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circeyoru · 6 months ago

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Twisted Killings

[Solo Leveling x Homicipher MC!Reader - Crossover]

Related Story: Idea 1 (Jinah's school dungeon break incident)

Note: This is different from {Other Other World} but the concept is the same where Reader/you are the MC of Homicipher and got sent into the world of Solo Leveling. There’s no particular pairing cause there are the Homicipher guys as your Pokemon already.

The Hunters Association was founded by an S-Rank Hunter, funded and sponsored by the same person who was now dubbed the Chairman, that person was Go Gunhee. He was well-respected and knew the world of power and authority not in terms of physical strength, but also the workings of corporates and those that are placed in higher power like the government or politicians.

This establishment had a few key focuses or purposes as the Chairman would say. One, to be a pillar of support for the citizens and Hunters alike, a neutral party that would strive the benefit of the country. Two, to be a shield against the outside force that aimed to take advantage of the weak-hearted or lower-ranked Hunters. Three, to be a monitor or eyes for all things related to Hunters and Gates. And finally, four, to be the weapon that keeps those with ill intent in check, namely the Hunters who have awakened and fancied themselves a god among mortals.

However grand the goals are, they were nothing when it was only one person within the Association. One person can’t be the one to change the world―at least Chairman Go knew he didn’t have that power and capability to do so. Perhaps one day, he’d meet someone of that stature, but right now, his focus was on the foundation of the Association.

Recruitment was easy and hard. There were those that would follow him to the ends of the Earth, and then those would oppose this establishment. Talented individuals usually find themselves independent and prideful, not wanting to work under someone and listen to orders. It was the restriction that made it all the more difficult to recruit such individuals. The Association was set up to be an honourable and praiseworthy organization, so mingling with this would be like turning into a priest or a nun. To be professional and righteous.

“It’s not much but I can offer you a home.” Go Gunhee spoke softly, his hands behind his back as he stood in the rundown abandoned shack in the forest. “A place to work and a place to strive.”

“I have no interest in that.” Your figure perched on a small hilltop of stacked wooden furniture pieces, the rain droplets slipping through the cracks to drip onto your raincoat. The hood of your dirty raincoat shadowed your face, leaving only a bandaged mouth and nose to the intruder that followed you all the way here. You gripped onto your crowbar as you glared down at him. “Leave before you regret ever following me.”

Your tone was borderline threatening for anyone who heard it. However, it serves as a warning. The rain washed away the blood and gore of beasts that you and your companions hunted for you to feast on, their corpses were still littered around and the flesh was still present. The smell of the forest overpowered that of the slowly rotting flesh, but that wasn’t the point. Focus on the beings surrounding the man he couldn’t dream of ever defeating or purging.

An obsessive red man with a wide inhuman grin to the side behind you holding a red umbrella over you, his form glitching and distorting from time to time as if holding himself back from attacking―Mr. Scarletella.

An amused silver-haired man with a dirty lab coat of sorts grinning ear to ear with his head tilted while his hands were behind his back, from your perspective, tortuous tools were held in case of any threat perceived―Mr. Silver.

An on-guard doglike man with long black hair and dressed in black standing on the slop before you, his usually crawling form and childish grin gone with an aura of alert in his position―Mr. Crawling.

From the shadows of gaps that made your perch, you knew an observant and calculating man’s eye had been watching everything but never said a word or made a move―Mr. Gap.

Then, there was the one closest to the human. Your guardian and rock in the worst times, dressed in a worn-down cloak with his hood covering his entire face to the point one could only see darkness, he wielded a menacing executioner’s axe that was half of his size as if prepared to cut the human down―Mr. Hood.

If one were to ask, are there more to your crazy, overpowered, and disturbing companions? Let’s just say there was more to you than meets the eye. These weren’t all of your cards.

From just the atmosphere of the place, one could tell the ringleader wasn’t as harmless as their appearance would show. Gunhee, the leader of an honest institution, couldn’t believe himself, but if he was given another chance, he wouldn’t change anything and would make the same decision over and over. He raised his hand as an offer was presented to you. “Be my association’s officer. You wouldn’t be put into a suit and follow the standard procedures. I will offer you a playground to hunt and kill if you would be my weapon.”

The air shifted, and a grin formed on your face. It was as if it were a synced-up connection, and your companions all grinned alongside you. The crowbar in your hand was swirled around until it was thrown at the Chairman, who was unfazed by it all and stood his ground. You skipped down the hill, patting Mr. Crawling’s head on the way down to Mr. Scarletella’s envy. You stared at the bold man while you retrieved your signature killing tool, Mr. Hood had already stood protectively close to you. In a swift move, you pointed the curve tip in his face with a crazed expression. “If this is a trap… Know that your death won’t be quick and painless.”

“We are to be partners, I believe we benefit from mutual trust.”

Rumours circled in the Hunter’s community forum. After the Hunter Association’s official establishment, Hunters were promptly placed under control, guilds were formed and Hunters were organized into groups and ranks. The most unspoken attention was placed on the Hunters turned criminal or vice versa. Most, if not al,l were curious as to how the Hunter Association would handle that. Let them be sent to a prison? But their Hunter abilities could allow them to break out no question. Charge them? But as a Hunter, earning money had been the fastest among other careers. Monitor them? But with Gates running rampant and the lack of personnel, who would watch them 24/7?

A lone guild was sponsored by the Hunter Association and answered only to the Chairman. Its name was [Other], an exclusive guild that no one knew who its members were, including the guildmaster. Their activity, however, was renowned to all. In simple terms, they were the Hunter Association’s hired assassins or clean-up crew. Their typical work included acting as the strike team to clear unwanted Gates, though their infamous deeds were to pass judgment on those that defied the jurisdiction.

Simple terms?

Killing people.

The Other Guild was one of mystery. Its members and guild master are not only unknown, but recruitment was done in secret and one way. None could approach them or reveal relevant information about the guild itself and its master. Its activities leaked credibility to the point that some would brush it aside and claim that it was something the Hunter Association did to scare Hunters into being more moral and human, not to become the monsters from the Gates.

“It’s raining again…”

“I forgot my umbrella…”

“No football practice?”

“We should be moving to the indoor gym room.”

“I hate the rain, makes you all wet.”

You moved past the students chatting in the hallways with your school bag. Your eyes glanced out the windows to the school’s front gate, spotting a black car parked by the road. Just as you noticed the vehicle, your phone buzzed and you fished it out of your pocket to check the notification.

STUCK-UP SUNGLASSES GUY: We need to talk.

You left his message on read and placed away your phone. As you were about to walk down the stairs, your hand was called, and you paused to turn your head, spotting your classmate and star student Sung Jinah rushing towards you with an annoying object in her hand. You turned around and backed off to the side so others wouldn’t be staring or complaining about how you two blocked the way. Your eyes stared at her silently while she caught her breath. Once she did, she raised the object for you to take, “You almost forgot your umbrella; it’s pouring outside, don’t want you to be soaked and get sick.”

“I won’t.” You didn’t bother to explain which statement you were implying, nor did you thank her for her kindness. You glared at the object before snapping your eyes back to her, involuntarily making her flinch at attention, “Why don’t you hold onto it? You don’t appear to have one.”

Jinah shook her head and turned to her side to show your her schoolbag behind her back, “My brother packed me one just before I left home today. So I got myself covered.”

You clicked your tongue in annoyance. There went your plan to abandon the freak. You forced a smile on and took the object from her, “Too bad.” You turned to leave school not before saying goodbye to Jinah since she initiated one first. You mumbled, “See you never…”

In your hand was a plain red umbrella that you kept tapping the tip against the floor or any surface as you continued your walk. At the building’s entrance or exit, depending on your travel direction, people were opening and closing their umbrellas, waiting for the rain to lighten up, or just dashing into the rain with their bags over their heads to avoid being soaked. Stepping close to one of the pillars, you harshly swiped the umbrella at the stone structure. Anyone that was near you shuffled away from your radius. Your umbrella opened without issue, and you held it overhead before stepping into the rain.

You opened the passenger slide door without missing a beat and entered the car. You purposefully slammed the car door at the handle of your umbrella, and it closed before you brought it in. To your right appeared Mr. Scarletella with a blushing face and hearts for eyes; to your left was Mr. Crawling, who had been a good boy staying out of sight and patiently waiting for you.

“Guildmaster.” The driver and the one you titled as ‘stuck-up glasses guy’ spoke up. This man, Woo Jinchul, was basically Chairman Go’s right-hand man. An A-Rank Hunter who could have been a celebrity but decided to follow the worthy Chairman and his noble goals, but you’re not one to judge; after all, you are technically following the same man as well.

“Hm?” You hummed with a lack of concern or interest. You opted to play with Mr. Crawling’s hair, straightening it out while he purred and nuzzled into your gentle touch.

“This is serious.” You didn’t need to shift your gaze to know he was staring at you behind his shaded glasses through the rearview mirror with a firm glare that would have threatened your attention―had you been a normal human being that is.

“Just talk, I’m listening.” You’re not really. Selective attention and whatnot.

Jinchul clenched the steering wheel but relented within seconds and stated as calmly and professionally as he could, “Stop playing around and acting like a student when you’re well over that level and age despite appearance. You have to control your guild better. One of your members, Kang Tae-Shik, have caused a scene inside a dungeon. He tried to kill the remaining Hunters during a contracted assassination.”

“So? I’m sure those were criminals.”

“There were reports that other Hunters were partaking in the raid and there were casualties.”

You looked away from Mr. Crawling to give Mister Bossy a look of disinterest. “Like I said, so? Deaths happen daily, if you cared so much, have your Chairman replace me with another guild leader.” You grinned at him with a haunt tilt of your head, your neck making a resounding crack sound though it’s not broken. “I’ll just find some other hunting grounds to work with.”

“You…” Jinchul controlled himself from lashing out.

Truthfully, he never understood the logic behind bringing someone as manic and bloodthirsty as you into the ranks of the Hunter Association. The Chairman gave you a dirty job, but you accepted that with pride and joy. You have been doing your part in the beginning, though as of late, you have been slipping and couldn’t afford to lose your power and influence. Especially when you control those entities of another world like a mage Hunter with their summons.

That was another point. You weren’t a Hunter. You had no mana when you were being tested, yet you had inhuman capabilities. From speed, strength, to healing and otherworldly communication with your summons. You were human, yet there was always that unsettling aura around you that would make those around you doubt your identity. Still, you were no monster from a Gate. That was certain.

“I don’t mean for you to leave your post. You’re… irreplaceable in the Chairman’s eyes.” Jinchul’s voice trailed off as if he was forced to admit something he strongly disagreed with.

You rolled your eyes at his display; he was acting worse than Mr. Scarletella, and that was shown a lot. “What do you want me to do now?”

“If you can recover the bodies from the Gate and file them in a report, that would be much appreciated.” Jinchul only started the car when you gave a low hum of compliance. The drive to the site was quiet, save for the coos you gave to Mr. Crawling and the yells you snapped at Mr. Scarletella. Though you did try to recall who Kang Tae-Shik was, then you did recall someone by that name you recruited into your guild, but you found him annoying, so you dropped him off to Jinchul to deal with without telling the guy that Mr. Purple Head was one of those twisted Hunter.

Namely, three essential figures supported the Hunter Association’s function. The Chairman, Go Gunhee, who acted as the pillar and shield for citizens and Hunters alike, the figurehead of the organization itself and he obviously held the most influence. The guild master of the Other Guild, you, who acted as the punisher to those that threatened the peace from the shadows. To balance the two was the monitor, Woo Jinchul, who connected the Hunter Association with Hunters; his work was so diverse that one could say he had a hand in everything.

The two of you were brought together by Gunhee under the reason of work and tolerated each other when the time came to work together. There was some sort of sibling interaction between you two, with Jinchul being the older one and even the Chairman felt like he was taking care of you from time to time. It was odd, but you didn’t care so long as attention wasn’t directly drawn to you and you didn’t have to pay for the kills you made.

“We’re here.” The car stopped and you opened the door to leave. By then the rain had stopped and you merely held onto the umbrella idly after putting on your signature raincoat and pulled the hood over your head to cover your face as always. Mr. Crawling followed behind you, crawling on all fours with a fond smile on his face. This sight was no stranger to the officers of the Hunter Association, but any onlooker would linger their confused and disturbed expression on the display.

You ignored the Hunters and went straight for the officers to get some form of brief report to them. “It has been 40 minutes since the dungeon was cleared and the remaining Hunters reported that the bodies are scattered about. Should we send personnel with you?”

“Don’t bother.” You fixed your outfit and took out a crowbar from your bag, even strapping a dagger behind your back, curtsy of the Chairman after you joined his ranks. You were given more toys to play with and it made your work all the easier. “I’ll be out within 10 minutes or so. If not… I’ll still be out anyways…”

Jinwoo’s eyes widened when Song Chi-Yui took the blame for killing the rogue member and killer, Kang Tae-Shik, even Lee Joohee did the same and went along with the lie. Having time to himself after Jinchul’s warning about Hwang Dongsuk’s younger brother seeking revenge, he thought back to the last words of the defeated assassin class Hunter.

“Your shadow… is connected to the darkness. You will become… as strong as your shadow’s depth in the dark…” Agonizingly, Tae-Shik wheezed as he muttered softly. “In a way… You remind me of my guildmaster… Unsuspecting but strong and terrifyingly deadly… I wonder… if you two will… ever meet…”

Jinwoo wasn’t familiar with Tae-Shik, but he was confused when he said he had a guild master because he was a member of the Hunter Association. So the only answer was that he belonged to the rumoured guild working for the association behind the public’s knowledge, a guild that focused on eradicating the darkness and evils. A necessary evil that people, both citizens and Hunters, disregarded as hearsay to pressure people to obey laws.

Still, that aura around you when you passed by, that aura that screamed murder and violence, that aura that made him question: Are you human?

Your eyes blinked and your head turned to a particular direction. You spotted a young man staring your way with a thoughtful look. Jinchul had already moved elsewhere with the remainder of the raiding party, so that man that was standing alone had to be someone left unattended because he had nothing to provide, like a suspect that was released back to the public because they were deemed harmless and innocent. Though, you could tell…

For the longest time, you and Jinwoo never crossed each other’s path again until you were called in to verify Jinwoo’s acquisition as an S-Rank Hunter. When the two of you had some time alone, you called him out with a soft yet confident statement. “You’re the one that killed the man, the weakling Kang Tae-Shik.” You stepped closer to him while your ghostly companions shook; they knew who, or at least they could also sense what Jinwoo was. Your dead heart beat like a drum, and your dull eyes sparkled with anticipation, “You have the scent of death around you. You’re familiar with death and murder.” A smile formed on your face as you invaded the frozen man’s space. “Who else did you kill cruelly and coldly?”

“...” Jinwoo can’t tell why he answered you, but he did. Unlike your hyper and eager look of expectancy, his was stoic and indifferent. “Hwang Dongsoo.”

Note: I wanted to do the dark side of the Hunter Association and this crossover was just perfect for it and now we're here. {Other Other World} could be tweaked for the two stories to be connected, but that's only if you guys wanna see that happen. How's this one in your opinion?

𝕮𝖎𝖗𝖈𝖊 𝖄.

My Works: MASTERLIST

Taglist: @rozuburedo @crxscnt @phisen @o-qi-shisme @bunnymysteriously @valeriele3 @ariseverdark @undecidingfate @stoats-a-dork (please let me know if you didn't want to be tagged cause this list is from the 1st idea)

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yourlocalaulibrary · 11 months ago

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Fluffy Peter Parker

Fics where I just get the vibe that Peter is cute and cuddly and would enjoy hugging. Some may have Peter as a background character but this still applies. All found on AO3, bon appetit: A Different Kind of Mask by aloneintherain:

A Peter and Matt Murdock crossover where Peter is an adorable little nerd

from your perspective, the world is flat by blueh:

Also known as: Peter Parker and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

5 Times Peter Made Tony Laugh Out Loud by grilledcheesing:

Tony may think Peter is a little sh*t, but he's Tony's little sh*t.

