#because I've always felt how much is wrong and how much is wrong as an Austen adaptation and yet there are glances

[plethorawrites]

TW: Mentions of dub con/non consensual intimacy or coercion. (From his past lovers, not reader) (A/N this is my favorite thing I've ever writtenreader

TW: NSFW content.

2.5k word count

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Okay, this could be a bit of a hot take, but I am a firm believer in soft Jason Todd during sex.

Especially at the beginning of a relationship. He died young and his only sexual experiences were with Talia, who groomed him, Essence, who he believed betrayed him for the longest time and maybe Artemis, (Idk if that's canon? Can someone confirm or deny?) who was probably pretty rough given her arrogant, abrasive, and violent personality.

So, when he dates you, he's more than just hesitant. He's pretty much terrified. But he's used to hiding his feelings because they make him feel vulnerable and weak, which he hates. When you start tearing down his walls, he starts to panic. He likes spending time with you, thinking about you, kissing you. Especially that last part.

But it never goes very far because he always pulls away when things get more heated. Like, you in his lap, him nearly fully hard before quickly picking you up by your hips and moving you to the other side of the couch before standing up, clearing his throat and leaving.

It takes over two months before he feels comfortable enough to even tell you the reason he doesn't want to be intimate and the only reason he did is because you started to feel like he wasn't attracted to you or you had something wrong.

He rushed to reassure you that wasn't the case and finally told you the —partial— truth. He had scars he didn't want you seeing, he had bad prior experiences, he felt like he was being used almost every time he slept with someone and couldn't stand that feeling because it made him physically ill.

It took several weeks after that to slowly adapt to that realization and discuss how to make that feeling go away. Taking things slow, making it last, keeping it gentle, seemed to be the best way. And it was somehow perfect and tortuous all at once. He let you ride his thigh, at first. That was the first time he'd ever allowed any form of intimacy between you too. Partially because you looked desperate and he felt bad and partially because he genuinely wanted to see what you looked like while doing that.

Not to mention, he was still too afraid to be the one doing anything. So, it was best if he just helped.

His grip was firm, his eyes glued to you. You whispered more praise in those few minutes than he had heard from anyone in months all together, maybe even the year. He felt good. He was helping you. You appreciated it. You appreciated him. He was attractive. You were thanking him for giving this to you. Practically begging for his help.

And it made his heart clench, not to mention his teeth. There were other forms of physical intimacy after that, still only to you, because he didn't want to risk showing his scars or get that nausea in his stomach again during sex. You'd allow him pretty much anything and everything, if it meant he was more comfortable with you and your body. Sliding his hand under your shirt while you slept over (quite literally just falling asleep after eating dinner together) brushing his knuckles against your breasts, hesitant to touch them, but finding comfort in it all at once.

You assured him three different times—before he did it, when his hand was just barely under your shirt, and when his fingers first tugged at your nipples. It's when he's finally a bit more comfortable, pressing his lips to your shoulder blade that you hum and roll over. Your hair finds his hair, stroking it and he presses his lips to your neck, almost on instinct. You let him kiss lower and lower, gently guiding his head towards your breasts, all while repeating more and more praise, reminding him he's under no obligation to do anything, ever, if he doesn't feel comfortable.

But he does. With you, he does.

It leads to him kissing and sucking at your chest until he loses track of time and you're painfully wet. That was plenty, you promised. He doesn't need to do anymore than that. But he does, because he doesn't want to take his hands off your soft skin. So you gently drag his hand down, keeping the other firmly on his shoulder while you stare into his eyes, as his fingers slide through your slick. A sharp inhale makes him hold his breath. The other women he'd been with only ever wanted the most physical part of sex, never to do something like this. You were so soft and warm, assuring him he was doing fine while guiding his hand until you eventually couldn't keep looking at him and had to close your eyes. He liked that. A lot.

The way your hand moved, letting him do what he wanted while you gripped the sheets. He listened so well, trying to make you happy or just keep making those sounds—his name falling from your lips. If you wanted his fingers to move faster, they would. If you said deeper, they were. If you said to curl them, they'd curl. You were so... captivating, he had found. Usually, he was too in his head, so focused on how long until it was over that he never even considered being able to enjoy it.

But he wasn't rushing with you. He didn't want you to stop saying his name. When you finally came down from the high he'd brought you, your first words were a question, asking if he was alright. When he nodded, you started telling him how perfect he was, how good that felt. He liked that almost as much as your moans.

Yet, you felt guilty, never taking care of him. He never asked. In fact he repeatedly denied the offer until you chose to stop asking rather than upset him.

Until one day, when you were on the couch, leaning against him as he read, your hand perched on his thigh. He didn't know if it was the fact that you were wearing such a low cut tank top or how you'd been absent mindedly rubbing circles around his sweatpants while reading over his shoulder, but he was worked up. It took twice as long to finish a page with your motion making his mind go to places it shouldn't.

He was worried, about you rejecting his desires, or something like that. Something mocking or doing something that was uncomfortable. People had done that before, eliciting physical reactions he didn't want to feel. But he wanted to try, to feel you on him the way he'd felt you.

His hands grabbed yours and when you looked up in confusion, he just gently and silently slid your hand a bit further on his leg, towards his erection. He'd absolutely taken care of himself, and often, because it was a quick stress relief that left him tired before bed. But lately, the more he did it, the more his mind wandered to you and that, for some reason, made him finish a lot harder than usual.

Your hand brushed against it and you asked if he was sure before pressing a kiss to the side of his shoulder and sinking down to the carpet below, on your knees in between his legs. Running your hands up and down his thighs in a soothing sort of gesture both calmed him and felt like torture all at once. But it only lasted a little bit, while you promised him he was in control, because that's what he needed to hear.

That he could say no at any time if he was even the slightest bit uncomfortable. When you slid his boxers down, his heart jumped in panic. Of course you noticed the scars on his thighs instantly. But ignored them, because he still hardly ever showed them aside for occasionally wearing short sleeves. You were silent and he was scared but all you'd said at last, was that he was pretty.

"Pretty."

That word had never been used to describe him. Not before his death and certainly not after. Even the feeling of your gentle kiss on his skin and your thumb swiping over the top had him gripping the pillows, still stressed. Your hand took his, squeezing it when your lips finally enveloped him, his length disappearing into your mouth. His breaths were shaky, his hold on your hand getting painfully tight.

He felt like he was in pure bliss, his mouth falling open to pant as his head fell back against the couch practically begging you to keep going. The feeling of your hums had done him in. And his moans, loud and tough, getting whiny towards the end as the euphoria wore off assured you he was fine. He slid his boxers and sweats up quickly, his cheeks red, from the act not embarrassment (he'd say and lie) but you just laid your head on his knee, staring at him, asking how he was.

Good was an understatement. Great, too. Incredible. Amazing. None of those compliments came out. He couldn't speak, just looked back up at the ceiling as his breathing came back under control.

All you'd done in response was tell him he didn't have to say anything if he didn't want to, climbing back into the couch and wrapping your arms around his midsection, resting your head against him. You stayed like that—silent. The only question you dared to ask was if he'd want that again and his response was a kiss.

He realized after that, how truly deeply he loved you.

A feeling he was so unused to, he couldn't pinpoint it for the longest time. You felt safe. Maybe that's what made him want to finally seal the deal with you. Or maybe it was the way his body physically ached in a way that no amount of help from his own hand or your mouth could fix.

Something about it was missing.

He wanted the lights off. You had accepted that, but told him you'd really rather see him. He caved almost instantly, because as afraid he was of you seeing him, he wanted to see you too bad to care enough. You were undressed first, naturally. He'd seen that before, in bed while touching you, or just as you changed it got in the shower. He wasn't any less smitten, still obsessed with every inch of exposed skin. It took a few deep breaths and reassuring words before he was willing to unbutton his shirt.

In fact, he couldn't. He'd asked you to do it.

That felt oddly more intimate to him. Your fingers moved slowly, undoing them one by one, a bit more of his chest exposed with each button undone. You had seen a lot of his scars, after he got more comfortable wearing shorts or shirts that showed his arms. He still never revealed his chest and when you did, he looked away, his teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek to keep from tears brimming in his eyes as he heard the small gasp leave your lips.

He almost jumped when you touched one, your fingertips feeling light as a feather. Tears kept pricking but he refused to let them fall. He was being vulnerable but he couldn't allow himself to be that weak. Your other hand found his cheek, pulling his face to look at your face, brushing your thumb over his bottom lip as you pursed your own, tightly to keep from any strangled sounds escaping.

Your voice was equally as emotional when you eventually spoke, telling him in a shaky voice that he was still pretty. Those words or perhaps how your voice cracked when you said them, broke him. A tear slipped down his cheek and you were quick to brush it away with your thumb and kissed his cheek softly, confessing that you loved him.

He couldn't stand it anymore.

He wrapped his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your neck letting himself breathe for what felt like the first time all over again. A real breath. One without any heaviness attached to it because you'd stolen all the stones from his walls one by one. You repeated it, so he knew it wasn't a mistake or accident and he started peppering short kisses to your neck, all the way to your lips, which he kissed deeply, his bare chest pressed entirely around your own.

Your arms were around his neck, in his hair, pulling him closer and his hands started to wander, desperately craving to have you without any barriers anymore. He stared at you, or at least tried to, when he felt your velvety walls surround him, clenching tightly when his hips were finally flushed with yours. His jaw was locked tightly until you started running your hand up and down his spine, telling him he could take a moment, if he needed it.

He did.

Not because he was nervous, since for once, he wasn't, but because he wanted to stare at you in this state and revel in your feeling for a moment more. He did, until it became painful for both of you and every thrust he made was slow and deep, staring into each other's eyes, taking full breaths in at the same time for several moments until his pace was quick, along with your breathing.

Your praise never stopped, even when it wasn't fully coherent and ended in a moan or whine. His own praise for you wasn't lacking either, telling you how perfect you felt, how badly he wanted you, how much he appreciated you waiting on him because he really was enjoying it, probably more than he'd enjoyed anything in his entire life.

When you're both a mess, panting and quiet from the feelings that washed over you both, his body goes limp, laying on top of you. Your hands rub his shoulders reassuringly, although slowly and his hands hold either side of your head, fingers threaded into your hair as he pressed his forehead against yours, feeling your breath on him. It was silent, until he eventually lifted his head to admire you, your stray hairs sticking to your face, your puffy lips, your blown pupils.

He said it back, at that moment.

He loved you too and couldn't stand letting you think anything else for a single moment more.

You didn't respond, but your lips curled into a grin and a heavy sigh left your chest, your hands moving from his shoulders to cup his face and lean up to kiss him.

He rolled you over, causing a slight squeal from you, letting you lay on him so he wasn't crushing you any longer. You rested your head against his chest, silently tracing his scars as he messed with your hair, the moonlight streaming in through the window.

His voice eventually broke the comfortable silence when he whispered to you, asking you to "Say it again."

You didn't hesitate to tell him you'd "Say it as many times as he wanted to hear it."

With his lips twitching, the slight wit he always possessed came back, questioning what you'd do if he "Wanted to hear it forever."

Like before, your response was immediate when you replied, telling him you'd "Say it forever, then."

[ughbrie]

converging threads | zayne

⤜ ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ- “And I know what that loneliness feels like.” His voice was rough, raw. “Because when I had nightmares of his life… he dreamt of mine.”

A chill ran through you.

“He dreamt of Linkon. Of Akso. Of—” He swallowed hard, his grip on you unyielding. “You.”

The word hung between you, heavy and fragile at the same time.

“Now, he’s clawing his way into my thoughts, trying to make sense of a life that isn’t his to have.” Zayne’s hands curled into the fabric of your clothes, as if anchoring himself to something tangible. “And every time I look at you—” His voice cracked, his hands shaking as he clutched you. “He’s reaching for you. And I don’t know if it’s me who wants you or if it’s him bleeding through.”

(Or… after the events of Chansia City, Zayne had started to avoid you. More than a week later, in the dead of night, he's outside of your door, struggling with his sense of self—blurring between two worlds.)

