled back just far enough to breathe, her forehead against his. Her lips were slick, parted, and a thin string of warmth still connected them. “I know you want me just as much as I want you,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

He did. God help him, he did. His body was already leaning back in, already craving more. But something flickered at the edge of his mind. The memory of her cold shoulder, her sharp words, her rigid back as she’d march up the stairs.

“Jennifer,” he said, his voice ragged. “You were just- an hour ago, you-” He shook his head. “Is this really you? Or is this-?”

She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. “I’m right here,” she said softly. “I’ve always been right here. You just need to stop looking.”

Her hand slid from his lips to his jaw, cradling his face. He wanted to believe her. He wanted it so badly it ached.

“What do you need?” he asked.

She smiled, that slow, dangerous smile. Reaching down, she took his hand and pulled him into the dark room with her. “Help me ruin my office.”

Yes, it's based off that scene from Brand New Day but go wild with it. Special thanks to u/whore_queen for the help in writing this prompt!