He's Mr. Perfectly Fine by howls_library:

Peter needs to form the Young Avengers, but they all need a father figure and he's fatherless. He's practically a baby, send help.

Always Glad You Came by aloneintherain:

Mutual pining between Johnny Storm and Peter Parker. Please just kiss already.

Leap of Faith (Catch Me, If You Can) by erinwantstowrite:

A Peter Parker meets the Batfam AU. Walls up Peter Parker meets wrecking ball Dick Grayson.

field trips and lab days by bundibird:

Peter learns what it means to be the center of attention

Birds of a Feather by howls_library:

Another Peter meets the Batfam au, but Peter is an emotional wreck and Dick just really wants to be there for him.

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ducksido · 7 days ago

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Hi ! How are you?

If you're okay with it, would you do a twst x epic the musical crossover with a reincarnation aspect? The twst guys (however many you want) as a reincarnated Odysseus and female reader as reincarnated Penelope? Maybe the memories come through a little at a time as they grow up and they remember everything by the time they meet at NRC?

The Thread of Memory

They say souls that are bound by love will always find each other again.

You were born with dreams that didn’t feel like yours. Salt-spray and tears. A loom that never stopped weaving. A shadow of someone tall and tired, swearing he would return.

At first, it was just poetic nonsense. Something to chalk up to a dramatic imagination. But the older you got, the clearer the dreams became—and the more you felt like you were missing something. Or someone.

You didn’t know that he was waking up too.

IDIA SHROUD — “I Remember the Storm”

Idia was the first to awaken to it.

Not suddenly—no, he’d been dreaming of monsters and storms since childhood. His parents thought it was just anxiety. But in the corner of his mind, he remembered how it felt to fight for a ship full of men, to beg gods for mercy, to burn cities and regret it later.

What broke him was the image of you. Weeping into a tapestry. Waiting, always waiting. He didn't know your name. Just your silhouette against a backdrop of blue.

When he meets you in NRC, he panics. Not because he recognizes you—but because you are the same woman he dreamed of every night.

"You're… her. You're my endgame," he whispers to himself, just loud enough for Ortho to hear.

The memories return in fits and starts—especially in moments of crisis. You walking into the computer lab one night triggers a vision of you standing on a Grecian balcony, whispering his name to the sea.

And he realizes he was never just Odysseus the hero. He was Odysseus the lost, lonely, desperate to go home.

And you were home.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR — “I Remember the War”

He denies it at first. Past lives? Dumb. Fate? Useless.

But the scent of saltwater always makes his heart ache. And he can't explain why he hates the color crimson sails or why his fingers twitch as if they once held a bowstring that sang death.

Leona remembers the war long before he remembers you. Troy. The anger. The loss.

He thinks he was some nameless soldier in a previous life—until you touch his hand and he sees you, cloaked in hope and pain, weaving at night and unraveling by morning.

“You waited,” he says hoarsely, eyes wide. “All that time. You never gave up on me.”

Leona isn’t good at love. But he understands loyalty. The idea that someone waited decades for his return breaks something cold inside him.

He doesn’t tell you he remembers—not at first. He just starts showing up. Watching you. Protecting you.

Because even in this life, he made you wait too long.

AZUL ASHENGROTTO — “I Remember the Lies”

Azul remembers nothing at first. But his dreams are full of sirens.

As a boy, he becomes obsessed with myths. He knows them all, but one story always makes his hands tremble: Odysseus tied to the mast, resisting the call of the sea.

He dreams of you in pieces—your hands, your voice, your waiting.

When he finally remembers, it hits him during an argument with you. You accuse him of manipulating a classmate again, and he snaps—but as you walk away, he’s dragged back in time.

You, crying in Ithaca. Him, lying to everyone just to get back to you. The betrayal. The wounds. The yearning.

Azul realizes he remembers being Odysseus—not the hero, but the liar who almost lost everything.

So now? He tries to earn your trust the right way. It’s awkward. It’s clumsy. But this time, he doesn’t want to build empires alone. He wants to build a life—with you.

MALLEUS DRACONIA — “I Remember the Gods”

He was closest to the divine in his past life, and so Malleus remembers earliest and clearest.

He never says it aloud, but he recognizes you the moment your magic touches his.

“The gods named you mine,” he tells you during a quiet night walk. “In every life, you are the lighthouse that calls me home.”

Malleus isn’t afraid of what he remembers. He embraces it. It explains why he always felt like a part of him was missing.

And when you finally remember too—when your eyes widen and you breathe his name like it’s both new and ancient—he smiles with heartbreaking relief.

“I wandered for decades to find you once. This time, I’ll never leave your side.”

RIDDLE ROSEHEART — “I Remember the Promise”

For Riddle, it starts as a fear of abandonment. He never knew why separation made him panic—until he remembers the endless journey across seas, praying you hadn’t remarried, hadn’t stopped believing.

You, who held the kingdom together. You, who believed he would return against all odds.

He begins to crack under the weight of it.

One day in History of Magic, Professor Trein mentions Odysseus and Penelope in passing, and Riddle’s hand grips his pen so hard it breaks.

When you confront him later, asking what’s wrong, he looks at you with guilt.

“I left you waiting,” he whispers. “And you still loved me.”

You don’t remember yet. Not fully. But something in your soul aches at his sorrow.

He holds your hand like it’s sacred.

“This time, I swear. I won’t break that promise again.”

YOU — “I Remember the Waiting”

Your memories come in dreams. Your voice echoing in halls. The feeling of unspoken love aching in your chest.

You remember men courting you. You remember denying them. You remember weaving—and praying.

And most of all, you remember him.

Not just his name, but his eyes, his words, the way he held you like a war survivor holds light.

Now, at NRC, he stands before you again.

And even now, in a strange world with no gods, no ships, and no home to return to, he always finds his way back to you.

#twst #twst x reader #twst wonderland #twst yuu

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zhelin-thames · 7 months ago

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Translated ver of this post by @doby-mans

Translated by google

Another idea I had for a DC x DP crossover, remembering canonically that Danielle went off on her own to different parts of the world.

This time, Young Justice. Danielle becomes part of the team, and everyone assumes she's a Martian, given that she focuses more on her magical abilities and skills like camouflage and phasing through walls.

But one day, Miss Martian falls ill and can’t use her telepathic powers to keep the team connected during a mission. They all turn to Danielle. Despite the setback, the mission goes well—they recover a dangerous magical artifact, a box with strange inscriptions. Finally, someone speaks up:

Superboy: “Why didn’t you establish a psychic link during the mission?”

Danielle: “Because I don’t have telepathic powers?”

Superboy: “We all know you’re a Martian like Miss Martian, so…”

Danielle: “I’m not! None of you understand the true nature of my powers, and maybe you never will! You don’t know what it’s like to be me!”

Robin: “What is it we don’t understand? Being different? Having powers no one fully comprehends? Being a teenager with raging hormones?”

Danielle: “No! Being an artificially created clone made in a secret lab!”

Impulse: “Let’s see, Superboy, Red Arrow, Robin… and now Danielle. Am I forgetting anyone?”

Danielle: “Wait, what?”

Superboy: “You’re not the first in that situation here. So, Martian DNA?”

Danielle: “Worse… The true nature of my powers… ghost DNA.”

Zatanna: “If that’s true, then you’re exactly what we need. According to the box’s inscription, only a halfa can open it.”

Danielle: Attempts to open the box but her hand starts melting. “Ah! I can’t… My ghost powers aren’t stable. This hasn’t happened in years.”

Robin: “Too bad there’s no other halfa to open the box.”

Danielle: “Well… that’s not entirely true. Besides me, there are two others. One is a dangerous villain—my creator—who disappeared years ago. And the other…”

Zatanna: “What about the other?”

Danielle: “The other… well, he’s…”

The entire Justice League, Young Justice, and Batfamily, who were either present or on the comms: “WHAT DO YOU MEAN THE GHOST KING?!”

Danielle: “He’s the only other halfa left in this world, and he’s much stronger and more stable than I am. Do you want to open the box or not?”

Batman: “This could be important. Call him.”

Danielle: “I already did. I asked him to meet us here at the Gotham base.”

Nightwing: “We might have a problem. We were in the middle of a Poison Ivy attack when what looks like a flying boy froze her in seconds.”

Batman: “Froze her?”

Red Robin: “That’s not all. Joker, Penguin, and Two-Face were attacking on the same street, and the same boy let out some kind of super scream that knocked all of them unconscious, including their henchmen.”

Danielle: “Oh no… He’s mad.”

Robin: “Uh… The same boy just duplicated himself and locked every villain and criminal in the city inside what looks like a box made of his own energy.”

Danielle: “Oh no, he’s really mad.”

Danny: Appearing directly behind her. “Of course, I’m mad! I told you to call me the moment you became unstable! You know what could’ve happened!”

Danielle: “I know, I know, but you don’t have to worry. I haven’t needed an ectoplasm injection in years. Meditation usually works.”

Danny: “Have you been melting before?!”

Danielle: “Don’t be so overprotective. I called you for a different reason.”

Danny: “Don’t change the subject. Don’t make me ask Clockwork to keep an eye on you.”

Red Hood: “Clockwork?”

Danny: “The Ghost of Time.”

Batman: “We need help with this box.”

Danny: “And who’s this furry?”

Danielle: “That’s Batman, the hero of this city.”

Danny: “Well, terrible job. I’ve been here for two seconds, and I already had to clean up the mess. That box… it looks a bit like Pandora’s Box. Where did you get it?”

Wonder Woman: “But Pandora’s Box should be protected by…”

Danny: “Pandora herself. In my realm. Exactly.”

Danielle: “We recovered it during a team mission. Apparently, only a halfa can open it, but I couldn’t, and it destabilized me.”

Nightwing: “I don’t know what confuses me more: the box thing or how many powers this guy has.”

Danny: “That’s easy. I have classic ghost powers, including the ones I used around the city. But as King, I have access to ancient magical artifacts, like the Crown of Fire, which greatly amplifies ghost power. Along with the Ring of Rage, the power would be infinite, but I made a deal with the former king. He keeps the ring and his freedom as long as he doesn’t cause chaos. Then there’s Aragon’s Amulet, which basically gives dragon powers. There’s also the Ghost Key, which can literally open any door, whether in my world or this one…”

Danielle: “Is the list of magical objects really that long?”

Danny: “I was just missing the Reality Gems, which could change reality itself as we know it. But, of course, I already destroyed those…”

Batman: “The box is the priority.”

Danny: “Right. We shouldn’t open it. If it’s like Pandora’s Box, then whatever’s inside is very dangerous. But fine, if that’s what you want…” Opens the box and immediately both he and Danielle feel overwhelming discomfort. “I know this feeling. It’s… a Blood Blossom.”

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secrets-of-ty · 10 months ago

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Danny Phantom Fanfic Masterlist

I've been meaning to do this for a bit! Since I've been in the Phandom for 10+ years I've picked up a lot of good fanfics over the years and I think it'd be great to share them again in case people have forgotten/haven't encountered them!

I mostly used Fanfiction.net in my older days so a lot of them will be linked there. I'm also pretty picky when it comes to fics being completed, so expect the ones listed to be bingeable with an ending! And finally, I'm not huge on romance/smut so most of them probably won't involve those genres, I'll point out ones that do. (These are in no particular order).

👻 Happy Reading! 👻

👻 = Regular Fic

🟢 = Alternate Universe Fic

⚔️ = Crossover Fic

💙 = Would Recommend!

💙💙 = One of my Favorites!

💙⚔️💙 Mirrored by Lynse

"As a general rule, diving into unknown swirly vortexes in the Ghost Zone is a bad idea, but this was a time when Danny had no other real choice. Meanwhile, Jake thought he was through dealing with ghosts, but Rotwood, well, he's just getting started."

I posted about this one a few years ago and the author, @ladylynse , said it's also available on AO3. This is by far one of my f a v o r i t e fanfics that I read annually or so! If you're a sucker for American Dragon too, definitely check this one out <3 The characterization of both Jake and Danny, plus watching their friendship grow, always gets me in the feels.

💙👻 Phantom's Sketchbook by AkoyaMizuno

"Mr. Lancer finds himself in an unparalleled situation, he has access to something which can give him incredible insight into the personal workings of Amity Park's local ghost teen hero, Danny Phantom."

It's been a while since I've read this one, but I remember it having a lovely characterization of Lancer plus his mentor relationship with Danny. (I loved this one a great amount back in the day that I, uh, made fanart and turned it in for a school assignment. Which is lost to the ages now 😅)

👻 Darkness by Cordria

"Maddie and Phantom are trapped in the dark. Can they come to an agreement to work together before they both die at the full moon? Part 1 of Illuminations Saga."

I don't quite remember this one but I DO remember Cordria had some absolute bangers. You'll probably see their name a few more times on this list.

💙👻💙 Masks by Cordria

"Sometimes, people hide who they truly are behind masks. This is a short story about the day that Lancer decides enough is enough when it comes to Daniel Fenton. Sequel is 'Plunge'"

When I said Cordria had bangers, THIS is one of them! Another fic that I read annually, this one involves Lancer getting closer and closer to Danny's secret while he's stuck in detention for the weekend. I love love LOVE the characterization of Danny and Lancer in this, another at the top of the favorite list!

👻 Plunge by Cordria (sequel to Masks ^)

"Sequel to 'Masks'. Now that Lancer has learned the truth and has let Danny out of his office, Danny needs to face the next hurdle: his parents."

For some reason, I always forgot to put this on my favorite list so I often missed out on reading it with my annual read of Masks. I remember it being a decent sequel where the Fentons pick up the pieces of Danny's reveal.

👻 Pits by Cordria

"Danny has been captured and thrown into the Pits by Walker to fight for his life. Listen in as he tells his dark, twisted tale of surviving despite the odds. Warning: dark and depressing. Sequel is 'Final Exam'."

Another one I don't fully remember, but it had to be a solid read since it's on my favorites haha! I have a vague sense that it was a little angst/gore-y(?) as the description warns, so just heads up!

👻 Lab Rat by AnneriaWings

"The look on my parents' faces – eager, curious, somewhat hateful – wasn't exactly hard to give away their intentions. I knew what they were going to do to me even before Mom snapped on a pair of rubbery, white latex gloves."

*** This one is definitely a vivisection fanfic with graphic descriptions, so beware that content. Again, haven't read it in a long time but it had satisfied my angst itch back in the day.

👻 Wondering by Phantomrose96

"A continuation to Cordria's starshot #69 "Wondering". Danny's been captured and tortured by his parents, but he refuses to say a word until his psychiatrist starts connecting the dots. Can he risk keeping it a secret any longer?"

*** Another angst, lab experiment-esque fic. There are definite graphic scenes (as warned in the first chapter). I do remember this fic being huge in the 2010s (definitely a staple of the Phandom). The relationships and Danny recovering from his torture were great highlights.

👻 Connections by Lynse

"Maddie knows that the Booo-merang has keyed into Danny, for whatever reason, so what's she to think when she sees it collide with Phantom?"

Don't quite remember this one, but Lynse is amazing at writing, so it's bound to be a good read.

👻 Confessions by Lynse (Sequel to Connections ^)

"Follows Connections. Danny's secret's not as safe as he thinks, what with Maddie unable to ignore her wild suspicions any longer and piecing things together and Jack asking questions all on his own."

Same as above!