⤜ ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ- zayne x female reader

⤜ ɢᴇɴʀᴇ- angst, smut, & fluff

⤜ ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ- 8k

⤜ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ- nsfw, mdni, softdom!zayne, references to zayne's third anecdote (still in the dark), spoilers to zayne's main story branch (thorns under the moon) and four star memory (fragmented dreams), mentions of childhood trauma and violence, too much angst, oral sex (blowjob), dirty talk, penetration (p in v), clothed sex, riding, breast play, emotional sex, unprotected sex, and creampie.

⤜ ɴᴏᴛᴇ- As a dedicated Zayne main, I've always had a soft spot for Dawnbreaker!Zayne, I just want to give him the biggest hug! While he never explicitly took control of main story Zayne’s body, their connection through dreams and nightmares allowed them to see into each other’s lives. And so, I wanted to explore what it would be like if that connection blurred even further after the events of Chansia City, and how Zayne would react to it. I hope you enjoy reading!

The knock at your door was soft, barely audible over the hum of Linkon City outside. You might have missed it had you not been awake, staring at the ceiling, unable to shake the restlessness clawing at your chest. Something felt wrong.

Hesitating for a moment, you peeled the blankets away and stepped towards the door. When you opened it, Zayne stood there, still as a statue. The warm glow from your apartment barely touched him; he lingered in the shadows of the hallway, his expression unreadable, like he was caught between two worlds—one where he stood before you and another far beyond, too distant to reach.

“Zayne?” Your voice was uncertain, your fingers tightening around the doorframe. He looked normal—his crisp shirt unwrinkled, his coat still shielding him from the cold. But his posture was rigid, like he was torn between memories, caught between the man you knew and something far more elusive, far darker. His breath came slow, controlled, but his fingers twitched at his sides, as if holding onto something unseen, something slipping away from his grasp.

It had been more than a week since you last saw him—more than a week since you clawed your way out of his dreamscape, fighting against the twisted phantoms of his nightmares and the suffocating pull of his uncontrollable evol. More than a week since he began avoiding you, and you couldn’t understand why.

You had searched for him—at Akso Hospital. 

You pushed open the door to Akso Hospital, the sterile scent of antiseptic filling your nose as you made your way down the familiar corridors. The sight of the bustling staff, the low murmur of nurses giving reports—it should have been comforting. But it wasn’t. Every step you took felt heavier, the weight of worry pressing down on your chest.

You were looking for Zayne. It had been a week since you’d seen him, and the silence between you was suffocating. You had tried calling, texting, but there was no sign of him.

You found Greyson near the nurses’ station, chatting with a few other doctors. He noticed you first, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before his usual, easy smile appeared.

“Hey,” he greeted, his tone too casual. Too… practiced. “What brings you by?”

“I was hoping to see Dr. Zayne. Is he around?” You tried to keep your voice even, but the question felt like a weight in your chest.

Greyson shifted on his feet, glancing toward the hallway where Dr. Zayne’s office was. “Oh, you know how it is,” he said with a shrug. “He’s been buried in surgeries lately. Really busy.”

You frowned. “Busy? He hasn’t been answering my calls. I’ve tried everything.”

At the sound of your words, Greyson’s gaze flickered uncomfortably, and before he could answer, Yvonne appeared beside him, her bright smile almost too wide.

“Hey, I didn’t expect to see you here today!” Yvonne chirped, her voice all sweetness, but there was a subtle edge to it. “Greyson’s right. Dr. Zayne’s probably just deep in work. You know how he gets, don’t you?”

You nodded, but the unease in your chest grew. “But… I haven’t been able to reach him. And he’s been avoiding me. I’m starting to get worried.”

There was a beat of silence before Yvonne glanced at Greyson, then back at you. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the motion almost too practiced. “Oh, you know Dr. Zayne,” she said, her voice a little too smooth. “He’s a bit of a workaholic. And, well, he’s been dealing with some… personal things lately. I’m sure he’ll be in touch when he’s ready.”

Greyson cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m sure he’s just focused on… other things right now.”

You felt a knot form in your stomach. Something wasn’t right. Both of them were too evasive, too careful with their words.

“So he’s just been… avoiding me because he’s busy?” You asked, your voice thick with skepticism.

Yvonne’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes shifted just a little. “Exactly! He’ll reach out when he’s ready. Don’t worry.”

But you weren’t convinced. You couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something they weren’t telling you. Before you could press further, Yvonne’s phone rang, and she quickly excused herself with a bright, almost rehearsed smile.

Greyson rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I wouldn’t worry too much, Zayne’s just… well, Zayne. He’ll be back to his usual self soon enough.”

The words felt hollow, like a lie wrapped in a smile.

You turned to leave, the knot in your stomach tightening. Something wasn’t right, and you were more determined than ever to find out what was going on.

You even went to his home not two days after. You had been patient, given him space, but the silence between you was gnawing at you, and you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

You arrived at his place and paused outside the gate, your heart sinking. The house sat dark and still, as though no one had been home for hours. The front door was locked, the quiet expanse of the yard untouched. No sign of Zayne’s car in the driveway. No movement behind the windows.

Frowning, you reached for your phone, calling him once more. It rang, and rang… and rang. But there was no answer. No familiar voice on the other end. You tried again, and again—each unanswered call tightening the knot of anxiety in your chest. It was unlike him. Even when he was busy at work, he always answered your calls. You thought things had changed between you—gone beyond just childhood friends, past the barriers you once had.

You hadn’t been able to ignore the way things had shifted between the two of you, how you’d shared more, laughed more, and even kissed—moments that felt like stepping into something real, something undeniable. And yet now, in the silence, you felt that connection fraying, slipping out of your grasp.

You reached for the gate, testing it, but it was locked tight. The metal was cold beneath your fingers, the weight of it pressing down on you in a way you couldn’t quite shake. You knocked gently on the gate, your hand hesitant against the metal, but there was no answer. No sound from inside. No footsteps echoing in the distance. Just more silence.

You stood there for a moment, staring at the door, wondering if you were missing something, if you were just being paranoid. But there was no denying the gnawing sense that you were being shut out.

Yet now, here he stood, unannounced, uninvited. The sight of him should have brought relief, but something was off, like he was a mere shadow of the man you knew.

“You should’ve let me in sooner,” he murmured, a wry attempt at a smile barely forming before fading just as quickly. His voice was softer than usual, almost exhausted, like the fight had been taken out of him. You stepped aside instinctively, letting him in. He didn’t move right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on you—as if memorizing every detail, confirming that you were real, that this wasn’t just another one of his nightmares.

Then, finally, he stepped through. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing the two of you in the silence of your small apartment. He exhaled, but this time it was unsteady—as if releasing a breath he’d been holding for far too long. His hands trembled, and he shoved them into his coat pockets, a feeble attempt to mask the unease rolling off him in waves.

“Zayne, where have you been?” The question came out before you could stop it. His avoidance had gnawed at you, making every second of silence between you feel like it stretched on forever.

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor for a brief moment, like he was trying to find the right words. Then, finally, his voice broke through, hoarse and fragile, as if he’d been swallowing down too many words for too long. “Every time I close my eyes, I see a world where you don’t exist.”

The confession hit like thunder in your chest. Your breath caught, eyes wide with confusion, but something else too—fear, a strange sense of loss, creeping in. You stared at him, unable to comprehend, yet knowing there was so much more buried beneath the surface.

“It’s not just nightmares anymore,” he whispered, voice barely audible. His eyes flickered with something raw and unfamiliar—something you hadn’t seen in him before. “It’s bleeding into the day. I can’t… separate it. Separate me.”

You frowned, confusion tightening around your thoughts, heart pounding. “Separate what? Zayne, what are you talking about?”

He stiffened, jaw tightening as if he’d realized he’d said too much. He shook his head, dismissing the words before they could fully escape. “Ignore what I said.” he muttered, but the tension in his voice betrayed him.

“Zayne…” You stepped closer, cautious but firm. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”

A bitter chuckle escaped him, but there was no humor in it. His hand drifted to his temple, pressing hard as if trying to force something out of his mind. “I don’t know how to explain it.” His voice wavered slightly, a rare crack in his composure. “I don’t even know if it’s mine to explain.”

Your stomach twisted at his words. Zayne was rarely uncertain. But now, he looked lost, like he was trying to hold onto something slipping through his fingers. The man who had always been in control, who always had an answer, was unraveling in front of you.

“Then let me help,” you said softly, reaching for him.

He exhaled sharply, his hands clenching into fists before loosening just as quickly, as if even that took too much effort. “I don’t think you can,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his sleeve. He tensed, but didn’t pull away. The warmth of his body under your touch should have felt familiar, comforting, but there was something cold in the air around him that you couldn’t ignore.

“I’m here,” you reminded him gently, voice steady despite the knot in your stomach. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His shoulders sagged just slightly, his resolve faltering under the weight of something neither of you could name. 

You guided Zayne to the couch with a soft insistence, his steps heavy, like each one was taking him further away from something he couldn’t quite grasp. He didn’t resist, but his hesitation was palpable. You noticed the subtle tremor in his shoulders as he sat down, his back stiff, as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

You sat next to him, your fingers brushing the fabric of his coat as you settled yourself. The space between you both felt charged, yet strained, like two magnets unwillingly attracted but refusing to align.

Your hand hovered near his arm, unsure, but you couldn’t ignore the impulse to reach out. The last few days—weeks—had felt like a slow, suffocating crawl through a fog. Seeing him like this, so unguarded, was both a relief and a deepening worry.

“Zayne…” You started, your voice low, soft. You weren’t sure how to approach him anymore. He had been pulling away, emotionally distant, and now, even his presence seemed fractured.

You reached out, your fingers brushing against his sleeve.

At the first touch, his body flinched. Not an outward movement, but a sharp intake of breath, like a quiet shudder that ran through him. His hazel-green eyes were blown wide, pupils dark and dilated, swallowing the soft color until only a thin ring of green remained. For a brief moment, he looked at you—through you—like he was caught between two realities, struggling to tether himself to the one in front of him.

Then, just as quickly, his gaze flickered away, his throat working around a breath that sounded too controlled, too measured. As if he was holding something back. The air between you thickened, the weight of his restraint pressing into the space between your fingers. His jaw tensed, a sharp line of tension beneath his skin, and yet—he didn’t move away.

With a careful breath, you let your hand rest against his arm, your fingers curling gently around the fabric of his coat. You felt him tense beneath your touch, but it wasn’t from discomfort. No, it was something else. Something deeper. His body shuddered again, more pronounced this time, and you could feel his muscles ripple under the strain of holding back.

“Zayne…” You said his name again, this time softer, as though you were speaking to someone who was slipping away. You moved a little closer, hoping that your proximity would ground him somehow, though you weren’t entirely sure how.

His voice cracked when he spoke, low and hoarse, like a man speaking to a ghost. “Every time you touch me… it’s like… I feel like I’m being pulled in two directions.”

You blinked, your heart skipping a beat as you tried to make sense of his words. “What do you mean?” you asked, your hand still resting on his arm, waiting, watching him closely.

Zayne exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching at his sides as if struggling to find an anchor. “I’ve always suffered from nightmares,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “The same ones I’ve always had since I was young. But after what happened at Chansia City…” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “It didn’t stop when I woke up.”

Your heart clenched at his words. You knew Zayne had always been plagued by restless nights, but this—this was different. You thought back to that moment at Akso Hospital, when you had found him slumped over his desk.

His brow was creased with the weight of exhaustion. His breathing had been uneven, his hands gripping the fabric of his coat as if he were bracing himself against something unseen. You had hesitated before stepping closer, unsure if you should wake him. But the quiet distress on his face made the decision for you.

“Zayne…” you had whispered, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

The moment your fingers made contact, he jolted awake with a sharp breath, his eyes wild with something you couldn’t name. For a split second, it was as if he didn’t recognize you, as if he were somewhere else entirely.

But then, his gaze softened, reality bleeding back into him. His breathing was still heavy, his shoulders tense, but when you knelt beside him, concern written all over your face, he didn’t pull away.

Without thinking, you had reached out again, brushing his hair back in a quiet attempt to soothe him. His body sagged under your touch, the tension in his shoulders melting just enough for him to lean forward. And before you could react, he rested his forehead against your chest, his breaths uneven as if the simple act of being close to you was the only thing keeping him grounded.

You had stilled at first, heat creeping up your neck, but you didn’t push him away. Instead, you let him stay there, your fingers threading through his hair in slow, absentminded strokes. You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, the sound of his breathing evening out against you, his body losing some of its rigidness.

When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, barely audible. “Just… let me stay like this for a while.”

And you had. Because for the first time, you realized how deeply tired he was.At the time, you thought he was just tired physically, but now you realized he was tired in a way that ran so much deeper as you watched him sitting on your couch, that same exhaustion clung to him like a shadow, only now it was accompanied by something far worse. He wasn’t just tired. He was unraveling.

“I thought I could ignore it,” he continued, pulling you back to the present. “I thought it would fade eventually. But it’s not stopping.” His fingers curled into the fabric of his coat as if trying to ground himself. “It’s getting worse.”

You swallowed hard. “The nightmares?”

“They’re not just nightmares anymore.” He exhaled sharply, his hands clenching before loosening again. “They’re memories of a life that isn’t mine.” His jaw tightened, his entire body tense with something unreadable. “And the worst part?” His eyes flickered to yours, dark and conflicted. “I feel like I’m walking on air, seeing things that aren’t there, feeling emotions that aren’t mine.”

You frowned. “Zayne, what are you talking about?”

His throat worked around a response, but for a moment, he said nothing, only looking at you with something close to desperation. He shook his head as if trying to shake off the words before they could leave his mouth.

“It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, but you weren’t about to let it go.

“It does matter,” you said firmly, stepping closer. “You’ve been avoiding me for more than a week. You look like you’re about to fall apart, and now you’re telling me ‘it doesn’t matter’? What’s happening to you?”

He let out a bitter chuckle, but there was no humor in it. “I don’t even know if I can explain it. It’s… there’s another version of me. One I can’t escape. And he—” Zayne cut himself off abruptly, dragging a hand over his face. “He’s ruining everything.”

The conflict in his expression made your stomach twist. You had never seen him like this—so lost, so tangled in something that seemed beyond even his understanding. And when you reached for him again, your fingers brushing past his sleeve against his skin, you saw the way he shuddered.

At first, you thought his reactions stemmed from discomfort—that every shudder, every tensed muscle was his way of pulling away. But then you saw it. The way his breath hitched. The way his lashes fluttered shut for the briefest second, as if savoring the warmth of your touch. As if he had been starving for it. 

It wasn’t rejection. It was restraint.

Your heart pounded. “Zayne…”

His fingers twitched at his sides before he finally spoke, his voice raw. “Every time you touch me…” He exhaled sharply, as if the words themselves were dangerous. “It’s like my world’s losing its sense of direction.”

His confession stole the air from your lungs.

“But it’s not just me that wants this,” he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. “And that’s what scares me.”

Your fingers curled slightly around his wrist, grounding both of you in the silence between words. Zayne’s breath was uneven, his body strung taut beneath your touch. You could see it—the war waging within him, the push and pull of something he refused to name. His fingers curled at his sides, clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He was holding himself back.

But from what? From who?

The question burned at the edges of your mind, but you didn’t voice it. Instead, you did the only thing you could think of. You moved.

Slowly, you climbed onto the couch, onto him, your knees settling on either side of his thighs as you straddled his lap. His entire body went rigid beneath you, his breath stalling in his throat.

“You—” His voice broke, a warning tangled in desperation. His hands shot up, as if to push you away—but the moment his palms met your waist, he froze.

A violent shudder ran through him, his grip faltering but never leaving you. He barely held together, his fingers twitched against your sides, his body caught in an unbearable tension. 

“You shouldn’t…” he rasped, but even as he said it, his hands pulled.

Pulled you closer.

Pulled you flush against him, until there was no space left to retreat.

You gasped softly at the sudden contact, at the warmth of him, the way his body molded against yours like he had been starving for this. For you.

His head dipped forward, his forehead pressing against your shoulder as his breath came out in a harsh, unsteady exhale. His grip on your waist tightened, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you feel how badly he was struggling.

“Zayne…” You whispered his name, hands lifting to cradle his face, to guide him to look at you. He didn’t resist, but the moment your fingers brushed against his jaw, his eyes fluttered shut—his entire body reacting as if your touch was something he had been craving but forbidden from having.

“Every time you touch me…” He repeated, his voice was raw, nearly fractured. “I feel like I’m slipping deeper.”

Your fingers trembled slightly against his skin. “Slipping into what?”

His jaw clenched. His hands trembled against your waist, caught between pulling you closer and pushing you away.

“Him.”

The word sent a chill down your spine.

Zayne’s eyes finally opened, and what you saw there made your breath hitch.

Something was breaking inside him.

Something was bleeding through.

Like the fragile moment before dawn—when night still clung to the sky, desperate to remain, yet the light pressed forward, inevitable. A battle between darkness and the coming sun, neither willing to yield.

You didn’t know who he was, or why Zayne was fighting so hard to keep him at bay, but you could feel it—how much hewas longing for you. How much Zayne himself was afraid of that longing.

Your hands slid from his face to his shoulders, steadying him, grounding him. “You’re still you,” you murmured. “No one else.”

His fingers flexed against your waist, his breath ragged. “Then why does it feel like every time you touch me… I’m losing control of myself?”

He was slipping, unraveling, caught between two selves—one who had you, and one who had only ever ached for you.

And for the first time, Zayne wasn’t sure which one he wanted to be.

You sighed, your fingers curled against his shoulders, gripping him just a little tighter. His body was warm beneath your touch, but the tension in him never eased. If anything, it worsened.

“Zayne,” you whispered, searching his face. “Help me ease your mind, tell me everything. Tell me about him.”

His expression darkened instantly. His hands, still gripping your waist, stiffened before pushing you back—just slightly, just enough to put distance between you.

“No.”

The refusal was sharp, final.

But you didn’t let go. “Zayne, please.”

His jaw locked, his breath coming out in harsh exhales as he tried to rein himself in. But you had already seen it—the flicker of something raw in his gaze, the weight pressing down on him like it was crushing him from the inside.

He turned his head away, his grip tightening before he forced himself to let go. “I don’t want to tell you.” His voice was quieter now, but no less strained. “Because if I do…” His throat bobbed, his hands clenching into fists. “What if you look at me differently?”

Your chest ached. “Zayne—”

“He’s not me,” Zayne bit out, his voice lower now, edged with something close to rage. His fingers dug into the fabric of your clothes as if anchoring himself. “I don’t care what I see, what I feel—he is not me.”

You frowned, your heart pounding. “I didn’t say he was—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped, his fingers digging into you much harder before he wrenched them away, as if touching you made it worse. “It shouldn’t matter. Because whatever he is—whatever he’s done—I am not him.”

His voice cracked at the end, his composure slipping, and it hurt more than anything. Not because of what he wasn’t telling you, but because he was carrying it alone, letting it eat away at him like he deserved it.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. “Zayne, I don’t care what you think this means. I don’t care what’s bleeding through or what memories aren’t yours.” Your voice wavered, but you pushed through. “What hurts me isn’t who you were or weren’t—it’s this.” You gestured between the two of you, the distance he was trying to wedge between you. “It’s you shutting me out, punishing yourself like you have to carry this alone.”

Zayne let out a sharp breath, his fingers curling into fists against the curve of your waist. His grip was tense, hesitant—like he was still fighting himself.

You watched him carefully, the weight of his silence pressing against your chest. He had been resisting, keeping himself locked away behind walls you couldn’t breach. But this time… this time, something shifted.

And then you realized it.

It wasn’t your persistence that made him falter. It wasn’t even the promise that you would accept him, no matter what. It was the fact that you told him it hurt you too. That his silence, his self-inflicted suffering, didn’t just wound him—it wounded you.

Zayne’s throat bobbed, his gaze flickering, as if weighing the consequences of speaking the truth. His fingers flexed against you, his breath uneven.

Finally, he asked, “Do you know why I became a doctor?”

You hesitated. “Because you wanted to save people.”

“Partly,” He let out a bitter laugh. “But mostly because I spent my entire childhood dreaming of a man butchering them.” His hands raked through his hair, gripping at the strands.

“It started when I was twelve.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “I didn’t understand it then. I just knew that every night, I saw his hands, covered in blood. I heard the screams, felt the cold metal of a blade I never held.” His fingers flexed against your waist. “And every morning, I woke up terrified that I’d become him.”

You sucked in a quiet breath.

“That’s why I became a doctor,” Zayne muttered, his voice barely audible now. “To erase him. To bury him. Every life I saved was another step away from him.” His gaze snapped back to you, and there was something close to desperation in it.

He paused, and his gaze softened just slightly as it met yours, though there was still that edge of desperation.

“And… I wanted to help you, too. Since the first time I saw you struggling with your heart… I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you, not like that.”

Your heart pounded. “Zayne…”

“But now?” His gaze locked onto yours, and you almost flinched at the intensity in his eyes. “Now it’s not just nightmares. After Chansia City… it’s like something cracked. Like I bled through him.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

His fingers flexed against your skin, then curled into a fist, as if the words physically hurt to say. “I used to only see flashes. His world, his sins—they were nothing more than fragments. But now? I see his everyday life.” His voice dropped lower, as if saying it out loud made it more real. “I see him waking up in an empty apartment, walking through streets that no longer have names. I see him looking for something—someone—who was never there.”

Your chest tightened. “Zayne—”

“And I know what that loneliness feels like.” His voice was rough, raw. “Because when I had nightmares of his life… he dreamt of mine.”

A chill ran through you.

“He dreamt of Linkon. Of Akso. Of—” He swallowed hard, his grip on you unyielding. “You.”

The word hung between you, heavy and fragile at the same time.

“Now, he’s clawing his way into my thoughts, trying to make sense of a life that isn’t his to have.” Zayne’s hands curled into the fabric of your clothes, as if anchoring himself to something tangible. “And every time I look at you—” His voice cracked, his hands shaking as he clutched you. “He’s reaching for you. And I don’t know if it’s me who wants you or if it’s him bleeding through.”

Your heart pounded.

His pain was something you could see, something you could feel in the way he held you too tightly, in the way he refused to look away, as if afraid you’d vanish if he did.

“Does it change anything?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Zayne’s breath stilled.

“No, it doesn’t,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “I want you. I do. I’ve never denied that.” His fingers curled against your skin, holding you closer. “But this… it’s never felt like this before.”

His gaze darkened, his brows drawing together. “Like I can’t go a second without feeling you, without needing you right here. And I don’t know if it’s just me—if it’s always been me—or if it’s him. But it doesn’t matter.” His voice dropped lower, rough with something unspoken. “Because either way… I still want you.”

You reached up, cupping his cheek, forcing him to meet your gaze. “You’re here, right now. Whatever he feels, whatever he wants—this moment belongs to you.”

His throat bobbed, the conflict in his gaze raw and unfiltered. His fingers twitched where they held you, as if he wanted to push you away and pull you closer all at once.

And then—finally—he whispered, “I don’t know if I can separate us anymore.”

Zayne’s breath hitched, his hands still gripping your waist like a man on the verge of breaking. His body was rigid beneath yours, every muscle coiled tight with restraint. His stormy eyes flickered between your lips and your gaze, warring with something unseen.

You could feel it—the way he was holding himself back, the way his fingers twitched against your skin like he was fighting the instinct to pull you in.

And then, just when you thought he might push you away—he moved.

His lips crashed against yours, the kiss rough, almost desperate. A sharp inhale left him as his fingers tightened at your sides, pressing you flush against him. It wasn’t careful, wasn’t measured like everything else about him. It was hurried, hungry, as if he had been drowning for far too long and you were the only thing keeping him afloat.