💙👻 Earthquake by Turkeyhead987

"Danny leaves with his bathroom excuse and leaves Dash curious. He follows Danny and ends up the the gym room with him. While they're in there, an earthquake occurs and leaves them trapped inside. Will any secrets be revealed? No DashxDanny! They're just the main characters!"

This one is another one that I've read multiple times over the years! From what I remember, it was a fun read involving Dash and Danny being trapped in the gym after an earthquake, and explores how Danny handles his secret around Dash while they wait for rescue.

💙👻 A Jock and a Hard Place by AnneriaWings

"Danny and Dash were silent, trying to wrap their mind around that stupid, simple fact – the door was locked. They were trapped. In a janitor's closet. Together. (Collab with Haiju)"

No romance in this one! Another story where Danny and Dash get trapped together. I've read this one several times, and remember enjoying the tension of Danny's secret being revealed. I also think they explored Danny and Dash's relationship in a fun way!

👻 An Unlikely Alliance by Represent

"Maddie wants her family back. In an attempt to understand her Danny's change in behavior, she unwittingly enlists the GIW to exorcize Phantom from her son."

Gonna be real with ya'll, I don't remember this one at all. But uhhh I'm gonna throw it on here just because I can. :)

👻 Flip Turn by dreamsweetmydear

"Danny's life the last couple of years has been chaotic and pretty scary, to say the least. However, one detention with Mr. Lancer opens a window of opportunity that promises to turn his life around in more ways than one. Revelation fic. Post-"Kindred Spirits.""

Yet again, I don't remember this fic. Sorry! But it's under 8000 words, so it's a little bit of a shorter read than some of the ones on this list!

👻 Journey of Secrets by WolfKael

"First Danny Phantom fic! DXS, TXV, but not super-heavy. Lancer's class is on a trip to the Ghost Zone, courtesy of the Fentons! (Takes a couple chapters to gain momentum, and I promise it isn't your average 'field trip' fic!) T because I'm paranoid, but it could probably be K ."

Also not a fic I remember. It's got about 50,000 words so thought I'd throw it in for anyone that likes a longer fic!

👻 Vulnerable by HaiJu

"A desperate moment leads to a difficult choice, and Danny must deal with the consequences. A collaboration between Anneriawings and Haiju."

Don't remember it, but HaiJu had/has some great fics! Seems to involve Danny and Maddie after skimming the first chapter.

👻 Little Fires by Represent

"My family's supposed to be geniuses, yet they've never figured it out. Now I know why. Because they already know I'm Phantom. They must know. The better questions are: Have they known this whole time? What's in that vial? What happened to Skulker? And what's in the locked drawer?"

You know what, if I remember it, I'll say something 😂

👻 Judge, Jury, Executioner by Cordria

"The Observants and the Ghost Council are sick of the Fentons creating half-ghost creatures that disobey the rules of the universe. It's time for them to step in before more are made. Can Danny save his parents and keep his secret intact? A three-part fic."

💙👻 A Phantom Marooned by LordPugsy

"No one but Danny was suspicious when his English class was awarded an all-expenses paid cruise trip by an anonymous benefactor. Everyone but Danny thought it was bad luck when they became ship-wrecked on an island in the middle of nowhere. No one but Danny fully understood the dangers lurking in the trees. No one but Danny knew how much danger they were all in so far from home."

This one involves Danny and his class getting out of Amity Park, so it's a little more oc-filled and explores a nontraditional setting for the trio. There might be a little SamxDanny in this one if I remember correctly, but overall I do remember having fun reading through this!

🟢 Candlelight by HappyLeif

"Sam's only friend is the ever-loyal Tucker, ever since Danny began slowly distancing himself from them after some accident freshman year. She wanted a friend, but she never thought she'd find the one she was looking for in the highly debated ghostly hero of Amity Park.

AU = Danny alone during the portal accident. Looks like there's some SamxDanny in this one! Don't remember it but heck I might have to reread it since the synopsis has me interested.

👻 Crashing and Burning by GriffinRose

"For two years, Maddie has put up with Danny's ridiculous lies and excuses. She's tried everything to get through to him, but the pattern just goes on. She's so tired of fighting him on this all the time. And so, after two years, she's done. She doesn't care what her son does anymore, because Danny doesn't seem to care that he's her son."

👻 I'll Be Here by HaiJu

"Some days you can't pick yourself up. Having family means you don't have to. Danny-centric, three oneshots. Completely shameless hurt/comfort. Bring tissues… and antiseptic."

👻 What Little Girls Are Made Of by HaiJu

"Phantom and his younger double save Amity Park from a monstrous ghost, nearly destroying themselves in the process. The Fentons have always hunted ghosts; now it's time to save one."

💙👻💙 You Should Be Dead by SaphireDragon11

"Dash and Kwan are horrified to discover they've accidentally killed their classmate, but perhaps even more so when he shows up at school the next day. With his secret on the line, Danny soon discovers Dash and Kwan are the least of his worries."

THIS story is definitely a favorite and fun read! The ending battle chapters always gets me excited to reread! ***Danny does get straight up shot by Dash at the beginning so be warned for that content. But I remember a post going around a year or so ago where someone had drabbled about Danny getting up after being shot by Dash. This story explores that concept with a longer plot!

💙👻💙 Roughing It by HaiJu

"Lost deep in the woods with an undead pack on their heels, Maddie and Phantom find themselves entangled in an awkward alliance. Can they cooperate long enough to get out of this mess?"

Another favorite! This one explores Maddie and Danny's relationship, kind of similar to how the show did in the Maternal Instincts episode. I adore how HaiJu explores Maddie's thought-process with dealing with Phantom in a situation where she kind of needs him and he won't leave her alone. Great mother-son fic!

👻 Phantom of Truth by Haiju

"Locked away in a secret government lab with Phantom as her subject, nothing stands between Maddie and the truth... except, perhaps, herself."

Haven't read this one in a loooooong time, but I remember being around for HaiJu updating this fic, posting about it on Tumblr, and the Phandom being generally hyped for it. Another staple for the Phandom! It's another torture fic, so heads up regarding that content!

💙👻 Shadow of a Doubt by Haiju (Sequel to Phantom of Truth ^)

"The truth was supposed to save Danny. Fix things. The lab, the experiments, the lies, those were all in the past. Weren't they? Sequel to Phantom of Truth."

And then BAM on top of finishing Phantom of Truth, HaiJu hit us all with a completed sequel! I was super excited whenever this fic got updated, felt like I was waiting for a new episode to air on TV every time! There's some OCs in this since it explores Danny running away from Amity, but I remember genuinely loving the OCs and loved reading about Danny mentally recovering from being experiment on.

👻 Just a Boy by Tay1019411

"Maddie and Jack finally have Phantom right where they always wanted him: in there lab, helpless, but everything is different now. Now, Maddie faces the truth about what Phantom really is."

🟢 Make It Go Away by DarkNymfa

"Not for the first time, Danny cursed himself for never telling anyone about his extra-curricular activities. And now, far more injured than he could fix himself, Danny desperately wished that he had told just one person."

No one knows AU

👻 Flicker by DarkNymfa

"It had taken just one moment, one split-second in which she had seen Phantom instead of Danny. Now she found herself on a path she didn't want to be on. One she couldn't leave, not anymore."

👻 The Scientific Method by ReconstructWriter

""After two years of failures you'd have better luck asking Phantom to be your lab-rat," Jazz said. The Fentons decide to try just that."

👻 Phantom Hitchhiker by ghostanimal

"Phic Phight Oneshot: While students get to leave early after a ghost attack, teachers have to stick around for boring meetings to discuss the attack. The ghost attack was now over, but it didn't mean all the ghosts were gone. Lancer finds himself driving a certain Phantom home while reflecting on how young the poor kid is."

👻 Returning After the Reveal by Illusn

"Phic Phight attack, using a prompt by Love-ly-ish. Danny returns to school after his secret was revealed in a ghost attack, having to deal with people suddenly treating him differently."

👻 Vantage Point by Lynse

"Phantom was young. Painfully young. Somehow, Lancer had never really noticed that before. One-shot, written for the 2019 Phic Phight."

👻 Oddities by Lynse

"Jack can't deny that their ghost hunting equipment malfunctions around Danny-consistently and exclusively around Danny-and decides to get to the bottom of it, once and for all. One-shot, written for the 2019 Phic Phight."

👻 To Be a Hero by cosette141

"Danny has always known the consequences should he be captured by the Guys In White, but now Tucker is going to learn firsthand just what the stakes are for his superhero friend and what it really means to be a hero. (not slash) hurt/comfort"

👻 Family Reunion by Dp-Marvel94

"For Phango. Prompts used- Setting: Family Reunion, Wes Weston, Aunt Alicia, Stuck in the thermos. And Identity Reveal…kinda (does it count if Wes had already worked out that Fenton was Phantom but hadn't seen him actually transform so wasn't completely sure?)"

Wes Fic!

👻 Stuck by SummersSixEcho

"[OneShot] After a prank from two of his ghostly acquaintances, Danny is stuck in ghost mode during one of the most important events of his young half-life. If only he didn't have to give a speech on top of it... [Phic Phight 2020 entry; prompt by Ghostanimal]"

👻 One-Eighty by SummersSixEcho

"[One Shot] After a grueling battle, two teenagers at a diner try to sort out a night of revelations. [DannyMay 2020, Day 28: Diner]"

👻 Threads of Time by ZombieRed

""I just want to know what's going on with you, Danny! I wish I could just, I don't know, spend the day figuring out what you've been hiding from me. Then maybe I could help you. But you being closed off from everyone is only hurting you. Can't you see that?" Or Maddie keeps on waking up to Thursday morning [No PP, pretty much ignores season 3 as a whole]"

👻 Invisible Stitches by Lynse

"Family bonding time might be less dangerous now that his parents know his secret, but that doesn't mean Danny is wild about being kept in the dark when it comes to his dad's plans for the weekend. One-shot."

Loved the concept of Danny having trouble being away from Amity Park!

👻 Whenever You're Ready by SummersSixEcho

"[OneShot] Jack and Maddie try to show their son they are very supportive of Phantom once they find out his secret. They want him to tell them on his terms, but everything ends up in bigger misunderstandings and more revelations they weren't prepared for. [Belated Phic Phight entry for Star G, Arioz, Bird, Dekalkomania, and Wife]"

Written in a Journal-Entry style! Interesting format if I remember correctly.

👻 An Attempt at Camping by Seasilver17

"They should have known that even when they were in the middle of nowhere camping. Something would have to go wrong. Curse his Fenton luck"

👻 Secrets Secrets and Advice (This Teacher's Vice) by AppleScentedLazers

"After a particularly grueling day Mr. Lancer just wants to go home, kick up his feet, and read some Shakespeare. But, when he runs into two of his students looking for their missing best friend, Lancer ends up with more questions than he has answers for. Such as, who is Phantom? And just what is Daniel Fenton hiding?"

👻🟢 Going Ghost by cosette141

"My take on the moment Danny turns on the ghost portal and becomes half-ghost… as well as an alternate way for Sam and Tucker to find out. Friendship Oneshot"

👻 Lair by Lexosaurus

"When something goes wrong with a piece of Vladco tech, Valerie ends up stuck in the Ghost Zone. With Phantom."

💙👻 In Case of Emergency by Unlucky Alis

"Lancer is grading papers when he gets the call. "I'm calling from Amity West. I have an underage patient here who has named you as their emergency contact." Lancer rushes over, of course, fretting all the while about what accident Danny Fenton has gotten himself into now, because it could only be him. Except, when he arrives, it's not the Danny he expected to find."

I remember enjoying the little twist on Lancer being the emergency contact for Phantom yet having no idea. Lancer handles it pretty well all things considered. (I think you guys can tell I just like Lancer fics at this point HA)

👻 Furthest from Myself by WastefulReverie

"An accident during a ghost invasion leaves nearly a hundred citizens with inexplicable ghost powers. Little did they know, this was only the catalyst for a series of revelations."

👻 Ghost Smarts! by Dekalkomania

"When it becomes clear the ghosts are here to stay, the Amity Park school district decides they need to teach proper safety precautions. In dire need of extra credit, Danny takes Mr. Lancer's offer to be the assistant in an assembly titled, "Ghost Smarts!"

Very unprepared for what he signed up for, Danny must deal with the eccentric detective J.J. Bittenbinder, all while not blowing his cover."

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five-rivers · 9 days ago

Text

Experiment: Monochrome Maniacal

This is the first entry of the first of my two experimental audience participation fics. Participation instructions are below the fic segment.

Tags for this section: Pitch Pearl (Danny Fenton/Danny Phantom), ghost catcher

Masterpost

Two can keep a secret if one of them is dead.

That stupid aphorism ran through Danny’s head as he looked at the Ghost Catcher and clenched and unclenched his hands. This… This was a bad idea. He knew. But he was going to go crazy if he couldn’t talk to someone.

He might be going crazy now, seeing as his brilliant idea was to split himself in two and talk to himself.

But lots of people talked to themselves to work out problems, right? As long as they didn’t think they were talking to another person it was fine.

This was just a more extreme version of that, that’s all.

(If he stared at the Ghost Catcher anymore, he might not do it.)

Danny breathed in deeply, transformed in a flash of light, then flew through the glowing green threads of the Ghost Catcher.

There was a moment of sharp disorientation, of vertigo, of feeling simultaneously caught on the lines, like walking through a spiderweb, and falling through them untouched, of skin pulling stickily away from skin, of looking down and up at himself at the same time, and then–

Phantom caught Danny by the wrist, and, carefully, lowered himself– him the rest of the way to the ground.

“Wow, that– So, that worked,” said Danny. The last time, he– they had only been separated for a few seconds. Long enough to note it as happening and then re-merge. He'd half expected to get sucked back together just as fast this time.

Phantom looked up at the Ghost Catcher, then back at Danny. He nodded. “So… you wanted to talk to me?”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” asked Danny. “I mean, it’s about ghost stuff, isn’t it?”

“And lying to everyone in our human life,” said Phantom, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow.

Ugh, did Danny really look like that in ghost form? All… upright. And shiny. It didn’t seem real. Was it real? Danny never had to interpret his body language from the outside before.

Danny slumped. “Maybe this isn’t going to work. We should just… go back together.”

“What? No!” said Phantom. “We haven’t even tried yet.”

“Then you say something.”

They glared at each other for a second, then Phantom clicked his tongue. “Fine,” he said, “but it's not like you don't already know.”

“Yeah, that was the point.”

Phantom didn't reply right away, instead looking around the lab with an expression of increasing distaste. His eyes fell on the portal and he scowled before looking away. “Can we go somewhere else? I hate it here.”

“You do?” asked Danny, surprised. Did… did he hate it down here? He wasn’t sure.

“Uh, yeah?” Phantom looked down at Danny, incredulous. “It's full of weapons made specifically to hurt me.”

“Not specifically you,” objected Danny. “They made a bunch of these before they even knew you existed.”

“Wow, that makes me feel so much better,” said Phantom. “They’re just for hurting and hunting down ghosts.”

Thank you for reading this far! If you would like to participate, please reply to this post with what you want to happen or want to see in the fic next. This can be an event (e.g. the lab suddenly explodes), a character appearing (e.g. Wes, Sam, Undergrowth), a headcanon being added to the story (e.g. ghost hunger), a POV switch (e.g. switch to Jazz), a setting element (e.g. the year is 2104), a ship (e.g. Everlasting Trio), or something else I've forgotten to list here.

To be used in the poll, your suggestions must:

Fit in a poll option (80 charaters or less)

Not include crossover elements

Not include minor/adult ships

Be compatible with already established story elements

Other feedback is also welcome! Feel free to send me an ask!

#danny phantom #dponly #poll fic #experiment: monochrome maniacal #experimental fic #audience participation #reader choice

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evilminji · 1 year ago

Text

Behold! o/ The Face Of Benevolent Evil!