Yet even in his desperation, there was hesitation—a tremor in his touch, a battle within him. His grip faltered, his breathing unsteady, as if his own emotions were overwhelming him.

For a moment, he slowed, his lips ghosting over yours, softer now—less frantic, more reverent. His fingers traced up your back, like he was memorizing every inch of you, terrified you might disappear.

But then when you surged forward to deepen the kiss, something in him snapped.

His restraint shattered as his hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you deeper into the kiss. His other hand dug into your waist, as if grounding himself in the feeling of you. He let out a quiet, shuddering breath against your lips, his body trembling beneath your touch.

It wasn’t just desire—it was longing. A desperate, aching need that had been simmering beneath his skin for far too long.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

He kissed you harder, as if trying to chase away the ghosts of a world where you didn’t exist—where he had spent endless nights reaching for something that was never there.

Zayne’s breathing was ragged as he suddenly tore himself away from you, his forehead pressing against yours, his grip on your waist still firm but trembling. His chest rose and fell in unsteady heaves, as if he had just surfaced from deep waters.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he rasped, his voice thick with something raw and desperate. His fingers flexed against your waist before slowly dragging up your sides, his touch both grounding and possessive. “But I need to feel—” His words cut off, a quiet ‘fuck’ slipping from his lips as he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stop.

You could see it—feel it. The battle raging within him. The desperate need to claim this moment as his own, to separate himself, to make sure that this—this longing, this ache, this hunger—was his, and not something bleeding over from the nightmares that haunted him.

His fingers ghosted over your arms before gripping your wrists, guiding them up to rest against his chest. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palms, erratic and heavy, proof of his struggle. His eyes searched yours, dark with emotion, pleading for something he couldn’t voice.

“I need to know it’s me,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not him. Not the dreams. Just… me. But I don’t trust myself enough not to hurt you.”

His fingers brushed your skin, hesitant, reverent—like he was afraid of his own hands.

“But I trust you.”

The words felt heavier than anything else he had said tonight, laced with the weight of every nightmare, every fear, every ghost of a life that wasn’t his. He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“I need you to take control,” he murmured, each syllable careful, deliberate. “I need to know this is real—that you’re real—that I’m real.” His hands curled into fists before he forced them to relax against you. “Because if I let go now… I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop.”

There was no mistaking what he meant. No mistaking the conflict in his gaze—the desperation tangled with restraint, the need warring with self-loathing.

Your hands slid up from his chest to cup his face, fingertips brushing against the sharp angles of his jaw. 

“It’s you, Zayne,” you whispered, your voice steady, certain. “You.”

You tilted his face up, brushing your lips against his—a whisper of a touch, just enough to tether him to the present, to this moment with you. He shuddered beneath your touch, his hands tightening at your waist as if anchoring himself.

“I’m here,” you continued, pressing another soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another along the line of his jaw. “This is real. We’re real.”

A sharp exhale left him, his resolve breaking little by little as you pressed against him. His grip on your waist faltered, then returned, stronger—desperate.

“Let me take care of you,” you murmured against his skin.

He shuddered at your words, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he wrestled with the warring emotions inside him. When they opened again, the desperation had intensified, the dark gray irises nearly swallowed by the black of his pupils.

“Show me,” he rasped, his voice low and rough with barely restrained desire. “Make me believe it.”

You took your time, trailing kisses along his chest, feeling the hard planes of muscle beneath his shirt as your lips travelled down. You wanted to savor this moment, to make sure he knew it was him, that this was real.

As you sank to your knees before him, you looked up at Zayne through your lashes. The raw vulnerability in his expression made your heart ache. You wanted to erase every nightmare, every fear, every shadow that haunted him.

“You’re real,” you murmured, your breath ghosting over his cloth-covered arousal. “This is real.”

With a steadying breath, you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the bulge straining against his zipper. You could feel the heat of him, the throbbing need, and it made your own body ache in response.

You worked slowly, unzipping him with deliberate care, letting your fingers brush against his arousal as you did. He was already hard, the thick length of him stretching the fabric of his boxers. 

You haven’t seen him naked before, and crossing this line made your thighs clench. Glancing up at him, you caught his gaze, holding it as you hooked your fingers in the waistband of his boxers and tugged them down. His cock sprang free, long and thick and perfect, the swollen head already glistening with need.

“Beautiful,” you whispered, wrapping your hand around the thick base of Zayne’s cock, giving him a firm squeeze as you gazed up at him with hooded eyes. “You’re beautiful, Zayne.”

Slowly, teasingly, you started to stroke him, your soft palm gliding along his hard length. You could feel every throbbing vein and ridge, committing the shape of him to memory.

Leaning in, you breathed over his swollen cock head, then, with a deliberate slowness that was almost torturous, you dragged the flat of your tongue along the underside of his shaft, tracing the thick vein that ran from base to tip. You lingered at the sensitive spot just below the head, swirling your tongue around it before giving it a firm press.

Zayne shuddered and groaned, his fingers flexing in your hair as you dragged your tongue back down to the base, your hand following the same path. When you reached the bottom, you dipped your tongue into the neat little slit at the tip, tasting the first salty drops of his arousal.

Savoring his flavor, you wrapped your lips around the swollen head, your soft mouth stretching around his impressive girth. You suckled gently, your cheeks hollowing as you began to take him deeper, inch by hard inch.

“Your mouth… it feels so g-good…” he groaned.

The praise that escaped his lips made the flush on your face more evident. As your lips moved slowly down his shaft, encasing him in the slick heat of your mouth, your tongue undulated along the thick vein on the underside as you took him deeper, until the head of his cock bumped the back of your throat.

You held yourself there for a long moment, relishing the heavy, throbbing weight of him, the musky scent of his arousal flooding your senses. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, you began to bob your head, taking him deeper into your throat with each downward motion.

Your hand worked in tandem with your mouth, stroking and squeezing as you sucked him. You could feel him growing harder, the thick length of him pulsing against your tongue as you pleasured him.

“Fuck… just like that…”

You couldn’t help but moan around his cock at his groans, your brain committing the sounds to memory. You doubled your efforts when you felt he was close, sucking harder, stroking faster, your tongue never still as it lapped and swirled and caressed every hard, throbbing inch of him.

His grip on your hair tightened, his hips starting to piston forward, fucking your mouth as you sucked him with wild abandon. You could feel his body tensing, his breath coming in harsh pants and groans. 

“I can’t… I can’t hold back much longer…”

And then, with a roar that was nearly feral in its intensity, he came. His cock jerked and throbbed as it erupted, shooting hot, thick ropes of cum down your eager throat.

You swallowed it all, working your throat to milk every last drop from his pulsing length. The taste of him was intense, the salty-sweet flavor of his essence exploding on your tongue.

As the waves of his release began to ebb, you slowly pulled back, letting his still hard cock slip from your lips with a lewd pop. You licked your lips, savoring the lingering taste of him as you gazed up at Zayne with a look of pure, sated desire.

“Zayne,” you whispered, your voice hoarse. “It’s you. This is you. You’re real.”

You placed a soft, lingering kiss on the tip of his cock before nuzzling your cheek against his thigh, looking up at him with a smile that was pure tenderness mixed with deep, abiding lust.

As the last tremors of his intense orgasm faded, Zayne reached down and gently but firmly pulled you up by your arms, urging you back into his lap. You went willingly, straddling his hips as you sat facing him.

His hands slid around to your back, one resting high on the curve of your shoulder blades, the other splayed across the small of your back, pulling you flush against his strong chest. You could feel the heat radiating off his skin, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palms.

Gazing into your eyes, Zayne leaned in, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that steals your breath. It was a kiss filled with gratitude, with hunger, with a desperate need to claim you, to make you his.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, your fingers tangling in his hair as you arched into him, pressing your soft curves against the hard planes of his body. His tongue delved into your mouth, stroking along yours, tasting himself on your lips and tongue.

As you both lost yourselves in the kiss, you could feel Zayne’s cock, still semi-erect and slick with your saliva, nudging against your core. The friction sent sparks of pleasure shooting through you, making you ache with a renewed desire.

Almost unconsciously, your hips began to move, grinding against his in a slow, sensual rhythm. You could feel the heat building between your thighs, the dampness of your arousal soaking through your panties.

Zayne groaned into your mouth, his grip on your waist tightening as he felt your hips rolling against his. His cock twitched and began to harden further, growing thicker and longer with each passing second.

Breaking the kiss, Zayne trailed his lips down the column of your throat, his teeth grazing your racing pulse. “Ride me,” he growled against your skin, his voice low and rough with renewed desire. “I need to feel you, all of you, surrounding me, consuming me, making me forget everything but your name.”

You shuddered at his words, at the raw, primal need in his voice. Reaching down, you pushed your panties aside, baring your slick, needy sex to the cool air and his heated gaze. You could feel your own arousal dripping down your thighs, a testament to how much you wanted him, needed him.

With a roll of your hips, you positioned yourself over his hardening length, feeling the thick head nudging against your entrance, you slowly sank down. You were so wet, so ready for him, that he slid inside you with a single, smooth thrust.

You both groaned at the sensation, your inner walls fluttering and clenching around his thickness as he stretched and filled you completely. You could feel every ridge and vein of his cock as it brushed against your sensitive flesh, igniting nerve endings you didn’t know you had.

Zayne’s hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements as you began to ride him. You started slowly, rising up until just the tip of his cock remained inside you, before sinking back down, taking him to the hilt.

“You feel so good, love.” he murmured, his lips parted open.

With each downward motion, you could feel the pleasure building, the coil of tension in your core winding tighter and tighter. 

You arched your back and Zayne leaned forward, freeing your breasts from the confines of your shirt as he lifted it by the hem. He captured one straining nipple in his mouth, suckling and nipping at the sensitive bud. His free hand slid from your hip to the juncture between your thighs, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing the swollen nub in tight, fast circles.

You cried out, your head falling back as the sensations overwhelmed you. Your hips moved faster, rising and falling in a frantic rhythm as you chased your pleasure. The wet, obscene sounds of your coupling filled the room, spurring you both on.

His other hand inch upward, holding your head firmly, his fingers tangling in your hair, Zayne tilted your chin up to gently force your gaze to meet his intense, hazel-eyed stare. He let out a strangled moan, “Say my name, love. Come on…”

Zayne’s grip on your hips tightened, his fingertips digging into the soft flesh as he guided your increasingly desperate movements. His own hips surged up to meet yours, driving his thick length deeper, harder, faster into your clutching heat.

“Zayne,” you breathed, “You’re the only one I want, the only one I need.”

His breathing grew ragged, each exhale escaping through gritted teeth as he lost himself in the slick slide of your bodies joining again and again. The obscene sound of skin slapping against skin echoed through the room, mixing with the staccato cries spilling from your lips.

Zayne’s hand moved from your clit to your breast, squeezing the soft mound roughly as he pinched and rolled the stiff peak between his fingers. He leaned down, his hair falling forward as he dragged his tongue over your collarbone, tasting the salt of your skin.

“Fuck, just like that…” he growled against your neck, his voice strained. “S-Say my name again—please…”

His words sent shivers down your spine, making your inner muscles clench around him. You could feel every ridge and vein of his cock as it stretched you, filled you, owned you.

“Z-Zayne…!” you moaned.

Zayne’s thrusts became more erratic, more desperate at the cry from your lips. The hand on your hip slid around to the small of your back, pressing you flush against him as he pounded up into you. The couch creaking with each surge of his hips, the sound mingling with your cries and his grunts.

You could feel the tension building in your core, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter as you climbed towards your peak. Your nails raked down Zayne’s nape as you held on for dear life.

With a harsh curse, Zayne slammed up into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as his release overtook him. His cock jerked and pulsed inside you, painting your insides with his hot release.

The sensation of his release pushed you over the edge, your own climax crashing through you like a tidal wave. Your body convulsed, melting into him as your inner muscles clamped down around him while you came apart in his arms.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you gasping for air as the aftershocks of your release rippled through you. Zayne’s arms tightened around you, drawing you in close, his heartbeat steady beneath his damp shirt, grounding you in the moment.