Mr. Principle! A professional hero and educator!

Also possibly some sort of stoat hybrid! Certainly a chimera of Japanese fauna! With the Quirk High Specs, he is one of, if not THE, smartest beings on the planet of which he resides! With a background perfectly justifying a decent into hatred and villiany, he instead chose to channel his incredible world shaking intellect into the shaping of future generations!

He likes to fuck with people!

For FUNSIES~☆!

What can he say? It keeps a man young and mentally stimulated! Plus the hysterical screaming of his staff and students is HILARIOUS. He can even argue it makes for good reaction training! Unforseen situations, children! React!!! *psychotic chortling*

Mmmmm, yes. We all have our trauma responses. Ways we deal with them. He should probably find other means... but he won't! Tea and tormenting the student body make for good future heroes, you know! They adapt!

But! You may ask! Why am I introducing you to this... *polite yet somehow deeply threatening smile* c-completely sane and normal individual!? Esteemed educator that he is! Ha ha...

A good and not at a under threat question!

Villains? Are fuuuuuckin STUPID!

Doesn't matter how many PHDs you possess! In fact! That makes it WORSE! You moron! You absolute fool! No traveling circus would have you, you sub-rate CLOWN of a jingle jangle dunce jester! You have a god damn PHD! Possibly MULTIPLE PHD!

And you thought "ooooh I should go into cwiiiiime~☆"?

Do you hear yourself when you talk? DO YOU?! Ooooh boohoo. They won't let you study what you WANT to study. It's called an ETHICS BOARD. And YEAH, NO SHIT! Maybe get over it and keep you fucked up fantasies to your SELF.

Or? If you REALLY can't hold it in? Lay the ground work like EVERYONE FUCKING ELSE! You're not special! Everyone wants to play god! It's FUN! They let you have the COOL toys! But you have to EARN that shit! Not jump straight from graduation to "fucked up superscience"!

And? If it's NOT the Ethics Board? But just some bureaucrat on a power trip? You don't have to fucking STAY. This? This RIGHT HERE? Is why I-Island fucking EXSISTS.

APPLY.

They are SO MANY countries you could move too. SO MANY other labs. You actual DUMBASS.

But NO! You decided to commit to a fucked up underground Villian Lab. As though HUNTING THOSE isn't the PERSONAL fucking passion project of THE SMARTEST BEING IN JAPAN. Frankly? You deserve this. You deserve this and our school doesn't know you. Never heard of you. You whoms't?

Coulda changed the world. But instead all you did was piss of The Fuzzy White Demon Lord of UA. Rest in pieces. *click*

*sound of doors smashing open*

*violent Raid Upon Your Labs noises*

But! You may ask? What's IN the Lab?

What MAKES this a DP crossover?

I like your question asking spirit! Good one! And the answer? You know what's better then ONE(1) Nedzu? A second one that you can ACTUALLY control this time! After all! You could consider Mr. Principle a prototype. A proof of concept, if you will. If you were able to make ANOTHER.....

Well, you would set off EVERY. SINGLE. ALARM. Nedzu has set up!

All of them!

Because he don't PLAY THAT.

He has long last trauma from the labs and is the SOLE FUCKING SURVIVOR. There WERE others. They Did Not make it. And their slow agonizing deaths are carved into his brain for the rest of his life. Truely "The living shall envy the dead"; it was a place that made hell seem merciful.

When he declare Never Again?

He fucking MEANT Never Again. He will BURN your empires to ash, with you in them. No More Labs.

So :) You can IMAGINE :) HOW HAPPY HE IS :)

That someone out there is trying to RECREATE his SUPER traumatic childhood, on ANOTHER CHILD. Ha ha! Gonna be a second Nedzu huh? Planning to torture HIM like you did me, HUH? Shove him in a cage and treat him like an animal? Force him to watch as the others die? Collars and whips and cattle prods? Mazes?!

Nedzu may lose his shit.

Juuuuust a little bit.

But if anyone there knows what good for them? They saw NOTHING. What's a little PTSD flashback between friends? Now what is the baby?

Smashcut to said baby!

Because it was a TEAM effort, Danny was successful in "Nuh Uh!"ing out of Rulership. But NOT out of governance. Since he DID help. He's a Councilman now. It's? Not as bad as it could be, honestly. Since it's opened the Zone up to a more democratic system.

Still held by "kick the ass of the person you wanna replace" but still!

Babysteps.

Thing is? There was apparently this weird? Leak? Like a couple hundred years ago, in this one area, that was never addressed. Everyone just moved their doors and stuff. Treated it like the floors flooded. But now that they HAVE someone to complain too?

They all want their territories back.

"Go fix it!" What are we? Janitors?

Danny looses the rock, paper, scissors competition. He's pretty sure Boxy cheated. But like? Dude has a kid to go home too, so Danny doesn't fight him to hard on this. Uuuuuugh. Just remember the Spider-Man motto. Great power~ blah blah blaaaah~

And? Wow is it fucked out there.

The whole PLANET has to be limnal as FUCK. Yikes.

Problem is? When he and his team (Because YES, he HAS learned from his mistakes, Jazz.) get close to the... frankly the Zone here looks like distorted spiderwebbing. With him leading the charge, obviously.

....something happens.

It's... it's not a portal. Wrong color. It's like someone USED the weird spiderwebbing effect to... to reach INTO the Zone? But they are severally Limnal. Clawed hands, blue tint. But that's not the problem.

No, the problem.

The Horror.

The thing that his team can only watch on in agonized terror as it plays out... is that hand? It shoots out of nowhere. Ghostlike in the Zone. Meaning it must be living. And PLUNGES directly into Danny's chest to wrap around his core.

Time seems to slow.

He can't even scream in pain. At the violation. His team, acquaintances, yes, but friendly ones. Can not even cry out in horror, as they watch their friend and team lead be butchered before them. Before that uncaring hand is ripping back. Perfect ice and starlight in its uncaring grip.

For a terrible moment... he is in two places at once.

Then he is crushed in a burning grip. Like molten bars. Watching his own body dissolve into nothing in an instant, pain and horror still etched upon his face. The beginnings of screams ripping from his team as they jerk away from the nightmarish threat.

Then he can not think at all.

He... he TRIES. Knows he has been captured. Is certainly not the sort to give up easily. But... he's so tired. His body feels? Weird. Not wrong, per say. It's HIS. But... small and weird. Like he's shape shifted into a new form and hasn't adjusted yet.

....

.......

...........

He's getting really sick of all the goop against his whiskers and in his ears. It feels WEIRD against his fu- WAIT a second... did those assholes shove him into an animal? Why?! To contain him? Ha! Jokes on them! He's DONE THIS before!

For FUN!

He once spent a whole ass summer as a tiny dragon just 'CAUSE!

Unfortunately, said assholes notice him waking up. Dump him in a glorified hamster cage. But like.... a SHITTY "I don't care about the pet I bought" hamster cage. Dude. And he's naked.

Is that Japanese? Ooooh! It IS! Thank you, Tucker's Weeb phase.

......actually, never mind. Lotta dehumanizing language there, my guys. What is this? The GIW international? You couldn't even give me PANTS? Swear to God, call me an "it" ONE more time and the next time I have to go? I am going to aim through the bars at your-! *alarms going off*

....wasn't me.

I mean, be all means, ha ha and get fucked, but? Wasn't me. Oh hey! Some one exploded the doo-

AND? In Lab 4?

Nedzu finds a child with fluffy, ungroomed black and white fur, and the curious yet cautious eyes of a survivor. They are the most magnificent green, pale and luminous they glow in the laboratories lighting. Paws too big for his small frame, delicate ears on the swivel, equally large. Yet to grow into either. Adolescent, at best.

He watches the child take him in. Note his features and the chaos behind him. The injured scientist under his feet. Come to him conclusion. Nedzu will not rush him. Now that he... he stand the chance to be the hero he himself never had. It is a strange feeling. At once cathartic and unbearably painful.

He is given the equivalent of a cheerful grin, as the lad points the the lock on the cage. Is asked if he happened to bring a spare pair of pants. He can not help his amused chortle as he makes quick work of the lock. The unbearable RELIEF he feels.

He... he was not too late.

These monsters had no chance to crush the boy's light. To make a monster of him, like they did with him. He survived his laboratory, his hell. But not all of him left that terrible place. He knows that. Some innocence, some goodness, died alone in the dark. But here? He insured there would be no chance.

With amusement, he watches the boy turn the lab upside down until he finds spare scrubs. Triumphant, he then considers his own, tiny claws. Dismisses them. Attempts to hop up on a chair to retrieve something sharp. It? Is unbearably cute. To watch him rip and shred, problem solve. His little mind churning away. Whiskers twitching as his eyes dart around, considering his options.

Nedzu offers one of his spare knives.

Watches him light up.

Adorable~

@legitimatesatanspawn @hdgnj @nerdpoe @babbling-babull @lolottes

#dp x bnha #dp x mha #minji's writing #nedzu #principal nedzu #bnha nedzu #nedzu jr au #give that psycho a baby!#terrify the locals #this is my design

487 notes · View notes

camficdiner · 12 days ago

Text

📣 fic announcement — The UNITY Project

While I wait for new fic requests at the diner, I’m sharing something special.

The UNITY Project is my personal take on Quinn Hughes — and a main character who’s nothing like the usual love interest. She’s the unshakable captain of a dominant WNHL team, sharp as hell, cold on the surface, untouchable by design. Their chemistry? It’s complicated. Tense. Icy-hot.

This is a long, very long!! multi-part story that mixes rivalry, slow-burn tension, public image politics, and a push-pull romance that shouldn’t work — and yet.

this story will be a wonderful journey, enjoy it till the end

“THE UNITY PROJECT”

Project UNITY: Part One

You’re not dressed like a hockey player.

You knew that was the first thing they’d say — not out loud, of course. No one in the Bauer headquarters conference room would dare. But you can feel it. The way the room shifts when your stilettos click against the polished floor. The way those three boys — because that’s what they are — glance up with rehearsed indifference when you enter.

Loro Piana. Black. Tailored. The suit’s sharp enough to draw blood, and that’s exactly the point.

Sloane flanks you in designer sunglasses and a sleeveless cashmere top, her stride effortless, dangerous. She chews gum, tosses her braid over one shoulder, and grins like she knows she’s about to ruin someone’s day. And she might. It wouldn’t be the first time.

The Bauer rep stands up too fast. Nervous. “Ladies,” he says, like it’s a peace offering. “Glad you made it.”

You don’t answer. You just slide into the seat at the head of the table without looking at the boys sitting across from you. Hughes, Hughes, and Hughes. You’ve seen enough of them in post-game interviews, blank-faced and monotone, speaking in practiced platitudes. They’re all the same — clean-cut, media-trained, desperate to be liked. Even the older one, Quinn. The quiet one. The one whose stats are brilliant, yes, but whose presence is barely a ripple.

Sloane sits beside you and lets out a long sigh, loud and pointed. “Let me guess,” she says. “You want us to hold hands and grow the game.”

There’s silence. The kind that only follows someone who doesn’t fear consequence.

The rep clears his throat. “This is the UNITY initiative. We’re launching a new cross-program collaboration with top-tier talent from both the NHL and the WNHL. You’ll be staying at the Bauer compound in British Columbia for one week. Isolated. No press. Full media and performance training, joint sessions, team-building.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want us to be seen with them?”

“It’s a visibility thing. Fans love crossover. The sport needs faces. Bold ones. We think—”

“You think,” you cut in, voice low, “that if you throw the ‘wild girls’ in the same space as the golden boys, you’ll get chaos. Views. Clout.”

Sloane leans forward, smiling without humor. “You will.”

Across the table, Jack Hughes shifts in his seat. Luke avoids your gaze. But Quinn—Quinn is looking at you. Not amused. Not nervous. Just…watching.

He’s the only one who hasn’t blinked since you walked in.

“Fine,” you say finally, rising with slow, intentional elegance. “We’ll play your little game.”

And then you look right at Quinn Hughes.

“But don’t expect us to play nice.”

⸻

“We don’t come here to blend in.”

The compound is nestled deep in the mountains — sleek, silent, obscenely expensive. Everything smells like pine and money. You step out of the black SUV with sunglasses on and your headphones in, not because you’re listening to anything, but because it keeps people from trying to talk to you.

It’s all glass, stone, and steel. Ice rinks below ground level. Gyms that look like science labs. Media rooms. Private chefs. Massage therapists on staff. It’s not made for comfort — it’s made for legends.

You drag your suitcase across marble floors and into your suite. One king bed. A view of the mountain. A welcome bag with your jersey number stitched in silver.

This place thinks it knows elite.

But elite isn’t chrome and clean press photos. It’s blood under your nails. Scars on your shins. Four straight cups and a locker room that still smells like champagne and sin.

You change into your gear in silence. Black compression top, dark-lined eye black, your hair slicked back. Sloane walks in with a Red Bull and no shoulder pads. “Let’s make it a statement,” she says, mouth full of gum.

“Always.”

⸻

Blood on ice.

First skate. All players. No teams. Just warm-up drills and light scrimmage.

You step onto the rink like it’s a runway. Head up. Back straight. Sloane’s right behind you, grinning like a demon. The rink buzzes with scattered chatter and the whir of blades. A few guys shoot glances your way — cocky, curious, maybe amused.

That doesn’t last.

The second the drill starts, you slice through the ice like it owes you money. Tight turns, crisp edges, controlled chaos. You’re fluid, but there’s a violence in how you move — purposeful, surgical. The puck clings to your stick like it knows better than to disobey.

And Sloane? She’s fire and fury. Shoulders down, legs pumping, checks harder than regulation allows. There’s a collective realization in the air:

They’re not ready.

Even Jack Hughes whistles low after your first net-front goal. Quinn watches from the bench, elbow on the boards, unreadable — but he hasn’t looked away once.

Then it happens.

A body check. Minor. Legal, barely. Sloane spins on her blade, grabs the guy by the collar and—

Crack.

You hear it before you see it. Helmet to face. Blood sprays across the ice like paint. Players scramble back. Coaches shout. Whistles blare.

You skate over fast, dropping your stick, arms around her waist before she can go for a second round. “Enough,” you grit out, dragging her backwards as she spits out something about elbows and cheap shots.

The guy’s on his knees. Bleeding. Groaning. Trainers already sprinting over.

“Let me go,” Sloane hisses, writhing in your grip. “Fucking let me go—”

You don’t. You grip her harder and speak just loud enough for her to hear. “Save it for the game.”

She stills.

You lock eyes with the Bauer rep across the rink. His face is pale. Some PR girl is on the phone, probably already drafting a statement.

Quinn’s still watching.

Of course he is.

⸻

“There’s a difference between being invited and being expected.”

The fight starts before you’ve even gotten your skates off.

Jack Hughes says something — half-chirp, half-joke — about Sloane’s penalty minutes and a past suspension. He doesn’t mean it to hit hard. He means it like a boy who’s never been hit by a girl before.

Big mistake.

“Say that again,” Sloane says, tilting her head.

He grins. “You spent more time in the box last season than you did on the ice.”

Sloane doesn’t flinch. She just steps forward and shoves him. Hard. His back hits the locker stall with a sharp thud, the grin wiped clean off his face.

“Careful,” she says sweetly. “Wouldn’t want to bruise a Hughes.”

He’s staring at her now — really staring — like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or throw something. The room falls silent. Half the players have phones out. Quinn’s across the room tying his laces, not moving, but definitely listening.

You sigh, stepping between them. “Sloane.”

She raises both hands, all mock-innocence. “Just helping the boys understand what physicality looks like.”

Jack wipes his mouth with the back of his glove and mutters, “Jesus Christ.”

You lean toward him just slightly, your voice low and razor-sharp. “You’re not in Jersey anymore, sweetheart.”

Then you’re gone, grabbing your bag, slamming your locker shut with one sharp snap.

⸻

Midnight.

The compound is quiet. Everyone’s asleep or pretending to be.

Except you.

You’re on the rooftop terrace, sitting on a cold bench with a bottle of tequila between your thighs and no glass in sight. Hair damp from a late shower. Hoodie zipped halfway. Legs out. The mountains stretch out black and endless beyond the railing.

You hear the door open behind you.

You don’t need to look to know it’s him.

Quinn walks out slowly. No hoodie, just a thin black tee and sweatpants. Hair still messy. Barefoot.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. For a while, there’s only silence and the faint hum of distant crickets.

Then: “You’re going to catch a cold,” he says quietly.

You hand him the bottle.

He takes it without hesitation, drinks straight from the lip, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

More silence.

“Your friend,” he says eventually, “has a temper.”

“She’s honest.”

He looks out at the dark. “So are broken noses.”

You crack a humorless smile. “You saying that guy didn’t deserve it?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he asks, “Why are you so angry?”

That one lands.

You take the bottle back and drink long and slow. It burns less than it used to.

“Because we had to be,” you finally say. “Because every time we win, it’s a fluke. Every goal is lucky. Every fight we win is because someone let us. Every headline asks if we’re ‘too aggressive’ or ‘not marketable enough.’"

You pause.

“No one’s ever taken us seriously unless we were bleeding.”

Quinn doesn’t say anything for a while.

Then, softly: “I take you seriously.”

You don’t look at him. You can’t. Not yet.

But you let the silence stretch a little longer, heavy and real. Two people, under a mountain sky, trying to make sense of their own cages.

There’s no flirting. No leaning closer. Just shared quiet, and the raw edge of something neither of you knows how to name yet.

You hand the bottle back to him.

“Your brother’s a dick.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. He is.”

⸻

"You don’t get to be quiet when I’m bleeding.”

Days pass. A blur of drills, team-building exercises, fake smiles for social media.

Nothing burns.

You and Quinn don’t talk again. Not really. He nods when you pass in the hallway. You nod back. Two ghosts with mutual awareness. A truce, silent and stiff. A cold war on skates.

Jack and Sloane, meanwhile, can’t go more than five minutes without threatening bodily harm or accidental marriage. No one can tell the difference anymore. You’ve walked into the locker room twice this week to find them mid-scream. The third time, they were suspiciously quiet, and you refused to check.

But you — you stay quiet. Controlled. Focused. You skate hard, faster than anyone. You shoot until your shoulder aches. You watch Quinn out of the corner of your eye sometimes, but never for long. That rooftop night isn’t mentioned again. You act like it didn’t happen.

And then the Canucks show up, not big names, not Petey or Boeser, just some guys who share the locker room with Quinn.

It’s a scrimmage. Supposedly light. A media stunt, really. Let the boys play with the girls. Show the fans how cute it is to get along.

They’re not ready.

You score five in under an hour. Breakaways. Cross-crease passes. One snap from the blue line that makes two players stop in place like their controllers disconnected. You don’t celebrate. You don’t need to.

They’re huffing. Frustrated. A few trying too hard. One of them — #48, you don’t care to remember his name — makes the mistake of laughing after you burn him for the fifth time.

And then it happens.

It’s one of the Canucks, #58 — too young to be smart, too cocky to be afraid. You don’t hear what he says at first. Just Sloane going still beside you. Her entire posture changing.

Then he repeats it, louder:

“Didn’t think sucking off execs was part of training, but hey — it’s working for her.”

The ice goes quiet.

Dead quiet.

You don’t move yet. But Sloane does. She skates in front of you, fast, both hands on your arms.

“No,” she says. Her voice is low. Urgent. Terrified, not of him, but of you. “No. Don’t do this. Please.”

You tilt your head.

She grips you harder. “You’re not me. You don’t throw punches. When you do, you don’t stop. You’re—”

You cut her off with a smile.

Polite. Pretty. Practiced. The one you wear in interviews when they ask how it feels to be the only woman in the room.

“Don’t worry,” you murmur. “It won’t take long.”

Then you skate away.

And that smile doesn’t leave your face — not even when your glove comes off mid-stride, not even when you reach him, not even when your fist connects.

Crack.

His nose shatters on impact. He screams, stumbles back. You follow. You hit him again — cheekbone, jaw, ribs. Blood sprays onto the ice. He drops. You don’t.

You lunge. It’s not a scuffle. It’s an explosion. Fists, gloves, blades grinding into the ice. You hear a yelp, something crack. Blood sprays across the white. You don’t stop. You’ve waited too long. Bit your tongue too long. Fought for headlines, for airtime, for pay, for respect — too fucking long.

It takes five people to pull you off this time. Sloane’s yelling now, trying to grab your elbow, but you’re locked in — laser-focused, shaking with something older than this rink, older than this joke.

It isn’t about him. It never was.

You tear your arm away from the people holding you.

And then you skate — fast, bloody, furious — straight toward the bench.

Toward him.

Quinn Hughes.

He’s standing now. But he hasn’t moved. His hands are clenched. His jaw’s tight. But he still hasn’t said a word.

You stop in front of him.

Your voice is cold. Detached. Sharp enough to cut open a ribcage

“You know what’s funny?” you say, voice low, shaking with rage. “I thought you were different.”

Still, he says nothing.

“You pretend to be quiet because you’re wise. But you’re not. You’re just safe. Always safe.”

Still silence.

You shake your head, disgust building in your throat.

“They said I fucked my way here. And you, with your ‘I take you seriously’ bullshit, you couldn’t even stand up.”

You lean closer. Not whispering — but close enough that only he hears the finish.

“You’re not quiet. You’re a coward.”

⸻

“She breaks things when she snaps. But when she disappears? That’s when we get scared.”

You’re gone.

No text. No word. No location pinged. Your phone is off. Your locker untouched. The bottle of tequila from the rooftop is still in your drawer — half full.

Thirty-six hours.

Sloane checks everywhere. Your room. The kitchen. The woods behind the compound. The private gym. The outdoor sauna. She even checks the Bauer SUV logs, demanding to know if any of the drivers saw you leave. No one has.

She’s not panicking — not on the outside.

But her voice shakes once when she calls your name across the empty rink. Echoes. Silence.

That’s when Jack stops chirping her.

When Quinn stops skating.

When everyone realizes: this isn’t about a fight anymore. This is something else. This is you, finally unhinged in the worst possible way — quietly.

⸻

Hour 42.

Sloane finds him by the coffee machines. Alone. Quiet. As always.

She walks up without a word. No warning. Just presence.

Quinn looks up, startled. “Have you—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Sloane says.

And he does.

She steps into his space. Not close enough to hit. Just close enough to hurt.

“You know, I’ve fought a lot of assholes,” she starts. “Guys who called me names. Called her names. Tried to rough us up. Tried to show us our place.”

Her smile is hollow.

“They were easy to deal with. You punch them, you bleed them, they shut up.”

She tilts her head.

“But you? You’re harder.”

Quinn swallows.

“You’re not mean. You’re not cruel. You’re just nothing. You sit there. You watch her bleed, and you do nothing. Because it’s safer to be silent than wrong.”

He doesn’t respond.

Sloane steps even closer.

“She told me once she was afraid of falling in love with someone who wouldn’t choose her in public. Someone who’d kiss her at midnight and still let the world mock her at noon.”

Quinn flinches.

“She didn’t disappear because of the fight. Or because she lost control. She disappeared because when it mattered—”

Her voice cracks once. Just once.

“—you let them make her feel small. And you watched.”

He looks at the floor.

Sloane leans in, real quiet.

“She deserved a sword, and all she got was a silence.”

And then she walks away.

⸻

Hour 48.

The weight in the compound has settled like fog. No one is laughing. No one is skating. Everyone is watching the doors, the paths, the driveway, as if expecting a ghost.

Then—

The elevator dings.

You walk in like nothing happened.

Messy bun. Hoodie. Sunglasses. Coffee in hand. Your knuckles are bandaged, your lips are chapped, and your voice, when you speak to the nearest staff member, is calm.

“I’ll take the 4PM skate, thanks.”

You don’t look at anyone.

Not Sloane.

Not Jack.

Not him.

But the rink feels different now.

Because now they know what happens when you disappear.

And Quinn Hughes?

He’s learning what happens when you make a girl like you think she’s alone.

⸻

“I don’t need a savior. I need someone who doesn’t flinch when I burn.”

You’re lacing your skates when the knock comes.

Three sharp taps. No hesitation.

You think about ignoring it. You think about screaming. But you stand up instead — slow, controlled — and open the door.

It’s him.

Quinn Hughes. Hood up. Eyes tired. Shoulders slouched in a way that makes him look smaller than you’ve ever seen him.

You say nothing.

He steps inside without being invited.

“I’m not good at this,” he says, standing awkwardly by your dresser, like it might bite him. “Talking. Apologizing. Feeling things and making them make sense.”

You cross your arms. “That’s obvious.”

He exhales. “Jack’s an asshole. Yeah. But he’s…he’s mine. He’s my shoulder. I’m his. We don’t fight with others. Not even when we want to.”

You don’t blink.

“I froze,” he says. “Because I’ve spent my whole life thinking that peace means doing nothing. But with you—”

He swallows. “With you, I realized peace isn’t silence. It’s backing someone who bleeds louder than you speak.”

You don’t move. Your arms tighten.

“I saw you,” he says, voice lower now. “The first day. In that suit. On that ice. In the way you look at people like you dare them to matter.”

Something flashes in your eyes.

“I saw you,” he repeats. “Really saw you. And it terrified me.”

You step forward.

One.

Two.

Then?

You shove him.

He stumbles back. Not far. Not surprised.

You shove him again.

“Fuck you,” you spit.

“I deserve that.”

“You don’t get to see me now. Not after—”

“I always saw you,” he snaps, stepping in.

And then you crash.

The kiss isn’t sweet. It’s a battle. Teeth clashing. Hands yanking. His grip is hard, yours is harder. Your back hits the wall. His fingers are in your hair. You bite his lip. He groans into your mouth.

You kiss like you’re still fighting.

Like you’re trying to win.

Like if you stop, one of you will shatter.

You don’t stop. Not until you’re both breathless, lips bruised, eyes wild.

And even then, when you pull back, your voice is like steel.

“This doesn’t make you brave.”

He nods.

“I know.”

⸻

The Next Day. The Panel.

You’re sitting side by side, front and center. Lights hot. Cameras on. Branded water bottles on the table. An executive in a Bauer blazer introduces the UNITY project and cues you both up to speak.

Quinn goes first.

He’s calm. Thoughtful. Careful. But when he talks about “sharing the ice with women who raise the standard,” he glances at you — not as if you owe him something, but like he’s trying to earn something.

You speak second. Clear. Poised. Cold.

You don’t look at him.

You say all the right things: teamwork, evolution, progress, visibility. But your voice is more practiced than usual. More distant.

Because you felt his hands last night. You felt his mouth, his teeth, the tremble in his throat when he kissed you like he’d never meant anything before.

But you don’t trust him.

Not fully.

Not yet.

And maybe not ever.

Because words are easy. Kisses are easy. Even confessions are easy.

But staying loud when the world wants you quiet?

That’s not something Quinn Hughes has proven yet.

Not to you.

⸻

“You wanted a war. Don’t cry when it burns.”

The photo leaks around 8PM.

It’s grainy. Slightly blurred. Taken from the side of the rink, during a private skate. You and Quinn. Close. Too close. He’s got one hand on your hip, you’ve got your head tilted toward him. It’s not a kiss — but it doesn’t need to be.

The internet eats it alive.

“Quinn Hughes and mystery girl from the UNITY project…”

“WNHL captain gets cozy with Canucks star…”

“Sleeping her way into the campaign?”

You see it mid-stretch, mid-practice, mid-breath. And you freeze.

The rage hits before the panic.

You don’t shower. Don’t change. You storm barefoot, in your leggings and sweat-soaked tank top, straight to his room.

You don’t knock.

You slam the door open so hard it hits the wall.

He’s shirtless. Still damp from the post-lift shower. Hair messy, a towel over his shoulder.

He looks up, surprised — but only for a second.

“Did you fucking tell someone?” you snap.

“What?”

“The picture.”

“I didn’t—”

“Bullshit.”

He sets the towel down slowly. “I didn’t tell anyone.”

You step in. “Yeah? Because now it’s everywhere. And guess who they’re coming for? Not the golden boy. Me. I’ll pass like the bitch who fucked her way into a Bauer campaign.”

He tenses. “Don’t put that on me.”

“Where else am I supposed to put it?” Your voice rises, furious, bitter. “You think they’re gonna say Quinn Hughes slipped his tongue in a captain’s mouth to climb the ladder?”

“I didn’t leak that fucking photo!”

“And I didn’t sign up to be your PR nightmare—”

“Then stop showing up in my fucking room!”

You both go silent.

Breathing heavy.

And then he steps forward — fast.

You step back.

“No,” he says low. Dangerous now. “You don’t get to scream and run. Not this time.”

Your spine straightens.

“Watch me.”

“You think you’re the only one who’s angry?” he snaps. “You think I like being the safe one? The still one? The fuckin’ statue everyone poses next to?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re the one who acts like a mannequin—”

He cuts you off by grabbing your wrist.

Not hurting. Just stopping.

The tension crackles like electricity.

“You think you can top me?” he growls. “You think you get to walk in here, say whatever the fuck you want, storm around like you own this place?”

Your breath hitches.

“You don’t,” he says, voice deeper now, steady, dangerous. “Not in here.”

Then he pushes you — not hard, but enough to back you into the wall. His body against yours. Forearms braced beside your head.

Your lips part — but no words come.

“Say it again,” he dares. “Tell me you didn’t want that photo.”

“Fuck you.”

He smirks — cruel, controlled. “That’s not a no.”

Then he kisses you — hard. Angry. Brutal.

Your hands go to his shoulders. You shove.

He grunts. Shoves back.

It’s not romance. It’s war. It’s a question of who breaks first.

You nip his bottom lip. He growls. Picks you up. Slams your back to the door, one hand already sliding down your spine.

“I’ll fuck the attitude out of you,” he mutters against your mouth.

“You can try.”

Clothes tear. Your tank top stretches. His sweats are halfway gone before either of you breathes.

You try to flip him — he catches your wrists and pins them above your head.

“Who’s on top now?” he hisses.

You bite his shoulder.

He hisses — then grinds into you so hard you gasp.

“That’s what I thought.”

It’s a mess. Fast, rough, no rhythm, all rhythm. Your back hits wood, glass, the edge of the dresser. He holds your throat. You scratch his back. Teeth clatter. Moans get swallowed in growls.

He loses control.

So do you.

And when it’s over — when you’re both still shaking — you don’t say anything.

You just slide down the wall, skin flushed, eyes burning.

He leans next to you.

“You’re a menace,” you mutter.

He grins. “So are you.”

⸻

Let Them Watch

The whispers begin before you even make it down the hallway.

You hear them — quiet enough to pretend they don’t exist, but loud enough to make sure you feel them. Your name. His name. That photo. The way he looked at you like you were something holy. The way you looked back like you were already daring him to sin.

The leak has gone viral.

There’s a headline now, bold across every hockey blog and gossip thread:

“Two Captains, One Chemistry: Quinn Hughes and WNHL Superstar Caught In the Heat”

They dissect everything — your posture, your jersey tucked into your pads, the flex of his hands, the look on your face that wasn’t quite anger, wasn’t quite desire. They don’t know what to call it.

You do.

It was the moment before the fall.

⸻

Bauer’s PR department reacts exactly how you expected: full lockdown, rehearsed lines, damage control.