In the quiet aftermath, as your breath began to steady, Zayne placed a gentle kiss against your temple, his lips lingering there as if memorizing the moment. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice raw and heavy with emotion. “For this. For everything.”

You gently cupped his face, guiding him to look at you. “You have me, Zayne,” you said softly, your words steady and sure. “No matter who you are, no matter who you become—I’ll never walk away.”

He paused as his fingers brushed gently across your damp cheek.

He spoke, his voice was soft, almost hesitant. “All I know now is that… the only thing I’m sure of,” he began, his forehead resting against yours once more, “is you.” He swallowed, his grip around you tightening as if trying to ground himself in the present.

You thought that would be the end of it, but he exhaled, a shudder racking through him.

“I never believed in fate,” he added, his voice low, but without any trace of bitterness—only a quiet acceptance. “But now, I do. Because no matter where I am, or who I am… you’re the constant. The one thing that’s always been real.”

He paused, his words heavy with an ache that tightened your chest. “And I think… I think I’m meant to love you in every life, in every timeline. I’m meant to be with you. And no matter how complicated it gets, no matter what happens, I’ll always end up finding you.”

His grip on you tightened further, pulling you closer, as if to make sure you were really there. “Now… I can’t help but feel… bad for him.”

A heavy sigh escaped him, thick with weight and regret. “He doesn’t have you. He doesn’t get to have this—this connection.” His voice wavered, raw with something unspoken. “And I think that’s what hurts the most. No matter how much I try to separate myself from him, I can’t shake the feeling that a version of me is still reaching for you. That somewhere… in every universe, in every life, even if you don’t exist in it—it will always be you.”

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[hollowed-theory-hall]

I've thought of a good way to characterize duelling styles.

Take Dumbledore and Voldemort. When I think of their style, I think of the movie, The Revenge of the Sith, and the duel between Anakin and Obi-Wan. It's incredibly stylish and intense. Both fighters are the best and it really comes down to who makes the first mistake.

That's how I think of Dumbledore and Voldemort. Their duel in OOTP was the most bombastic and entertaining in the whole series. They were duelling as how you'd expect two wizards of equal skill to duel.

With Harry, I think of the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where Indy shoots the swordfighter and walks off.

Harry's duelling style is quick, dirty and pragmatic. Sure, it may be boring, but it's damn effective. Why waste time and risk your life with all these fancy spells when a simple disarming charm renders 99% of wizards completely harmless.

Harry's not fighting as a wizard, he's fighting as a survivor.

Harry's definitely the most pragmatic dueller out of these three. And it makes sense. Harry didn't have the luxury of studying dueling and magic at his leisure to enjoy just the magic of it the way Dumbledore and Voldemort did. He doesn't have the arrogance of Dumbledore and Voldemort, so he doesn't have that same need to show off and prove he's the smartest most talented person in the room. Becouse that's what I think it is. The duel in OotP doesn't look like that just because of skill — it's also arrogance, of both combatants.

Both Dumbledore and Voldemort are trying to say: "look at me! I'm so much more talented and skilled than the other guy!" during their duel. The whole thing is a theatrical ego-stroke.

It's why Voldemort gets so miffed when Dumbledore questions his intelligence and magical skill. It's why Dumbledore repeatedly doubts Voldemort's skills aloud and calls him "Tom". Their duel is a game of showing "Look, I'm better", neither of them is trying to simply win, they want to humiliate their opponent and prove themselves superior.

“You do not seek to kill me, Dumbledore?” called Voldemort, his scarlet eyes narrowed over the top of the shield. “Above such brutality, are you?” “We both know that there are other ways of destroying a man, Tom,” Dumbledore said calmly, continuing to walk toward Voldemort as though he had not a fear in the world, as though nothing had happened to interrupt his stroll up the hall. “Merely taking your life would not satisfy me, I admit —” “There is nothing worse than death, Dumbledore!” snarled Voldemort. “You are quite wrong,” said Dumbledore, still closing in upon Voldemort and speaking as lightly as though they were discussing the matter over drinks. Harry felt scared to see him walking along, undefended, shieldless. He wanted to cry out a warning, but his headless guard kept shunting him backward toward the wall, blocking his every attempt to get out from behind it. “Indeed, your failure to understand that there are things much worse than death has always been your greatest weakness —”

(OotP, Ch36)

Harry, on the other hand, is an abused, traumatized boy with ridiculously low self-esteem who's been running on survival mode since he can remember himself. Of course, he'd fight to remain alive. Harry never fights to prove a point or humiliate his opponents like Dumbles or Voldy, he is fighting to survive.

He is always going for incapacitation or disarming — he knows the longer the fight lasts, the lower his survival chances are, so he fights intending to end fights quickly. It's the best way to ensure survival and it's what he does.

He tries to avoid killing when the enemy doesn't deserve it (like Stan Shunpike or Draco in the bathroom, yes, Harry tried not to kill him) but Lupin is wrong in his assessment of Harry's dueling in DH. In fact, Harry is willing to kill when he needs to. When his opponent deserves it and it will save Harry and others, Harry goes for the kill. and he does so instantly.

He doesn't have Voldemort's theatrical need to play with his food:

“We bow to each other, Harry,” said Voldemort, bending a little, but keeping his snakelike face upturned to Harry. “Come, the niceties must be observed. . . . Dumbledore would like you to show manners. . . . Bow to death, Harry. . . .”

(GoF, Ch34)

Becouse he isn't trying to prove a point. He is trying to survive and playing with your food means the food just might get a chance to get away.

Nor does Harry have Dumbledore's feigned goodness. (Dumbledore is a character who is obsessed with what he considers "good", he wants to be a good, humble person so bad, but he isn't. To the point of completely romanticizing the concept of "goodness" and kind of missing the point sometimes). Dumbledore doesn't kill because of his romanticized, idealized version of goodness which places him "above such brutality" just like Voldy mocks him in DH. So he would never cast a killing curse — even if it is an efficient solution that would save lives at the moment.

Harry has no qualms about using Unforgivables when he feels the situation calls for it. If it's more efficient and helps/saves people Harry cares about, he'd do it. Harry is crazy scrappy when fighting. I talked about it here, but Harry uses his body a lot when dueling. He tackles Death Eaters with his hands, he elbows them in the face, he uses plenty of muggle brawling when dueling because it works. Harry does whatever he needs to do to survive, it doesn't even matter to him if he wins or not — what matters is survival. This is why he is so practical when it comes to dueling, why he fights the way he does, and why he is willing to cast Unforgivables. He would always choose the path to survival and to save as many people as he can, even if that path is running away (which he often considers in fights, especially when younger).

I really like your phrasing of it: "Harry's not fighting as a wizard, he's fighting as a survivor" because that's exactly what this is. If punching someone helps, he'd do it, if a spell can be useful, he'd use it. Oh, his hands burn Quirrell, very well, he'd use that — he uses anything and everything he can, he doesn't care how it looks, just that it works.

I think the Death Eaters in OotP were surprised when he just, like, tackled them down physically. I think most wizards think such is beneath them, so it'll surprise them when someone actually throws hands. I mean, we see Arthur and Lucius throw hands, and it's clearly not something common in their society:

There was a thud of metal as Ginny’s cauldron went flying; Mr. Weasley had thrown himself at Mr. Malfoy, knocking him backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spellbooks came thundering down on all their heads; there was a yell of, “Get him, Dad!” from Fred or George; Mrs. Weasley was shrieking, “No, Arthur, no!”; the crowd stampeded backward, knocking more shelves over; “Gentlemen, please — please!” cried the assistant, and then, louder than all — “Break it up, there, gents, break it up —” [...] Mrs. Weasley beside herself with fury. “A fine example to set for your children . . . brawling in public . . . what Gilderoy Lockhart must’ve thought —”

(CoS, Ch4)

I'm pretty sure Lucius did not expect that. Like, he might've expected a hex, but not to be pushed physically. He probably considers it awfully muggle.

So, yeah, your assessment is correct and it fits their characters, beyond just skill level (since I believe Harry could fight like Dumbledore and Voldemort if he was inclined to do so).

[trifargo]

proposing some kind of alternate 2/2, where the thieves decided to check on joker just to make sure he's not tempted by maruki's deal, barged in to the cafe, and found out that akechi's life on limbo. more in cut

so if you ask me, i actually enjoyed their rivalry relationship a lot! but i also think it's placed in an awkward situation: the thieves don't hate him, especially because he wasn't fully at fault, but also i'm sure some of them will hold grudge or mixed feelings about him (and i think this bleeds into the writers too*). or in case of royal trio (which interactions i also enjoyed, but have a catch:), it's kinda funny how sumire doesn't actually know what happened to akechi in depth.

it makes sense for their relationship to be more "secluded/secretive" from the team, but also this is why i find it to be rocky if their relationship continue further, be it platonic or romantic, whatever you prefer. i can't imagine how will futaba feel if she found out, for example – given how much she seems to not care much about akechi**. and the game (understandably, for pacing reasons) keeps on avoiding to explore the nuance of akechi-joker's relationship effects deeper in the game.

the concept is not only for joker to be even more torn seeing his friends arguing & akechi's fate, but also to see the polarization among the thieves, akechi being conflicted between disgusted and teammate care (boiler room but worse?), and maruki regretting seeing that he's not making things any better or easier for everyone, especially joker (hoo may be interesting to see how the thieves feel about maruki too after this).

well, i still wish for a P5RST game that reunites them all, one of them because i want this to be explored..... oh well. i know his arc has a closure already, but... yeah. i'm honestly more of a platonic akeshuake guy because of this (i've also always been a platonic guy in general, though), but i also don't like the crowd who thinks the PT hates him and thinks they only see them as a killer. and i think resolving the awkward situation between the PT and akechi could make more players open up about the dynamics between them that can be explored, instead of being stuck thinking the extremes.

* a prominent example of this was ryuji. ryuji brought up akechi a lot as one of the reasons upon confronting shido (he even banged the boiler room door), but then said "uh it was for joker" when akechi thanked them for taking shido down in 3rd semester mementos. while i think this is possibly because ryuji has a bigger affinity for joker because well, he's the team leader, close friend, and akechi is still at wrong, i thought it was a bit... backlashy tone wise? i was under the assumption that he did it both for akechi and especially joker, but the mementos dialog made it sound like he only did it for joker. just felt kinda rough in showing the nuance on how he feels.

** like the talk when they all found out the effects of maruki's reality wearing off. when the topic was about realizing akechi "dies" once again, she ignored it and brought up about her mother instead. though, i think this is still more of the consistent examples in writing how each thieves feel about akechi. she has always been bringing up about her mother more often in shido arc, while still can understand where akechi came from.

[gardens-light]

OOOOH THE TAMARAN ASK WAS SO GOOD YOUR WRITING IS AMAZING!!

My brain immediately thought of the idea of Tamaran rulers finding out how corrupt Sentinel Prime is. But before they could do anything, Sentinel Prime declares all Tamaran’s enemies of Cybertron and should be arrested/executed on sight. How would Orion Pax, D-16, Starscream and B-127 react to that?? Their significant other is now technically enemies of the damn planet because of Sentinel Prime’s corruption.

Thank you so much! That was honestly the first time I've done a head cannon. So your feedback is really appreciative :) I absolutely love this idea! And couldn't help but immedictly come up with some ideas. I added Sentinel S/O, of how they would react to his betrayal.

Transformers One x GN/Tamaran Reader (Rebellion Headcanons)

When the rulers of Tamaran uncovered Sentinel Prime’s corruption, they intended to act carefully. But before they could make a move, Sentinel struck first.

With a single decree, Sentinel labeled every Tamaran as an enemy of Cybertron. Arrest on sight. Execution, if necessary.

Part 1

Orion Pax

At first, Orion couldn’t believe it. Sentinel had always been strict, but this? This was tyranny.