They call for a joint press appearance. They want smiles. Statements. A carefully worded denial if needed — or at least something tame and digestible, something that won’t disrupt the illusion of perfect unity.

You don’t show.

Neither does Quinn.

You don’t need a script.

And he doesn’t want to lie.

⸻

The next day, you skate.

Not for content. Not for training.

Just to feel your blades on clean ice. To move before you explode.

But you’re not alone.

Quinn is there.

He’s waiting in the corner, already laced up, leaning against the boards like he’s been there for hours.

He doesn’t speak. Just watches you move across the ice with the kind of quiet reverence that most people reserve for cathedrals.

You circle once. Then twice.

And finally, you skate toward him.

“I’m done hiding,” you say.

He nods slowly, breath misting in the cold air.

“So am I.”

⸻

That night, Bauer hosts a public event at the compound — a last-minute media session meant to sell the image of togetherness, resilience, athletic excellence.

They ask all captains to stand at the front of the rink.

Cameras flash. Phones are lifted.

You’re already there.

Sloane stands beside you, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. Jack hovers just behind, visibly nervous but saying nothing.

And then Quinn steps forward.

Straight past the PR coordinator. Past the stage manager. Past every warning look in the room.

He walks right up to you.

Doesn’t hesitate.

Doesn’t look at the cameras.

He puts one hand on your waist, the other on your jaw—

And kisses you.

In front of everyone.

It’s not subtle.

It’s not brief.

It’s not sanitized for the sake of optics.

It’s slow. It’s real. It’s messy and public and deliberate.

His hand tightens slightly when you press back into him, and the entire room goes silent — one long, suspended breath between denial and truth.

Somewhere to the right, you hear Sloane exhale.

Then someone claps.

And then, all hell breaks loose.

Flashes go off like fireworks. Voices rise. Someone from PR shouts your name — but you’re already walking off the stage, fingers intertwined with Quinn’s, head held high.

You don’t look back.

⸻

Later, in the quiet of the dressing room, when your heart has stopped racing and the cold is finally sinking into your skin, you sit side by side on the bench. No skates. No cameras. Just two people stripped down to the most dangerous part of all: honesty.

Quinn breaks the silence first.

“I’ve never done that before,” he says quietly.

You turn to him.

“Publicly?”

He nods. “Or… like that. With someone who meant it.”

You want to say something cruel. Some defense. Some sharp quip to put a wall back up between your ribs.

Instead, you just rest your head against his shoulder.

“I’ve never stayed long enough to mean it,” you murmur. “That’s why it scares the hell out of me.”

His fingers brush over your thigh, not sexual — just grounding.

You both sit there, breathing.

No declarations. No big romantic speeches.

But then, right before he stands to leave, he kisses your temple.

And you hear it.

Not out loud.

But in every movement.

I love you.

And worse—

You believe it.

⸻

“You don’t know what you are to someone until you’re unconscious and bleeding — and they beg you to wake up.”

The compound ends like it never happened — just cold mountains and media teams dissolving into memory.

But you don’t end.

Not this time.

You and Quinn leave together. Not loudly, not quietly — just undeniably. A photo of you two at a late-night diner hits the internet three days later. He’s wearing one of your teams hoodies. You’re wearing his hat. Another one gets picked up by ESPN when you’re spotted skating at a public rink, fingers intertwined, no helmets, just grins and scarfed necks.

The headline reads:

“From Enemies to Icy Soulmates: Hughes and WNHL Captain Go Public”

You don’t deny it. You don’t hide it.

Quinn doesn’t let go of your hand once.

⸻

Then comes the pre-season match.

Your first one back. Exhibition. A friendly — but nothing’s friendly once the puck drops. You and Sloane lace up like it’s the Cup Final. New uniforms. New lines. Same hunger.

The stands are packed.

Front row: Jack Hughes.

Second row, hands clenched, blue Canucks cap pulled low: Quinn.

He barely blinks as the game unfolds.

First period? You’re lethal. Assist. Goal. Quick turn, chirp, pivot, another goal.

You’re three points ahead.

And then —

Midway through the second.

Someone on the opposing team gets chirped. Frustrated. Big. You don’t even catch her number before she barrels into you off-puck.

Illegal.

Late.

Deliberate.

The slam echoes.

Your head hits the board with a sound that silences everything.

Your helmet cracks.

And you don’t get up.

⸻

Sloane screams. Drops her stick, skates straight across the ice.

“She’s not moving—she’s not fucking moving—”

She’s shaking you before the medical team can even reach you.

Your eyes stay closed.

“Wake up, you fucking bitch—come on—come on—don’t do this—”

Jack’s already halfway down the stairs, shouting for help.

Quinn?

He doesn’t shout.

He runs.

Down the aisle. Over the barrier. Past the PR staff that tries to stop him. Onto the ice, slipping in his sneakers, barely breathing.

By the time they get your helmet off, blood is seeping from your scalp.

They call a chopper.

You still don’t wake up.

⸻

The hospital is chaos.

Fluorescent lights. Cold metal benches. Quinn won’t sit down. He won’t move. He stands just outside the trauma room, jaw locked, eyes dead.

Jack’s pacing. Sloane’s got blood on her jersey and won’t stop whispering under her breath, some kind of prayer, some kind of desperate chant like if she just keeps saying “wake up” it’ll work.

No one says a word to Quinn.

Because they can see it.

He’s holding himself together with pure force. His hands are clenched into fists so tight they’re shaking. A nurse tries to push him back. He doesn’t even blink.

Finally—after what feels like hours—someone in scrubs walks out.

“She’s stable. Mild concussion. No cranial bleeding. The helmet did most of the work.”

Sloane collapses into a chair.

Jack lets out a breath like he hasn’t exhaled in a decade.

But Quinn?

He crumbles.

He leans into the nearest wall. One hand covers his face. The other presses against his ribs like he’s trying to keep his heart from clawing out.

You wake up to the sharp, sterile brightness of hospital lights and the beeping of machines that sound far too calm for the way your body feels. There’s a throbbing in your skull — deep, pulsing, nauseating. Your mouth is dry, your limbs heavy, your breath thin. You try to blink. Once. Twice. Everything hurts.

Then you see him.

Quinn.

He’s slouched in a hospital chair beside your bed, elbows resting on his knees, head bowed like he’s been in the exact same position for hours. He looks pale, hollowed out, hair messily pushed back like he’s raked his hands through it a hundred times. He hasn’t shaved. There are shadows under his eyes.

The moment your eyes flutter open, his head jerks up.

His eyes lock on yours.

And the first thing he says—without hesitation, without ceremony, without even checking if you’re fully awake—

“I love you.”

Not a whisper. Not a plea. Just truth. Immediate and urgent, like he’s been holding it between his teeth for days and it finally snapped out of him.

You blink at him, dazed. The words settle in your chest like a shockwave. You can’t even find your voice, but your hand twitches toward his, instinctively. He notices. He doesn’t hesitate. He grabs it in both of his, like he’s anchoring himself to the edge of a cliff.

“You scared me,” he says, quieter now, but his voice still cracking under the weight of it. “I thought—” He stops. Swallows hard. “I thought I wouldn’t see you again. And I didn’t know how to live with that.”

You try to say his name, but your throat protests. Instead, you just squeeze his hand.

And then the door opens.

Sloane walks in fast, like she ran down the hallway the second she heard. Her jersey’s still half-zipped, her hair messily pulled back, and there’s dried blood on her sleeve. She sees you.

And stops cold.

Your eyes meet.

And her entire face crumbles.

She crosses the room in a rush and falls to her knees at your bedside. She doesn’t say anything at first — she just takes your free hand in both of hers and presses it to her face, forehead against your palm.

And then she starts to cry.

Loud, gasping, violent sobs that shake her whole body. She doesn’t care who sees. She doesn’t care how she sounds. The hurricane that never breaks is breaking, right there in your lap.

Because this is the first time she didn’t know if she’d get you back.

The first time she wasn’t sure her captain, her best friend, her anchor, would make it.

You lift your other hand — slow, shaky, it hurts like hell — but Quinn helps you prop up your shoulder just enough. You slide your fingers gently through Sloane’s hair, brushing it back from her face the way you always do when she’s too angry to breathe.

And she sobs harder.

Then Jack appears in the doorway.

He doesn’t say anything. No cocky grin. No smug commentary. He’s quiet, unsure, hands shoved in his pockets like he doesn’t know if he belongs here.

He watches Sloane collapse against you. Watches her break.

And then he walks across the room.

He stands behind her, hesitant. He reaches out, slowly, then rests one large hand on the small of her back.

She tenses instantly. Her shoulders lock. You expect her to shake him off — maybe even growl something sharp and threatening under her breath.

But she doesn’t.

She leans into it.

Just a little. Just enough.

And Jack doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just stands there, grounding her with a quiet strength no one ever expected from him.

The room stays still for a long moment.

Quinn’s thumb strokes along your wrist in small, steady circles. His other hand is still wrapped in yours like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.

“How are you feeling?” he asks eventually, voice softer now. Careful.

You exhale, shallow and strained, then rasp, “Like I fought a Zamboni and lost.”

It’s not a laugh line — but it makes all three of them smile, a cracked kind of relief that’s just enough to break the tension.

Quinn leans down, presses a slow, reverent kiss to your temple. His hand brushes your cheek. You can feel the way his fingers tremble against your skin.

“You’re not going back to your apartment,” he says, pulling back just slightly to meet your eyes.

You blink. “What?”

“You’re moving in with me. I’m going to take care of you. Just for rehab. Just until you’re okay again. I need—” He swallows. “I need to know you’re safe.”

You open your mouth to argue, but Sloane beats you to it. “He didn’t sleep for two days,” she mumbles against your hand, sniffling. “Didn’t eat either. Made a nurse cry.”

“She wouldn’t let me see you,” Quinn mutters defensively.

Jack smirks, eyes flicking to you. “He got kicked out of ICU for yelling at a vending machine.”

You laugh, barely, and the pain flares behind your eyes again — but it’s worth it.

You close your eyes.

Take a breath.

Then, finally, you nod.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Take me home.”

⸻

“You don’t need to know how to fall apart. You just need someone willing to hold the pieces.”

You don’t remember the discharge papers. Just the sound of Quinn’s voice, tight and clipped, as he argued with a nurse about the transport team. You vaguely remember Sloane’s hands stuffing your things into a duffel bag with more rage than finesse, and Jack leaning against a wall like he wanted to punch something but didn’t know how to help.

But the moment you do remember — clearly, with painful clarity — is Quinn bending down beside the hospital bed and murmuring, “I’ve got you.”

And he did.

His arms were steady when he lifted you, his grip careful but firm, his body angled so your head rested against his shoulder. Your neck ached. Your ribs flared with every bump. But you didn’t complain.

He didn’t flinch.

He carried you like he’d done it before.

The drive was quiet. Sloane sat beside you in the backseat, watching the side of your face with a tension you could feel in your bones. She didn’t say much, just held your wrist lightly, her thumb brushing over your bandages in quiet, repetitive movements like she was reminding herself you were still real.

Jack drove. Quinn sat in the passenger seat, giving him directions to his house even though Jack had been there a hundred times. His voice was flat. Empty. Like all his emotion had been drained out at the hospital and now he was just functioning, step by step, until he could breathe again.

⸻

Quinn’s house wasn’t new to you — you’d seen it once, briefly, after the compound. Sleek lines, tall windows, neutral furniture with just enough personal touches to prove someone lived there. But this time, it felt different.

This time, it was quiet. Still. Waiting.

He didn’t bring you to the guest room.

He brought you to his.

The room was already set up: soft pillows stacked high, your favorite blanket folded at the foot of the bed, your toothbrush in the bathroom, a clean hoodie of his laid over the chair with folded sweatpants underneath. Your name was on everything. Silently. Deliberately.

He’d planned this.

He laid you down gently, pulling the comforter up over your legs before disappearing for a second. You heard him talking in low tones — thanking Sloane, telling Jack he’d text later. The front door opened. Closed.

And then you were alone.

With him.

He walked back in with a glass of water and sat on the edge of the bed, eyes scanning you like he still wasn’t convinced you were real. You were too tired to speak. Too sore. Your ribs felt like they’d cracked into your lungs, and your head pounded behind your eyes.

“I can leave,” he said softly. “Just let me know what you need.”

You shook your head. “Stay.”

He didn’t move for a long time.

Then, slowly, he reached out and touched your cheek, fingers brushing over the edge of the bandage on your temple. You didn’t pull away. He didn’t flinch.

He stayed.

⸻

The first night was hard.

You woke up twice — once in a sweat, not remembering the hit, just the sound of your skull against the board. Once from the pressure in your chest. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t move. Quinn was there both times. He didn’t talk, didn’t crowd you, just pulled you into his arms gently, let your head rest against his collarbone, and rubbed slow circles into your back until your heart stopped trying to escape your chest.

He made you tea at 3AM. Held the cup to your mouth because your hands were still shaking. Whispered, “You’re okay. You’re okay now,” like a lullaby.

He slept on the floor that night, one hand resting over the edge of the bed where you could reach it if you needed.

You did.

⸻

Over the next few days, you hated it.

You hated the pain. The fog. The humiliation of being helped to the bathroom, of being walked like a child to the kitchen, of being seen at your lowest — without armor, without pride.

But Quinn never made you feel small.

Not once.

He helped you shower, eyes careful, hands patient, no jokes, no smirks — just quiet care. He knelt in front of you to wrap your thigh when the bruising got worse. He sat beside you while you tried to eat and pretended not to notice the tears you wiped away before they fell.

One night, he caught you staring at the wall, fists clenched in the blanket.

You whispered, “I don’t know how to let anyone do this.”

He looked at you for a long time.

Then said, “You don’t have to know. I do.”

⸻

You didn’t expect to fall asleep in his arms the fifth night. But you did.

You didn’t expect to let him wash your hair the next morning, or brush it out gently while you sat in a hoodie three sizes too big, eyes still foggy with pain.

But you did.

You didn’t expect to love him this way — not just in fire, not just in chaos, but in the aftermath. In the caretaking. In the way he held you like you deserved to be held even when you were too broken to believe it.

But you did.

⸻

One morning, nearly a week later, you woke up before him.

The light was soft. The air still. You shifted slowly, every muscle groaning in protest, but you didn’t care. You turned your head — and there he was.

Quinn.

Sleeping beside you, arm around your waist, face relaxed for the first time in days. There was a crease between his brows, like even in sleep he wasn’t sure he could let go. His hand twitched once against your hip.

You stared at him for a long time.

Then reached out, brushed your fingers gently through his hair.

He stirred, half-asleep.

You froze.

But he didn’t pull away. Just shifted closer.

And whispered, “You’re still here.”

You nodded. Let the tears finally fall.

This wasn’t fire.

This wasn’t war.

This was something else.

And maybe — for once — you could stay.

⸻

“You weren’t just part of the story. You were the reason it was worth telling.”

You came back to the ice harder, faster, and more precise than before — not in spite of what happened, but because of it. The concussion. The recovery. The fear. You didn’t run from it.

You used it.

You skated like your blood was made of fury and silk. Every stride cut deeper. Every pass smarter. Every shot heavier. You didn’t just return — you dominated.

And Quinn?

Quinn was always there.

Practice after practice, week after week. At your games, in your locker room, at your side in press conferences when you didn’t feel like smiling. Not hovering, not trying to fix — just present. Supportive. Solid.

A quiet kind of devotion, the kind that could hold your rage without shrinking from it.

And when the Payton Cup rolled around — your fifth final — the nerves weren’t about if you’d win.

They were about how hard you’d fight to make sure you did.

The arena lights were almost too bright. Cameras flashing, thousands of people screaming. Sloane beside you, chewing gum like she was about to take someone’s head off. The two of you bumped shoulders before the puck dropped. That was all you needed.

The game was brutal. Tied for three full periods. Exhaustion set in during overtime, but you thrived on exhaustion. It made you sharp. It made you lethal.

You caught a cross pass from Sloane off a breakaway and flicked your wrist just once.

Bar down. Game over.

The crowd exploded.

Gloves flew. Helmets rained. Sloane screamed something that didn’t have vowels and launched herself into your arms. You fell to your knees together at center ice, the Cup already being pulled out from the cases.

She grabbed your face with both hands, forehead pressed to yours, tears in her eyes.

“I told you,” she whispered. “We were born to do this.”

You choked on a breath. Couldn’t even answer.

Because you were.

⸻

He was waiting in the hallway.

Quinn stood just past the tunnel, a Canucks hat on backwards, his eyes wet but bright as hell, arms open.

You didn’t run to him. You skated.

Straight off the rink, onto the cement, straight into his arms. You nearly knocked him over. He caught you anyway. Spun you once. Kissed you with your helmet still hanging off your elbow and your gloves still in your hands.

“Next,” he whispered against your cheek. “It’s my turn.”

You grinned through your sweat. “Go get it.”

⸻

Game Seven. Stanley Cup Final.

Rogers Arena. Vancouver’s cathedral. Electric.

You were in a private box high above the ice, still bruised from your own final. Sloane leaned beside you, face painted, nose glued to the glass. Jack had his arms crossed but couldn’t stop bouncing on his heels. The whole Canucks roster was on the ice.

But you only watched one.

Quinn.

Focused. Composed. Captain.

Every shift was surgical. Every zone exit clean. The clock counted down in your chest.

Third period. One-goal lead.

Tension so thick you could taste it.

Then—final face-off. Twelve seconds. A shot. A block. A cleared puck.

Buzzer.

They win.

The crowd erupted.

Sticks flew. Helmets tossed. Quinn was mobbed. He let them. For twenty seconds. Then he broke free.

The Cup was raised over his head, sweat-soaked, mouth open in a scream.

And then — he turned.

Looked straight at you.

Straight into the box. Into your eyes.

And screamed: “WHERE IS SHE?!”

You didn’t wait for security.

You shoved the door open. Ran.

Down two flights of stairs, through the crowd, your pass falling off your chest. A team rep tried to grab your arm — you shook him off and kept moving. Sprinting, ducking under the barrier.

Quinn saw you coming.

Quinn skates to the boards, Cup still in hand, and yells — through the chaos, through the noise, through the entire world watching:

“that's my beautiful wife”

The arena loses its mind. You freeze, stunned, half-laughing.

He keeps shouting, eyes locked on yours: “my beautiful, strong and witty wife, i love you so much"

You blink, stunned. Laugh, shaky. “I’m not your wife,” you mouth.

He grins — manic, glowing, breathless — and shifts the Cup into one arm.

Then pulls something from his pocket.

Your stomach drops.

He steps over the bench. Skates right to the edge of the boards. Hands the Cup to Jack — who, for once, looks like he might cry.

Then Quinn Hughes kneels.

On the fucking ice.

In front of 18,000 people, with the Stanley Cup behind him and you in front of him.

The ring in his hand glitters like it already knows it belongs to you.

“I was going to wait,” he says, loud but raw, voice shaking. “I was going to do it when it was quiet. When we were alone. But I’ve never loved you quietly. Not once. And I don’t want to.”

The whole arena is silent.

Even the cameras feel reverent.

“I want every person in this rink to know that you are the best thing that ever happened to me. That you fought your way back to the ice, to yourself, to us. And that I will never stop choosing you.”

Sloane is already sobbing.

Jack is wide-eyed, half-laughing, half-emotional, one hand still on the Cup.

Quinn kneels deeper into the ice, palm open.

“Marry me.”

You don’t speak.

You launch yourself over the glass.

You nearly take him down in the kiss. He drops the ring, catches it midair, shoves it onto your finger as the whole arena explodes into applause.

You wrap your arms around his neck. He lifts you. Spins you. Kisses your forehead, your temple, your mouth again.

And then he throws his head back, cradling you in his arms, and whispers to you, forehead pressed on yours:

“i'm the luckiest man alive”

EPILOGUE – The Quiet After

You don’t know how the hell it happened.

The trophies. The bruises. The screaming crowds. The rings. The headlines. The kisses under fluorescent lights. The blood on the ice, and the promises whispered in hospital beds. The chaos of being young and angry and better than anyone expected you to be.

And now this.

lake house in Michigan.

Late summer sun. A breeze rolling in soft through the pines. Ice melting in your glass. Bare feet in the grass.

And quiet.

The kind of quiet you never thought you’d love.

Your daughter is running barefoot across the dock, screaming something about pirates, her curls bouncing wildly, her laugh high and wild and free.

Quinn is right behind her — long legs jogging with just enough restraint to let her feel fast. He’s wearing an old t-shirt, backwards hat, bare feet, still the softest man you’ve ever known.

He catches her mid-sprint, lifts her like she’s air, and spins her once. She squeals. Wraps her arms around his neck and plants a messy kiss on his cheek before wriggling to get down again.

“Go!” he laughs, breathless, pointing to the hammock by the trees. “Your uncles are waiting!”

She tears off down the hill toward Sloane and Jack — who are curled up in the hammock, limbs tangled, pretending not to be as disgustingly in love as they are. Jack lifts her straight into his lap like it’s second nature. Sloane grins, grabs a juice pouch, and starts braiding her hair without even looking.

And you’re on the porch.

Legs curled under you. Bruised still, just slightly, from last season. Healing, always. A blanket over your lap. A book half-open on your thighs.

Quinn walks up the steps slowly. Doesn’t sit right away. Just leans against the porch railing, watching them — your daughter, your best friend, the brother you used to hate.

He exhales. Runs a hand through his hair.

“She’s just like you,” he says finally.

You look up. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

You tilt your head. “She’s got your eyes.”

“She’s got your mouth.”

“Your hair.”

“She yells like you.”

You smirk. “She skates like me.”

He laughs — the warm, real one. The one he only does here, with no cameras, no press. Just you.

“She’s just us,” you say quietly. “All the best parts. None of the broken ones.”

He moves toward you. Sits beside you, tugs you into him like you belong there — because you do.

“She’s gonna be a menace.”

“She already is.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. He kisses the top of your head.

Across the yard, your daughter throws a juice box into the grass and tackles Jack to the ground. Sloane cackles. The sun is starting to dip behind the trees.

And you realize — somewhere in the chaos, somewhere between the fights and the wins and the wreckage and the love—

You built a life.

A quiet one.

A good one.

You squeeze his hand, smile up at him, and whisper, “I still can’t believe I married a hockey player.”

He kisses your cheek, smiling like it’s the only thing he’s ever been sure of.

“Lucky you.”

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes x reader #qh43 #qhughes #quinn hughes smut #quinn hughes fanfiction #qh43 x reader

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burb-ie · 5 months ago

Note

Suddenly struck by a plotline that I was upset about from the TFA canon-

With TFP Op present the entire bickering conflict in 'where is thy Sting' with Wasp, can end differently!

I remember being mad as hell that Sentinel would NOT listen to Optimus and the new information the team had discovered about the spy. especially when it was about granting freedom to wrongful incarceration; Wasp was incredibly traumatized by his arrest-and I do not believe he got anything close to fair trial. Straight to serving lifetime! (Seriously what the hell. And what did they do to him in there.)

The Grudge Wasp held throughout his imprisonment, that desperate scramble for justice and freedom drove him to make it out to Earth while manhunted. Driven to find bumblebee. Primus his escape was not even his own! Made a pawn to LongarmPrime AGAIN! Little green diversion.

I feel like Bumblebee being helmjacked and impersonated by Wasp is incredibly freaky to all of the crew; but the awful bothunt he was trying to evade as they closed in on him really makes the action he takes understandable as him buying time as well as being desperate and vengeful.

Wasp blames and believes Bee completely Framed him, blame for being grounded up in the broken and cruel system autobot command has for their prisoners. His shot for elite guardship and life ruined.

It's the same stuff that made the war between transformer factions drag on for so long-and Yet AND YET. Wasp still has so many points of hesitation-! Up until Blackarchnia tricks him into being her little mutation lab rat when he reappears,. he just wants to have his sense of security back-even if it's never going to be the same as what he lost.

TFP Op already changing some sparks for the better with Sentinel and his team;, and that has Me hoping wasp gets to stick around Earth and feel safe enough to unpack the pain of a system that did not care about finding real truth, and Bulkhead and Bee getting another chance to make a friend.; I think he'd be like that roommate you know exists because the things in the house and fridge move, but you don't see very often. Maybe he ends up mutated anyway but at least he also gets the truth before then man.

Rambles about how much Sentinel made the situation escalate BECAUSE Optimus was deescalating it. Sari could have gotten another bot friend! She could've gotten them to be so goofy.Tbh I feel like Sari could befriend just about anybot with the right circumstance but that's for a different ask.

Thank you for your time. ✨

NO CAUSE

Listen listen

One of the plots of this crossover is that tfp OP WILL redeem Wasp, Orion's involvement is gonna change a lot of things in this crossover trust

#transformers prime #transformers animated #tf prime #tfp #tfp optimus #tfp optimus prime #tfa #transformers optimus #optimus prime #tf animated #tfa wasp

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hannahmanderr · 5 months ago

Text

First Contact

My initial fic for the @infiniterealms event! Please feel free to take it and remix it however you'd like! I only have two requests if you do:

Tag me in the fic or send me a message about it so I can read it!

Please do not turn this into a crossover, include strong gore/violence, or write it as Bad Parents Jack and Maddie!

(AO3) ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Approaching coordinates.”

The words, spoken by a smooth, androgynous voice, echo in the tiny cockpit of the Specter Speeder. They don’t quite reach Maddie’s ears, however. She is too engrossed contemplating the invitation in her hands.

It arrived four days ago. They’re not sure how; it was simply sitting there, taped to the closed doors of the Portal when they entered the lab that morning. That alone was unsettling - someone or something would have had to enter the house unnoticed, go to the basement to leave the envelope, and then leave without detection - but it was the invitation itself that was even more unsettling.

She runs a finger across the small, single piece of heavy parchment. The envelope, left behind in a containment unit in the lab, had been made of the same material. Durable as it appears to be, it feels oddly fragile under her fingertip, as if it is struggling to materialize itself for her to be able to touch in the first place. Even through her jumpsuit, she can feel the bitter cold radiating off of the shimmery black parchment. If she tilts it just right, she can almost see the twinkle of frost.

The invitation itself is embossed on the parchment, written in loopy cursive in ectoplasmic green:

By order of the Office of the High King of the Infinite Realms,

His Majesty formally requests the presence of Dr. and Dr. Fenton of Amity Park this Saturday the Seventeenth at 4 o’clock PM, EST (Earth-based) at the Royal Residence.

Refreshments will be provided. Weapons welcome.

Cordially,

Glinforblimph, Scribe to His Majesty

Below the scribe’s nearly illegible signature is what Maddie assumes to be the king’s seal - a complicated arrangement of stars that form a spiral - and below that is the strangest part of the invitation.

A set of coordinates, hastily handwritten on what seems to be a very average, very human Post-it note, taped to the bottom of the parchment, as if they were added as an afterthought.

Maddie thumbs the Post-it note. Why the coordinates weren’t included in the original invitation is beyond her, and she’s not sure whether to feel appreciative that the king and his staff at least remembered to include them at all or offended that they hadn’t been included in the first place.

Part of her still wonders if the whole thing is a ruse, if the coordinates lead to some trap. It’s a possibility that she and Jack had debated heatedly for days. She had been far more inclined to see it as a trap, but Jack had reasoned that any ghost calling himself a High King would probably just attack them outright rather than going through an elaborate charade such as this. Ghosts are far from primitive creatures, they know, but Jack too pointed out that with how important power (real or perceived) is to a ghost’s social standing, any ghost worth their salt is far more likely to make a public display of attacking them if that is what he wants, simply for the free advertisement of his power.

Maddie can’t really argue with that logic.

Plus, she can’t deny her rabid curiosity about the whole ordeal. An invitation such as this is a far cry from the M.O. of the ghost that kidnapped Amity Park to the Ghost Zone once, the one who also called himself a king. This is clearly someone else’s work, and though she’ll never admit it out loud, she’s dying to know whose it is. Not to mention the intrigue surrounding the whole concept of the Ghost Zone having a High King. Is it a true king? Merely a figurehead? A ghost who has simply declared themselves king with no real political power? Is it a title handed down or won?

Her mind drifts to Vlad. In college, she, Jack, and Vlad had balanced each other out well when it came to their studies on ghosts. She was the biochemist. Jack was the engineer. Vlad was, for lack of a better term, the anthropologist. He’d always been fascinated with the history and culture of ghosts, the side of ecto-science she and Jack had never taken as much interest in. She wonders if he still holds that interest, or if he happens to know anything about the apparent ghost political hierarchy.

Maybe she should’ve asked.

“Mads, look.”

Jack’s warm voice startles her out of her thoughts. She glances up to where he’s sitting beside her in the pilot’s seat, navigating them through the Zone with a grin on his face. A burst of affection floods her chest. He’s worn that grin ever since they got up this morning; his excitement over entering the Ghost Zone for the first time (aside from the aforementioned mass kidnapping) is not easily contained, and something about it reminds Maddie of why she fell in love with him in the first place.

He catches her watching him, and the grin widens into a laugh. “No, not at me, look out there,” he says with all the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning.

She looks out the front window, where he’s pointed with his head, and her stomach does a funny little swoop as she spots a large palace looming ahead of them.

Even if they hadn’t had the coordinates, Maddie knows she would’ve been able to instantly peg this palace as the Ghost King’s. Inexplicably, she can feel its presence, even from within the Specter Speeder. Cold and commanding, like a glacier, broadcasting far and wide that this is the lair of a truly powerful ghost, every bit befitting a king. She wonders what it must feel like to an average ghost, if its aura is strong enough to be perceived by a human like herself.

Strangely, though, as her eyes rove over the black stone adorned in something that sparkles in the light - glass? Ice? - she also gets a sense of security, of ease. Like entering her house after fighting through the snow and cold. The idea itself unsettles her, the fact that a ghost’s lair’s aura can have this sort of profound effect, but the effect itself is too overwhelming for the anxiety to dominate.

It’s a bizarre feeling to have to sit with, nonetheless.

“Huh,” Jack says as he begins their descent.

“What’s that?”

“Do you think they know we’re coming?”

Maddie hums. “I would expect so. Why?”

“There’s only one guard.”

Maddie blinks, then adjusts her gaze. Sure enough, the entrance to the castle is staffed by a single guard. Not that she had been expecting a welcoming parade, of course, but she can’t wrap her head around why a king would leave his castle so defenseless, especially if he really is expecting them.

“Maybe they’re all on their lunch?” Jack cracks a grin at his own joke, and Maddie can hear the echo of her kids’ groans in her head.

“They could be hiding,” Maddie points out. “Or invisible.”

“Radar’s only picking up the one.”

The guard has noticed their approach. She takes some solace in the fact that it doesn’t immediately prepare an attack, or that hundreds of other guards don’t suddenly appear out of the woodwork.

“Just take us in gently, sweetie,” she says. Her fists begin to tighten until she remembers that she’s still holding the king’s invitation. Swallowing, she smooths it out and stares at the king’s seal. “We don’t know what we’re walking into.”

____________________________________________________________

It’s nearly fifteen minutes after they land that they finally exit the Specter Speeder. Putting on the safety gear they had brought in such a tiny space proved to be more difficult than they’d expected, but it was necessary. The arrival of the king’s invitation had left them little time to determine if the atmosphere of the Ghost Zone was habitable for humans (how they had neglected to do this research for nearly three years, Maddie couldn’t fathom), and so precautions had to be taken.