The news reached him as he was sifting through old files in Iacon’s Hall of Records. His spark nearly stopped when he heard Sentinel’s voice echo across the city's holograms:

"Effective immediately, Tamaran and its people are enemies of Cybertron. Any Cybertronian found aiding them will be branded a traitor and dealt with accordingly."

Orion dropped everything and ran.

His optics scanned every corner, searching desperately for you. Finally finding you at one of your usual spots—an abandoned balcony overlooking Iacon’s golden skyline. There you were standing still, back turned, arms crossed. Clearly... you've heard.

Once hearing his footsteps approach you, eyes shining with pain as you met his gaze. “Orion… what do we do?”

Without saying a word, he simply held you close. Pressing soft kisses upon the top of your head, hoping that it would provide you some sort of comfort.

---

At first, Orion tried to use legal channels. He poured through archives, trying to find a loophole, a way to revoke Sentinel’s order. He contacted old mentors, tried to rally officials— surely someone else saw how wrong this was? But he was met with silence. Fear. Only to realize how deep Sentinel’s grip was.

That’s when Orion knew—Cybertron wasn’t listening.

So he changed tactics.

He began whispering among the people. At first, quiet murmurs—discontent spreading in hidden circles. Then, stronger words, fueling those who had already begun questioning Sentinel’s leadership.

You stayed with him every step of the way, offering insight, sharing knowledge of war tactics—because Tamaran had seen tyrants before. Teaching Orion that fighting oppression wasn’t just about weapons. It was about hope. About showing the people that there was another way.

When Sentinel’s enforcers began actively hunting Tamaraneans, you both fought back. Stealing transport ships, smuggling refugees out of Iacon, dismantling surveillance systems—turning Sentinel’s own strategies against him.

But it came with a price.

You were attacked, without warning. Sentinel’s enforcers surrounded you in an alley, weapons drawn, optics cold. Orion arrived just in time, his voice sharp as he ordered them to stand down.

“They are under my protection,” he said, stepping between you and Sentinel's guards.

“They are an enemy,” the enforcer replied.

Orion’s fists clenched. Not to me.

As the guards lurched forwards, Orion protected you with fierce defence. Using his surroundings and the weight of his enemy to his advantage.

There was no going back now.

“You need to leave the city,” his voice breaking. “I can’t—I can’t let them take you.”

But you shook your head. “Not without you.”

Orion felt something deep inside shift. He had spent his life believing in Cybertron’s system. Now, he realized it was broken beyond repair.

His revolution wasn’t just for Cybertron anymore. It was for you.

D16/Megatron

When Sentinel’s decree reached D-16’s audio receptors, something inside him snapped.

He had known cruelty. He had suffered the caste system’s brutality. He had seen the weak crushed under Cybertronian rule.

But this? This was personal.

Sentinel had just painted a target on his partner’s back. His sparkmate.

He found them you in his quarters deep within Kaon, a city that he claimed since renaming himself 'Megatron'. But your usual fierce expression was shadowed with unease.

“They’ll come for me,” you lowly spoke. Hugging yourself.

D-16 reached out, gently tracing his fingers along your face. “Let them try.”

---

His rage was unstoppable. He declared Kaon a sanctuary for Tamaraneans. He sent squads of his most elite warriors to intercept Sentinel’s enforcers before they could capture anyone.

He stormed through Kaon, his optics burning with fury, his fusion cannon primed. He ordered his Decepticons to spread the word—any Cybertronian who so much as looked at a Tamaran wrong would answer to him.

And that, he made a promise.

“I will rip him apart!,” he growled, holding your face between his servos, his touch gentle despite the rage in his voice. “I will make him suffer for every spark he’s condemned. For every Tamaran who has suffered under his hand-”

Usually you where the voice of reason, but this time... you hesitated. “D, you can’t—”

“Can’t?” He let out a low, bitter laugh. “Watch me.”

As promised, Kaon was a safe haven. Any Tamaran who managed to flee was given protection, weapons, shelter. He sent squads to hunt Sentinel’s enforcers, eliminating them before they could report back. He turned the hunt on them.

But it wasn’t enough.

D-16 wanted Sentinel dead.

He started planning his execution.

One night, you caught him alone in the war room, staring at Sentinel’s holographic image with murder in his optics.

“This... isn’t just about saving my people anymore... is it?”

D-16 didn’t answer at first. But in a low, dangerous voice, he said, “I will rip the throne from beneath him. I will watch him beg—” his servos clenched into fists—“I will crush him.”

You placed a hand over his chest, right where his spark pulsed. Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Promise me... you won’t lose yourself.”

His servo softly covered your hand, pressing it tightly against him.

“I promise you,” he murmured. “That I will never forgive him.”

It wasn't about Cybertron anymore, or the false prophets. It was about revenge.

And he would burn Sentinel’s empire to the ground for you.

Starscream

Starscream had seen Cybertron’s corruption firsthand. But even he was surprised by Sentinel’s decree.

When he first read the official notice, he scoffed. A declaration of war against an entire species? How predictable.

But then—he realized what it meant for you.

His Tamaran partner.

His Sparkmate.

Wasting no time, Starscream erased your records. Tamaran's had unique energy signatures, yet he? He was an expert at falsifying data. As far as Cybertron’s systems were concerned, you had never existed.

Records? Gone. Surveillance footage? Altered. As far as Cybertron was concerned, you had never existed.

When he returned home that night, he found you waiting for him, arms crossed.

“You erased me,” your voice was filled with hurt. Something that made his spark ache, more than he cared to admit.

“I saved you,” he corrected. “You’re safe.”

But you didn’t look relieved. You looked… disappointed. Angry.

“Safe?” you whispered. “Or hidden?”

Starscream’s confidence wavered. “Both.”

You reached out, cupping his face. “I don’t want to be your secret, Starscream.”

His wings trembled.

He knew the only way to protect you was to play Sentinel’s game better than he did.

So, he made a decision.

Starscream began manipulating Sentinel’s own system against him. He forged false reports, sent Sentinel’s enforcers on wild goose chases, created fabricated confessions from high-ranking officials claiming that they were the ones aiding Tamaraneans.

All the while, he kept his you hidden. His once-spacious quarters now had concealed compartments, energy dampeners, emergency exits. Holding you tight against him, as you cuddled into his side every night. Falling into a calm, comforting sleep while he whispered heartful promises of keeping you safe.

B-127

B-127 wasn’t a strategist. He wasn’t a warlord.

He didn’t understand why Sentinel had done this. But he understood what it meant. You—the one he had laughed with, danced with, loved—was now a target.

Bee’s only instinct was to protect you.

The moment he heard the decree, he panicked. He searched the entire city of Iacon, until he found you hiding in the shadows of an ally, eyes wide with fear.

Without thinking, he pulled you into his arms. “You'll be safe,” he sighed, his servos shaking. “I promise.”

He smuggled you onto a cargo train that ventured to the surface of Cybertron, using encrypted codes to scramble the location, taking you both far away from the warzones. He set up camp in a forgotten, abandoned wasteland where no Cybertronian dared to go.

But even in hiding, he still loved.

He still played music for you. He still collected little glowing Cybertronian flowers from the outskirts of Iacon, placing them in your hands like he always did. He still wanted to see and hear your laugh, even when the universe wanted to tear you apart. Bee still danced with you under the neon glow of the surrounding energon rivers.

And when you laid together at night, curled up in the quiet safety of the old energon mine, he'd take your hand and pressed it over his spark. Kissing you with a tender touch, pouring all his love into that single moment.

Sentinel Prime

When Sentinel Prime first courted you, it was a calculated decision. A political move. A strategy.

He painted himself as a strong, noble warrior—an honorable leader who valued power and unity. To the Tamaraneans, he spoke of alliances, of diplomacy, of a future where Cybertron and Tamaran stood side by side.

And to you? He whispered words of devotion. Promises of loyalty. Declarations of love.

And you, being his fierce, passionate, and noble partner— you believed him. Trusted him.

And then, in the blink of an eye, Sentinel branded your people as enemies of Cybertron.

No warning. No explanation.

One day, you were the Prime’s beloved consort. The next? You were a traitor?

The moment you heard the decree, you couldn't help but freeze. Standing in the great halls of Iacon, surrounded by towering Cybertronians, listening as Sentinel Prime himself declared your people to be hunted!

Your heart pounded. Eyes widened. Surely—surely—you... had misheard him?

You turned to him, desperate, searching his face for some kind of explanation. But... Sentinel didn't even look at you.

He stared straight ahead, voice cold, commanding. "All who harbor Tamaraneans will share their fate."

It felt like your entire world shattered.

Everything—everything—you two had built together. The future you both had envisioned. The love you had believed in.

It was all a lie.

“Sentinel,” you whispered, stepping toward him. “Tell me this isn’t real.”

Only then did he turn to face you. And the look in his optics— unbothered, calculating, utterly indifferent—was what finally broke you.

“This is the path Cybertron requires,” he said simply, tone filled with coldness.

And that was when you realized— Sentinel Prime never truly loved you

You had been a pawn in his game. A tool to gain Tamaran’s trust, to keep your people in line while he tightened his grip on Cybertron.

But now?

Now, you were inconvenient. Expendable.

You didn’t even have time to grieve. The moment Sentinel was done speaking, his enforcers turned toward you.

Weapons drawn.

“By order of Sentinel Prime, you are under arrest.”

Your breath caught in your throat. Hands tightened into fists. Arrested? Executed?

By him?

By the mech who had once sworn to cherish you?

Rage and heartbreak burned inside you, but the only thing you could was run.

Blasters fired behind you, while sprinting down the golden halls of Iacon. The once-loyal guards chased you through the city streets.

Everything you and Sentinel had once ruled over together, had now turned against you.

By the time you finally escaped into the wastelands of Cybertron, your body was trembling. Mind spinning.

There was nothing now.

No home. No allies.

No Sentinel.

And the cruelest truth of all: The mech you loved had never truly existed.

[wynsummers]

felt like combining two of my biggest interests so this is my ranking of buffy characters by how much they would enjoy the rocky horror picture show

honorable mention - anya. i can't decide if anya would love or hate rocky. the more chaos-loving anyanka side of her would have a lot of fun with it, but i think she might also hate the idea of going to see a movie only to have it talked over by a bunch of hecklers. especially if she went to a theater where they throw/spray props. so i guess it would depend on whether she went to a showing for the experience or the film itself.

9. angel would walk in, sit in the back row, stare with an intense face at the screen for the entire hour and forty minutes of the film and then stand up and leave without saying a word. he would never come back.

8. xander - xander would enjoy rocky for all of the wrong reasons. he is the cishet man who only goes to see the lingerie-clad women. i've met so many xanders in my time. they always have that smug laugh when someone tries to interact with them, but they're too cool to do anything that they can't use to (attempt to) impress a woman

7. cordelia - i don't think rocky is really cordy's scene, no disrespect intended. i think she could have a good time but some of the more extreme traditions might put her off (especially if someone threw/sprayed something at her, i think she would hate that). she would look at it as that fun thing she did once, probably because someone invited her. that being said, though, if she ended up in a shadowcast, she would put her entire heart and soul into playing janet.

6. oz - i can't explain it but oz is both too cool not to be at rocky and too cool to be at rocky. like, oz has been going to rocky every week for two years but the scoobies only find out when they go as a group and everyone in the theater knows him already. i don't think he's ever said a callback in his life but he definitely has a bunch of them memorized

5. buffy - ok now hear me out. buffy needs something like rocky in her life. she needs a place where she can unwind, yell loudly, dance around, and just have fun. i don't think she'd be super into it right away, but i don't think it would take long for her to get into the rhythm of it. i can't see her going so far as to be in a shadowcast, but i can totally see her being a frequent audience member who tells all of her friends about this awesome thing she found

4. tara - listen, tara is a lesbian witch in college. rocky was made for her. season 4 tara is too shy to participate, but i can see it being a place she returns to a lot, and season 6 tara is definitely in the front row of the theater every friday gleefully yelling at the screen. she might even dress up as janet or magenta (shoutout amber benson for performing toucha touch me)

3. willow - this may be controversial, since early seasons willow is kind of reserved and seems like she would be really overwhelmed by rocky. but often that's the exact kind of person who thrives in rocky the most because it gives them a chance to come out of their shell. at her first show, she probably wouldn't participate at all, but something would compel her to come back, and slowly but surely, she'd start doing more. cut to a few months later and she's going full vampire willow in a theater full of people. i think later seasons willow wouldn't have as difficult of a time at first but i still don't think she'd get into it right away. but once she got it, she'd be a regular for life

2. spike - i think spike has been going to the shows for a long time; it's definitely his scene. it wouldn't surprise me if he invented some of the callbacks. yelling stupid snarky shit at a movie screen is so him. i don't know if i can see him dressing up as a character though.

giles - obviously. fucking obviously. in his ripper days he was frank at his local theater and he still goes to the shows all the time. maybe on special occasions they bring him back as frank for a special show. it wouldn't surprise me if he saw the rocky horror show before it was a movie. if buffy and the scoobies found out about his double life they would faint. (if you haven't seen anthony head as frank, do yourself a favor and look it up)

[cozmowrites]

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again?

Would You Fall in Love with Me Again? - Epic: The Musical

-----

The city lights twinkled like dying stars, their faint glow reflecting in the puddles on the cracked pavement. Katsuki leaned against the balcony railing, hands gripping the cold metal as if it could anchor him. Below, the streets buzzed with life, but it all felt distant-a hum in the background of his restless thoughts.

He'd messed up.

You were inside, curled up on the couch, flipping through an old photo album. He hadn't meant to look over your shoulder, but when he caught sight of the picture, he froze. It was the two of you, younger, happier-before his stubborn pride had driven a wedge between you.

"Do you remember this?" You had asked, your voice soft, almost hesitant.

He did. The memory hit him like a sucker punch: the day at the fair, where he'd won you that ridiculous stuffed bear you still kept. You had laughed so much that day, bright and carefree. He hadn't seen that side of you in so long.

He hadn't seen it because he hadn't been looking.

Now, as the chill bit at his skin, Katsuki closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. He was good at fighting, good at protecting, good at winning. But love? Love was something he couldn't fight his way through. He couldn't yell it into submission or blast his way to a solution. He'd been reckless with you, taking your love for granted until it started to slip through his fingers.

The sliding door creaked open behind him. He turned to see you step out, wrapping your arms around yourself to ward off the cold. The soft glow of the apartment framed you, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe.

"What are you doing out here?" You asked, tilting your head.

He shrugged, his voice rough. "Needed some air."

You nodded, leaning against the railing beside him. For a while, neither of you spoke, the silence filled only by the distant noise of traffic and city life.

"I've been thinking," you began, your voice barely above a whisper. "About... us."

His stomach twisted. "Yeah?"

You glanced at him, and he saw the uncertainty in your eyes. "Do you think we can get back to where we were? Before everything got... hard?"

Katsuki stared at you, the weight of your words pressing down on him. Could you? Could he be the person you deserved after all the times he'd let you down? He wanted to promise you the world, but he knew better than to make empty declarations.

Instead, he reached out, hesitating for a moment before his calloused hand found yours. His grip was firm, grounding, as if he feared you might drift away if he let go.

"I don't know if we can go back," he admitted, his voice low and strained. "But... I wanna try. I wanna be better. For you. For us."

You searched his face, and he wondered what you saw. Did you see the boy who'd won you a stuffed bear, who'd walked you home in the rain and held you close when you shivered? Or did you see the man who'd let his temper and ego build walls between you?

"I miss us," you said finally, your voice breaking. "I miss you."

His chest ached, the pain sharp and unrelenting. "I'm still here," he said, squeezing your hand. "I know I've been an idiot. I've hurt you. But... I love you. I never stopped."

Tears glimmered in your eyes, and for a moment, he thought he'd said the wrong thing. But then you smiled-a small, fragile thing that made his heart swell.

"I will fall in love with you.. over and over again. I don't care how, where, or when, you're mine," you said, leaning your head against his shoulder. "But it's going to take time, Katsuki. This... it's not easy."

"I know," he replied, his voice steadier now. "I'll wait. However long it takes, I'll wait."

You closed your eyes, and he felt the warmth of your trust seeping into him. It wasn't a perfect moment, but it was real. For the first time in a long while, Katsuki allowed himself to hope. "Hey, don't tell me you're not the same person. You're always my husband and I'll be waiting.."

[stupidlittlespirit]

i've seen the "he'd never date a woman" thing with ford so much, which i think about a lot. like it's one thing to just headcanon him as gay but there are a lot of posts where internalized or blatant misogyny shine bright. one i saw straight up had multiple people going "he respects women too much to want to date/fuck them" like hello? do you realize what you are implying ab real women when you say that?

i'm not great at articulating my thoughts but i think it's especially prominent with ford because of his intelligence + unconventional demeanor. he's off-putting and a genius and didn't want to give up his work to settle down into a standard marriage with kids. women can't be weird or smart in the same way men can for example and all women want the typical white picket fence nuclear family american dream. therefore you are off your gourd if you think he'd ever want to be with a woman. so there’s that on top of the already rampant misogyny present in fandom spaces with shipping especially.

there's also the whole "gibe the oracle your phone number" / "i miss dimension 52" that could have some implications if you want but ig i can't blame people for forgetting jeselbraum because hirsch barely expands on her LOL. but basically it’s all up to interpretation and it really isn’t all that wild to think he could be attracted to women.

personally i just enjoy projecting my own sexuality onto him. “what gender are you attracted to?” don’t care. can i show you my isopod colonies. “how would you describe your sexual attraction?” uhhhhhhhhhhh (<- is probably demisexual)

So, I deleted my post because I felt like I was rehashing points I'd previously made a million times before, but I stand by it.

I want to address what you said and then I want to kind of go on a tangent (shocker, I know) about the interpretation of GF at large because I've been engaging with a lot of Lynch stuff recently, who we know was by and large the most influential person for Hirsch, and one of the biggest things around Lynch's work is the beauty of subjectiveness. I think Hirsch carries that legacy with him at the heart of his work.

So yeah, the comments about Ford 'respecting women too much' is insane. If anyone thinks that they are probably the kind of person who doesn't respect a woman anyway. If your hands sully the one you touch, perhaps your hands were not so clean to begin with, yknow? That's the vibe I always get with those kinds of comments.

Society approaches women so differently from men in this regard, as you said. Where a man is 'quirky' and 'cool', a woman is 'annoying' or 'trying too hard'. She suffers for her differences where as he profits for them. She can only commit the crime of being Cringe, and in my experience, people will forgive many things but never that.

There is certainly merit in the way in which a lot of people recognise that Ford is partial to things that are 'weird' or that are shunned by society, especially because of his hands, and that plays well into Queer culture. It's a feeling most of us (if not all of us) experience. So I can see where there connection comes and it's totally cool to hold that belief. Queer is BIG umbrella and I think he falls under it myself, what with the ace/aro stuff. We're given much more canon evidence of him being ace/aro, in fact, than of anything else. I maintain personally that canon Ford is asexual and aromantic, and that romance doesn't factor into his life in the way it does for 'normal' people. It's why when Bill mentions that quiz Ford does in his dreams in TBoB it makes me think of my own struggles with asexuality: "I'm not normal, everyone else is feeling this type of way and I'm feeling that type of way. There's something wrong with me. I'm weird. I need answers." It feels very much like Ford is attempting to understand that side of himself and is very afraid of the answer.

The Oracle stuff makes me so sad it was never expanded on more. I really love Jheselbraum and it felt like she was one of the first people that Ford met who was of higher intelligence than him, and who actually did just want to help. She extended an extreme kindness to him. Whether it was more than that doesn't even really matter. There was still a relationship formed there that can't be discounted. But again, it can be interpreted in lots of different ways.

This is the other thing. There's nothing wrong with projecting yourself onto your favourite character. We all do it. I do it. It's fun and it brings comfort. And that's okay! But that means we can all do it. So it's unfair for someone else to say "you're wrong for thinking XYZ about Ford" because we're all just kids in a sandbox playing house with these characters. You can't gatekeep someone else's enjoyment.

You can believe Ford is gay. You can believe Ford is ace. You can believe Ford is whatever you want him to be, but what you can't do is then rescind that privilege from someone else just because you don't like it or because it makes you feel better about yourself to punch down on someone else. People are entitled to their own interpretations of media, even if they make you feel uncomfortable or whatever.

Which brings us onto Lynch. Now, I'm not a huge surrealist fan, I like Lynch most for the person that he was (ugh I'm still so sad to type that). One of the biggest things about him was that he valued the intelligence of his audience and respected them enough to allow them the space to interpret his works as they saw fit. He never wanted to define his films in a way that would prevent another person from taking their own meaning from it. There was no definition, only feeling.

There's a clip of him being asked to expand on his meaning for one of his films, I forget which one, and he just replies "no". It's so fucking good because that, to me, is art. It is fundamentally subjective in its existence and the way I view something is not going to be the way someone else does, so why take that interpretation away from one to give to another just for their approval? We may align in thoughts but the way we process the media is going to be entirely different. Why? Because we're different people. Our experiences throughout our lives have informed the way we interact with things.

I think Alex Hirsch enjoys other people making their own interpretations of his work in a similar way. Just as Lynch does. Hirsch wants you, the audience, to derive personal meaning. He doesn't need (or even want) to tell you how to engage with the themes because why would he? It would only make him work harder to get a simpler point across and it would risk alienating parts of his audience. He wants the audience to connect and to find their own familiarities, and he respects his audience enough to give them the space to let them do that. He's often evasive when he's asked to tie things down firmly. To be honest, I think he should be braver in just saying "no, I don't want to answer that" sometimes. You can tell he wants to but he also wants to engage with people so it can be hard.

People are very desperate to want to have answers in black and white. They need things to be canon in order to feel vindicated, when in actual fact, an idea is just as legitimate when it comes to fiction. Fiction IS an idea. It isn't tangible and therefore cannot be quantified, so it can be interpreted however.

Anyway, by forcing your interpretation of the work onto others (ie. 'Ford would never', 'Stan would never' etc), I think you fundamentally misunderstand what the purpose of the work is. You're taking away the light of other people because you're scared yours doesn't shine bright enough. And you're scared because other people previously took your light away, but all you're doing is repeating the cycle and taking away from the rest of us.

Your ideas can coexist with others. No one is right and in that, everyone is right. Does that make sense? Idk.

I voice my opinions of disliking certain ways the fandom engages with elements of the show, but I don't think they have less right to have those ideas than I do to have my own. I interpret Bill as one way and someone else will interpret him another. That's okay. You're allowed to do that. But I don't think you're allowed to be actively vicious to others over it.

Engage with honesty and recognise that other people enjoys things in different ways, and it's okay not to control the narrative of that sometimes.

I have my criticisms of Hirsch but I also have a lot of love for the guy, and one of the biggest things I respect about him is him allowing us to draw our own beliefs. Do I think he could stand to do some things better? Yes. But that doesn't mean I don't love what I already have from his work.

I'm not sure if this makes sense, I'm having a bit of a Day, but I hope it at least reads well enough to convey my meaning.

[ihopesocomic]

I've been here for a while but people were in denial about clever?? Don't get me wrong I've been in denial about my fair share of no-body deaths, but that's because I sniffed out something fishy in the subtext. Clever's case always felt, uh, pretty open and shut to me. Between the dream sequence, her death's role in the story, and the fact she definitely was not getting out of that situation/didn't seem intent to run. The whole affair felt very... Final.

This was way back before Arc 2 began and we doubled down that she was indeed dead. Plus, it was more of a running gag and an AU idea than people legit believing it. I think the vast majority of readers completely accepted that she was dead.

But yeah, I purely made that comparison with the chapter updates dying in jest because it's been nearly two years now and... we're never going back to full chapter updates. No matter how many times people ask. Page-by-page updates has just served us so much better and actually helped with productivity so we feel it was a reasonable sacrifice.