Oxygen masks and tanks, of course. Bulkier HAZMAT suits over their standard ecto-resistant jumpsuits. Special goggles, jetpacks for potential low-gravity travel, a body cam for each of them to record everything. Oddly enough, it had been Jack who had wanted to bring more equipment for data collection, but Maddie had nixed it due to how difficult it already was to wear everything.

And then, last but not least, their weapons. Maddie had been unsure why she felt such trepidation as she attached her staff and two ecto-blasters to her hip, but it was enough to cause her to nearly drop the staff.

Maybe she was simply hoping she won’t have to use them.

Now, though, as she and Jack near the castle, she eyes the spear strapped to the guard’s back. The tip glints wickedly, and even though it’s a ghost’s weapon, she somehow knows it can hurt her just as easily as a ghost.

Being prepared against these threats is just good practice, she tells herself.

“State your name and your business,” the guard says the moment they’re within hearing range.

Maddie breathes in deeply. The artificial air in her mask leaves her nose feeling dry. “I am Maddie Fenton,” she says. She tries to keep her voice confident, but she’s unsure if it’s coming across. “This is my husband, Jack Fenton. We were invited by your king to come here today.”

The guard glances over each of them in turn. “You will remove your equipment and surrender all weapons before entering the palace,” they say, a haughty air to their voice.

Although she can’t see it, Maddie can sense Jack opening his mouth to respond. She cuts him off with a raise of her hand, quick and gentle. She loves Jack to the ends of the Earth and back - boisterousness and all - but these are uncharted waters. One misspoken word could potentially spell out disaster for humankind.

“We were told our weapons were welcome,” Maddie says to the guard, careful to keep her voice as even as possible. “It said so in the invitation.” Slowly, purposefully, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the parchment, extending it to the guard.

The guard snatches it out of her hand, regarding her with a disdainful look before examining it. She has half a mind to snatch it back. Who is this ghost to go around treating her like scum of the earth?

Instead, she curls her hand into a tight fist and forces herself to even her breath. This isn’t even close to being the same as confronting the ghosts in Amity Park. For all intents and purposes, she and Jack are in enemy territory, on the turf of supposedly the most powerful ghost of them all. The two of them may have a reputation for being trigger-happy, but she’s not so stupid as to pick a fight she knows she’ll lose.

As much as it sickens her to admit that she knows she’ll lose against even someone like the Ghost King.

The guard’s frown deepens as they run a finger over the king’s seal. Maddie watches in wonder as a tiny aurora shimmers to life above the seal before evaporating into the ambient ectoplasm. The guard looks nearly as surprised.

“This does appear to be authentic,” they murmur to themselves. Glancing back up at her and Jack, their expression darkens again. “Still, I cannot in good conscience allow you into the palace with potential threats. I am the captain of the royal guard. The safety of His Majesty, his palace, and all who reside within it are my utmost priority. I will not allow anything to endanger them.”

“But surely you’re bound to follow your king’s orders,” Maddie argues. “You said so yourself that the invitation is authentic. That means he’s already said that we can bring our weapons in. You wouldn’t want to disobey him, would you?”

“The scribe wrote that your weapons were permitted. That fool couldn’t even be bothered to remember to include directions.” The guard flicks the Post-it note. “I trust his words far less than His Majesty’s.”

“It still had to have come from the king! Please, we’re not trying to be difficult. We just don’t understand why we’d be lied to like this.” Because you’re all ghosts, the enraged part of her wants to add, but she bites her tongue.

For the briefest of moments, the guard’s expression seems to soften the slightest bit, but the moment is so fleeting, Maddie is left wondering if she imagined it.

“If it is His Majesty’s prerogative,” the guard begins slowly, “then he may choose to allow you your weapons. However, it will only be after I receive his explicit instructions, and after I and my staff have been able to conduct a thorough examination of the weapons and ensure they will not pose a significant threat.”

Maddie exhales slowly. “Fine,” she bites out. “We can surrender most of our weapons.” At this point, as much as her instincts are screaming at her, she doesn’t care. She doesn’t feel like wasting her time arguing with some ghost that was never going to listen to her in the first place. A twinge of annoyance burns through her chest, wondering if all of the king’s guests get treated like second-class citizens.

Besides, as loath as she is to make the concession, they were never going to be allowed in with guns blazing - invitation or no - and while she would much prefer the security of a blaster on her hip, she’s too intelligent of a woman to ignore the politics of it.

Because that’s really what this boils down to, doesn’t it? A political meeting.

Distantly, she wonders why the king chose to summon her and Jack. Surely, an actual leader in the human world would’ve been a better choice. As much as she doesn’t like the man, Vlad would’ve been much more ideal, having both the political power as mayor of Amity Park and the expertise on ghosts necessary to tangle with the ghost monarchy of all things.

So why choose them?

“We can’t remove all of our weapons, though,” she continues, trying to bring her voice back to something less hostile. “We have some built into our jumpsuits. And we can’t remove our other equipment. It keeps us alive.” She tries not to cringe at her poor word choice. “We haven’t had the chance to determine if the Ghost Zone’s environment and atmosphere are hospitable for humans or not.”

The ghost glares down at them, their tail lashing back and forth. “I assure you, you are not the first humans to enter the Realms and live to tell the tale,” they say with a sniff, “and even if you were, His Majesty would not allow you to perish so easily.”

“Wait,” Jack says before Maddie can stop him. “Does that mean he can alter the Ghost Zone’s environment at will? Or just the environment around the palace? Does he -”

“Jack,” Maddie says at the same time the guard says, “Perhaps these questions are best left to His Majesty himself.”

Maddie can picture Jack’s crestfallen face. He has always been the more outwardly inquisitive between them, though Maddie can’t deny her own fascination with the concept of the Ghost King’s abilities.

A time and a place, Maddie, she reminds herself.

She tries not to think about how if the king can make the environment safe for them, he can just as easily turn and make it deadly.

“At any rate,” she says, cutting into the tense silence that has settled over them all, “how can we be sure we won’t suffocate the minute we take off these masks? Even if you say other humans have been here…” She lets her sentence hang unfinished. She’s not exactly sure how she would have ended it anyway.

The guard sighs heavily, and a spark of interest flits through Maddie’s head as she wonders how they are able to do so without lungs. “You will simply have to take His Majesty’s word for it.”

His word. Not the guard’s.

She finds the distinction interesting.

“Well…” She shrugs helplessly. “What are we supposed to do then? We’ll have to surrender our jumpsuits to meet your terms, but we can’t exactly meet the king without any clothes.”

Beside her, Jack chokes on a laugh, but thankfully doesn’t say anything.

The guard seems to consider this for a moment. “I believe we can accommodate for that.”

____________________________________________________________

Nearly an hour later, Maddie finds herself pacing back and forth in the sitting room she and Jack have been brought to. The palace staff had provided them with simple linen garments to wear in lieu of their jumpsuits. “Garments” might be too generous of a term; it’s clear they were thrown together on an extremely short notice, held together with haphazard stitches and maybe just the barest hint of ghost magic. Maddie feels more like she’s been wrapped in a bundle of fabric than actually dressed.

Her humiliation is not helped in the slightest by how the king’s staff treated her and Jack as they helped them and brought them to the room. There was, of course, the guard, who continued to treat them like scum of the Earth. The seamstress who brought them the clothes, however, had regarded them with enormously wide, unblinking eyes and only spoken to them in a series of squeaks and whimpers, giving Maddie the impression that maybe the girl had been a mouse in life. And then there had been the servants all throughout the halls, gasping at them and leaning in to whisper to each other heatedly, as if she and Jack were celebrities.

Or, perhaps more accurately, exotic creatures. She doesn’t imagine that these ghosts see humans too often.

Most frustratingly about the whole situation, though, is that none of this - the invitation, the unpreparedness, the staff’s treatment of them, even the halls of the palace itself - has given her any sort of indication as to who the Ghost King is, or what kind of ghost he will be when they meet him. It’s like trying to put together a puzzle, she thinks, but the pieces are all from different puzzles. For someone like Maddie, who prefers concrete data to the unknown, it’s a nightmare.

Not to mention the idea of going blindly into a potentially hostile situation terrifies her.

Not that she’ll ever admit it out loud.

The door bangs open, startling Maddie out of her thoughts and Jack out of his seat. The guard who greeted them floats in the doorway. Without their helmet on, she can see that they have a third, milky eye in the center of their forehead. Distantly, she wonders why there’s no opening for it in the helmet.

“His Majesty will see you now,” the guard says curtly, gesturing for them to follow.

The trip to the throne room is short, but somehow they still encounter a trio of what Maddie assumes to be maids. She rolls her eyes as they too watch them with wide eyes before bending in close to each other, whispering hurriedly.

“I can’t believe he actually…” one says.

“... think they’ll attack their own…” another is saying.

“... fleshier than he is,” the third adds rather unhelpfully.

Maddie’s not sure what to make of the conversation. Their own what?

“Mads.”

Too late, she realizes she’s stopped in the middle of the hallway and is staring at the maids. Jack and the guard are ahead of her, watching her expectantly. Jack looks like he wants to ask her something, but strangely enough, he stays quiet.

Blushing furiously and pushing the conversation out of her head, Maddie scurries back to Jack’s side.

____________________________________________________________

The throne room looks as if it had been plucked right from a fairytale. It’s done in a dark, ashy marble, complete with a long carpet and thick curtains in deep blue, trimmed with silver. Tall pillars line the sides of the room, each wrapped in a spiraling pattern of frost and decorated with a black banner stamped with the king’s seal. A stained glass window at the back of the room, behind the throne, filters light through its panes, throwing prismatic blues, greens, and purples around the room.

The throne itself sits on a short dais, and even Maddie can appreciate the workmanship that has clearly gone into it. The entire throne is made of crystalline ice, almost as if it was carved straight from a glacier. Threads of bright green ectoplasm are embedded within it, creating intricate, abstract patterns and giving it the illusion of a glow. A plush pillow rests on the seat, done in the same blue and silver fabric as the curtains.

“Maddie,” Jack whispers with a nudge, “look up.”

She does, and an involuntary gasp tears itself from her throat. Where she had expected a ceiling, perhaps like she’d find in an old cathedral, there is only the expanse of a night sky. Stars twinkle back at her, and she’s easily able to identify some of the constellations. The Big Dipper, of course, with Polaris in its glory, and over there she spots Orion. It’s only thanks to Danny and his love for the stars that she’s able to realize that she’d be able to see these same constellations above her roof this time of the year.

It’s a fascinating decorating choice, she thinks, for the Ghost King to recreate Earth’s night sky in his throne room. Is it a deliberate choice? Is it a memory of the life he left behind? Is it simply just an appreciation for a sky that’s not ectoplasm?

A chill runs down her spine, and not just because she can feel the cold radiating off the throne. A realization has just hit her.

How powerful of a ghost must the king be to create such a perfect replica? To make her doubt for even a second that she never left Earth?

The stars above sway as a wave of dizziness overcomes her.

It’s only when Jack reaches out and gently pulls her back onto the long carpet that she looks away. Her face burns in embarrassment as she realizes she had been so lost in thought that she’d begun to wander aimlessly. Thankfully, if the guard notices, they don’t say anything about it.

Still though, she berates herself. She can’t afford to lose her focus. Not here. Not this deep in enemy territory. Not in the middle of the lair of the most powerful ghost in existence.

Oh God, she thinks as her stomach drops. Suddenly, the guard leading them down to the throne feels more like an executioner dragging them to the gallows. How could she have allowed them to give up their weapons so easily? How could she have let them be stripped of their defenses and led like lambs to a slaughter? This is the Ghost King. She and Jack have threatened and hunted his subjects time and again. Any self-respecting leader isn’t going to let that slide so easily.

Let alone a ghost.

“Hey.” Jack’s broad hand slips around hers, and she instinctively grips it tightly. “You’re overthinking things,” he chides quietly, but there’s still a light air to his voice.

“We shouldn’t have come.” It’s hard to keep her voice from shaking, especially as the air begins to grow bitingly cold as they near the throne. “He’s going to kill us. Or-or throw us in the dungeons. Or something. We’ll never get out of here. We’ll never see Jazz and Danny again. We -”

“Maddie. Look at me.”

She turns her head to look into his eyes, and despite her rampaging anxiety, the sight of the pure warmth and trust in his deep blue eyes grounds her, even if just a bit. Jack has always been the steadfast one between them. She knows that to an outsider, it seems as if she’s the one always pulling him back down into reality, but she thinks that he’s pulled her back up into reality just as often, if not more. It’s just one of the reasons she fell in love with him, one of the reasons she thinks they’re as strong as they are.

“We went through this,” Jack is saying, his tone devoid of any exasperation. He squeezes her hand. “If he wanted to hurt us, he would’ve just come and done it. He wouldn’t have sent an invitation saying that we could bring our weapons. I’m sure whatever he wants us here for can’t be that bad.” Ahead, the guard grunts, but doesn’t say anything.

“We still don’t know what we’re dealing with,” Maddie says. They come to a stop in front of the dais, and somewhere from the side of the room, an attendant flits over to the guard. The two begin speaking in hushed tones, in a language she can’t understand. Still, she watches them warily as she continues speaking. “We shouldn’t have come into this so blind.”

Jack’s brows furrow just the slightest bit. The attendant gives the guard a quick bow - nothing more than a dip - and flits back from where she came.

“It’ll be okay,” Jack says. He squeezes her hand again. “We’ll figure it out together. I know we will.”

Maddie opens her mouth to respond, but the guard begins speaking before she can.

“Presenting His Majesty,” they begin in a booming voice that reverberates against the marble, throughout the entire room, “the Keeper of Gateways, Pariah’s Bane, the Twice-Born -”

A door opens from the side wing, interrupting the guard. “Rowan, chill out,” a new voice says with a light laugh. “I’ve told you, you really don’t have to do this every time you introduce me.”

Maddie’s blood runs colder than the ice on the throne.

“Danny?” The name spills from her mouth before she can stop it. She claps a hand over her mouth as the guard, presumably Rowan, fixes her with a heated glare.

To be fair, she’s not sure if she would’ve been able to stop herself if she’d tried. A scientist and huntress she may be, but before that, she is a mother, and a mother always recognizes her own children.

And that voice was undeniably her son’s.

Her mind reels. It makes no sense. How is he here? In the Ghost Zone? In the Ghost King’s throne room? Why is he here? Addressing a ghost like an old friend? What does -

The flurry of confusion screeches to a halt, though, when a figure steps out from behind a curtain, and the rug is pulled out from under her a second time.

A thick mop of snow white hair. Electric green eyes that betray a bewilderment similar to her own. An insignia emblazoned proudly across his chest.

Maddie relaxes, but only marginally. In the midst of a world of unfamiliarity, the sight of Phantom, someone she knows all too well, is begrudgingly soothing. She’s not happy to see him, not by a long shot, but she feels a little less out of her depth. Even if things involving Phantom tend to veer towards disaster, and even if his presence in the Ghost King’s throne room is unsettling at best.

The minimal relief is short-lived, however, as she registers more in regards to his appearance. Namely the ring on his middle finger with a stone that matches the ice of the throne. And the cape draped around his shoulders with a collar of fluff and an adornment of stars. And the crown nestled in his hair, also seemingly made of ice but shimmering with the ever-shifting lights of the borealis.

Her stomach drops to her feet.

Maybe she’s much more out of her depth than she originally thought.

#danny phantom #danny fenton #maddie fenton #jack fenton #hannah writes #infinite realms 2025 #fanfiction #dp fanfiction #ghost king danny

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