I also certainly feel we did as well as we did to update chapter-by-chapter for so long. idk about anybody else but 18 chapters over two or so years is a ton of pages. c: - RJ

[johanna-swann]

So I've been complaining for a while that 911 has nothing exciting going on anymore, but there is actually one thing that I am super curious to watch play out. Not even just in universe, I'm curious to see how the show handles this:

How are they going to resolve the Christopher problem?

If the rumors are correct the actor moved away and he is mostly leaving the show. We've had a situation similar to this before with Harry and his actor, but despite the similarities there are also differences that will be difficult if not impossible to navigate.

Harry left to live with his dad. Everyone in the Grant family was on board with this because they all had a good relationship to each other and Harry had already stayed with Michael during covid. It made sense that Harry would want to stay with his dad and stepdad.

Christopher left LA not because he wanted to stay with his grandparents so badly, but because he didn't want to stay with his dad. He didn't leave because he loves his grandparents that much, he left because he was angry with his dad. Eddie was not okay with this decision, but let Chris go anyway because he felt it was the right thing to do. Ramon and Helena don't officially have custody of Christopher or any other form of guardianship agreement (afaik), so even legally this could get complicated.

Harry left the show in a way that was satisfying storywise. I was sad to see him go, but David had this huge opportunity and of course Michael went with him. Harry going as well was okay because it was a happy parting of the ways even if I miss all three of them.

Christopher left in a way that needs a resolution. There is still conflict here and the only way to end this in a satisfying way is to reunite Eddie and Chris. Ideally not 3 seasons from now, but asap. It has already been 8(?) months.

(This entire plot is madness btw. Like. Even when you have a bad argument you don't just let your child move 800 miles away from you permanently. Especially when the grandparents in question have a history of trying to get guardianship. After the summer break at the latest Eddie should've put his foot down about this. But I digress and they probably had to do it like this because Chris' actor wasn't available.)

My point is: There are 2 ways this can go.

1, Eddie and Christopher reunite in El Paso. Eddie leaves LA, Ryan Guzman leaves the show, a notoriously angry fanbase will send death threats to the showrunner and producers like they never have before. You know, fun stuff.

("Not all Buddie fans", I know I know, but there is a significant portion of shippers in this fandom who have become very fond of online harrassment and bullying, icluding death threats and suicide baiting. Need I remind you that only recently the 911-bts account was bullied offline? They were completely neutral on the ship question and only posted about official info, they really didn't do anything wrong and yet, here we are.)

2, Eddie and Christopher reunite in LA. Chris comes back, they talk things out, work on their relationship. Sounds better, right? Yeah, tiny problem though. How?

How, if Chris' actor isn't available? Do they just have Eddie talk about Chris without ever showing him again? What about Chris and Buck's relationship? They throw that out the window too? I imagine recasting is quite difficult, how many child actors with CP who fit the bill can there be in LA?

Besides, don't get mad at me, but Christopher kinda makes up 80% of Eddie's personality. He's the single dad, that's his constant. What else does he have? The panic attacks, the military trauma, the anger issues - all of those things are stuff the show brought up once for rather short arcs and then never again. If you look for things that are always true about Eddie there's two of them: He's a single father and he's still hung up on Shannon.

They can't drag Shannon's corpse around forever (though they do try). Take Christopher out of the equation too and forget about Chris himself, what is this show going to do with Eddie? He has never shown any ambition to further his career in any way. He doesn't seem to have close ties to any of his relatives outside of Pepa. Like. Dude has two sisters and he never even mentions them. Carla apparently also left the show. He doesn't really have other friends outside the 118 (he hasn't talked to Linda since season 5 and Tommy left the show too). And even within the 118, who is he particularly close to other than Buck?

They could of course actually go for Buddie, but is that a good idea right now? Eddie still hasn't worked out his Shannon complex, Buck is not over Tommy yet and it doesn't solve the Christopher problem.

So yeah. Very curious about how they'll solve this pickle. I'd love to hear some other people's thoughts about this.

[sammylkcho]

"I killed people without even caring if someone was waiting for them! I'm a selfish person, not the kind and gentle knight I used to be. Understand that."

His words felt like a sword piercing your heart, wounding you as you saw how he continued to reject you, fleeing from you as if terrified of how much he had changed—both physically and mentally.

And yet, after everything that had happened, after everything he had done, he was still your husband. He was still your Sebastian Solace.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your anxious, desperate urge to run to him and hold him close. But you knew he would reject it—he couldn't even bring himself to meet your eyes. With a shaky exhale, you ran your right hand through your messy hair, a weak attempt to calm yourself.

"You killed people, yes... But you did it to survive, didn't you?" You spoke slowly, as gently as you could.

Both of you knew how fragile this moment was. Any wrong word could shatter what little peace remained between you.You noticed how his gaze flickered away, trying to look anywhere but at you. Bingo.

You took a single step forward, moving as if approaching a frightened, wounded animal—knowing that if you moved too fast, he might bolt.

The tip of his tail twitched from side to side, his eyes watching you from the corner of his vision, studying your next move. He had always been able to read you like a book, anticipating your needs, your words, your actions. But now, it was as if that ability had vanished.

"How could you love a monster? It's pathetic..." he suddenly muttered, his voice laced with the same lazy, dry humor he used with his clients.

The man he once was had been buried beneath a new persona, one built to shield himself from the world—to keep himself from falling as far as he had before. A mask to protect the fractured soul beneath.

"I don’t care! I don’t care what you did, what you've done before, or what you're doing now," you snapped, your brow furrowing as you refused to move from your spot.

You didn’t know the details of what he had endured in this place, how he had become what he was now, or the things he had done to survive.

"I can't undo what I've done—what I had to do! I'm a monster, a cruel one. I'm not the same person I was before, Y/N."

His words struck you like a slap. Was he really doing this? Was he truly standing here, declaring that you no longer loved him because of what he had to do to stay alive?

After years of waiting for a man you had been almost certain you would never see again—after falling into this hell and finding him—the same man to whom you had vowed your unwavering loyalty in this life and the next… and to whom he had sworn the same.

"I don’t care, Sebastian! You are, and always will be, my husband. I don’t care how, where, or when. You are still my husband—my very reason for living."

"I swore to stay by your side, to be with you in this life and even beyond death. I will always be with you."

"You are my husband, Sebastian Solace. I waited for you far longer than I ever wanted to, even when they confirmed you were gone. I still waited. I stayed in place, never moving on, never leaving—only waiting for you."

With every word you spoke, your body moved on its own, taking a step forward each time. You felt hurt, confused, afraid, abandoned—and yet, at the same time, found, overjoyed, nostalgic, and sorrowful. You felt everything at once, but all you could focus on was him.

Your friends and even your family had urged you to move out, to start fresh after Sebastian’s unjust death. But you had refused. You had stayed in the home you had shared, choosing to be swallowed by loneliness and grief rather than abandon the memories of him. You had preferred to surround yourself with anything that reminded you of him rather than start a new life without him.

And now, you were here. With him.

Nearly face-to-face—if not for the vast difference in size between you now.You saw his gaze lock onto yours—only yours. His hands slowly reached for your face, gently wiping away the tears you hadn’t even realized were falling.You lifted your own hands to his, and the moment your fingers brushed against his skin, he froze.Beneath your fingertips, you could feel scales—his skin was cold—but you didn’t care. You left your hands there, neither of you speaking, neither of you moving.

There would be time to talk later.

For now, you would simply cherish each other’s presence.

[zephyrusswinds]

I saw you agreed with take on presents day take on macaque with shadowpeach

Question what you'd thoughts on it?

I am very curious

hello there! I am so, so sorry for the late answer, funnily enough, I was rewatching Season 5 when I saw your ask.

I am also going to apologize for if this post reads very rambly and doesn't make a ton of sense, I'm going off of what little energy I have left in me, ha! Do expect spelling/ grammar mistakes!

Anyways, I believe my reblog wasn't funny clear enough, as I don't fully agree with your post but I do agree with what I believe you were trying to say;

I believe that Macaque's victim complex either originates from trauma or insecurity. Now, Macaque is most certainly shown to be very aggressive when interacting with Wukong, and it feels like he just can't see him beyond the hurt Wukong caused.

I don't necessarily think that Macaque would always view himself in the right. But like, I don't think he'd ever admit that Wukong was right. Also, Wukong doesn't verbally admit he's wrong, like ever.

^ now, I am the 1# Wukong defender, so this isn't saying he's acting like he's right all the time. But Macaque does have an extremely fierce victim complex; even within season 5 when he has a much more "agreeable" personality he throws most of the blame on Wukong (regarding MK's origin and the very human- or monkey, I should say- mistakes that Wukong makes throughout the mentorship).

Macaque says something along the lines of; "That kid idolizes you, you're his literal hero, and you just-" (season 5, Ep 1). And there was a line before that which implies that Macaque viewed Wukong in a similar way to how MK views Wukong. He brushes too much of MK's pain onto Wukong when Macaque is the one who caused so much of it.

Tjis is also why I really hate most interpretations of their relationship- I hate Macaque as an individual but I ABSOLUTELY love the implications of his relationships with others.

Macaque makes Wukong feel like shit constantly, and I thank you for introducing this opinion into my ever-growing Shadowpeach analysis essay.

But it's important as well that Wukong and Macaque are very alike personality-wise, with Macaque packing a tea-spoon more-o-sass than Wukong. Wukong is more mature than Macaque because well... Wukong's been hurt by others in a different way.

so, it'd rather not go into detail on that part; as, I'm saving it for part 2 of my Lionpeach essay. To put it succintly, everybody put a halo on Wukong and shoved him into a position where he's at blame for everyone's fate. (blame the brotherhood)

And Macaque kind of settled into the position of shoving blame, faith, and the blindest of hope onto Wukong. If anything, he'd think it's right. Because it's Wukong- no, wait, The Great Sage, or just the Monkey King. It's only really in season 4 (the turning tides of their relationship) when Macaque consistantly calls Wukong by his name, which, is actually fascinating if you think about it.

Regardless, Macaque felt like he was being ignored (again, to be emphasized in the aforementioned Shadowpeach essay; coming out in the year of our lord, 20-twenty-qué sé yo), his constant yelling and pushiness feels like an attempt to make himself feel bigger.

perhaps he recognizes Wukong's emotional power over him and wants to shut him down? just a thought.

so, I don't fully understand some of the things stated in your original post? My grasp on the English language is a lot worse than it seems, so i've been trying my best to interperate what you were trying to say.

I apologize if this comes off as a bit rude, but would you mind clarifying what this part of your post says? "I can see macaque to access wukong of things,he never done in the relationship"

ANyways, I don't currently have anything to add, I'll make a follow-up post if I think of something new.

I am open to more discussion if you'd like to add on! I'd love to hear your opinions, as, shadowpeach is such a complext topic!

[dariusaurs]

i think dinostar is such an interesting ship right now even if i've kind of turned away from it after this season. the problem is that it's complicated, and fandoms historically don't like nuanced situations or takes. i don't think it's fair to say darius is putting brooklynn on a pedestal, since from his perspective, she hasn't done anything wrong, and kenji has been framed as this unfair partner to her. it does feel like his feelings are very immature and more of an infatuation right now ("if he loved you half as much.."/"unless?"), especially when you compare them to kenji's own feelings for brooklynn - his girlfriend who he's loved for 6 years - but that isn't a horrible thing, it's just different. i do completely understand if people dislike the ship right now, and even criticize darius' way of handling the accidental confession, but i just think people have been way too harsh on all three of them without being willing to see that all of their perspectives are different

[solivagantingrebel]

hey guys who wants another round of tmi

[crabussy]

I want to take a bite out of someone's arm but I'm too shy

[beesorcery]

google how do i tell my dad that the reason i keep bringing up elon musk's transphobia isn't that i've got gen z political tunnel vision that makes me blind to his "innovation" in electric cars but because i am desperately crying out for you as the father of a trans child to feel just as outraged and angry as i am that that man has so much power