#kinda hurt and comfort

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC Ignorantia Neminem Excusat [part 2]

[Ignorance excuses no one, lat.]

[ <- part 1 ]

Now that Tim thinks about it, it does look ominous.

A seven feet tall, cylindrical glass tube that emits a soft, slightly pulsing green glow, countless cords and wires plugged into its base. It made sense at the moment — a giant space station needs a giant power source — but right now, when Tim knows what that entitles, it's... he bites on his cheek and looks back down to the tablet he is holding.

"Ten more minutes," he says, his words echoing off the walls of the room. Tucker nods, not taking his eyes off the battery — or, rather, a containment device.

Tim doesn't look at him either. The twisted, nagging sense of guilt is eating him alive: it's been almost two weeks since the legally nonexistent boy demanded a meeting with Batman. Two weeks since they've learned that the Watchtower's shiny new power source is just a fancy name for a cage holding an interdimensional being.

If it was up to Tim, he would have broken this glass the moment they've got their hands on the extensive, irrefutable proof that Tucker all but threw in their faces. Unfortunately, that would have resulted in the whole Watchtower losing power and possibly going off-course, and they couldn't risk it.

Tucker, with his pale, eerily still eyes, understood it. He said a week or two won't make a difference at this point, and the one held inside the capsule would have been gravely offended if his rescue ended up in malfunction of a whole space station. He said he'll wait, and he kept his back straight and his head high as they've spent those two weeks tracking and locating various other batteries and setting the souls within them free.

The seconds tick by so slowly that Tim feels like all three of them — him, Tucker, and the ghost inside the tube — are stuck in amber. He looks down to his tablet again.

Nine more minutes until all the main systems are safely switched to an emergency generator.

"Tell me about them," he asks, surprising even himself with it. Tucker turns to look at him, his eyebrows raised, the green light of the battery making him look like something out of a horror movie. Specifically the zombie apocalypse one.

"About who?"

Tim nods to the capsule in front of them.

"You're not exactly subtle," he shrugs when Tucker just keeps silently staring at him. "The way you spoke about this particular cell sounded like, whoever is inside it, you know them personally."

The silence stretches for a few more seconds, clogging Tim's ears like someone poured honey inside them. Then, Tucker looks away, his gaze returning to the capsule.

"He was my best friend since kindergarten," he says, and the air gets stuck in Tim's throat. "And I watched him die."

The other spirits that they've freed, they were all ghosts, souls of the deceased, Tim knows that. Some of them looked like blobs — emotional imprints, Tucker said — others took forms of animals or plants. They've seen a few humanoid ones as well, but it was easy to distance himself from them, to not get attached or involved. They were just faceless civilians, in a sense, however morbid that sounds.

And now, the sudden reminder of the fact that all of them were living beings once, that they've had friends, and families, and maybe their whole lives in front of them, feels like a punch to the gut.

"It's a bit ironic," Tucker continues, a humorless smile on his lips, "He wanted to be an astronaut. He wanted to go to space," he almost laughs, and the unnatural light of the tube makes his features look sharper than they are, "Beware of what you wish for, or something like that, I guess."

Tim stays quiet, forgetting to pay attention to the timer on screen.

"He was- he still is kind of a hero in our hometown," Tucker continues, "If I had to compare, I'd say he's a mix of Superman and Flash — heart of gold, but his mouth runs faster than his brain sometimes. And he kept somewhat of a nice relationship with most of his rogues, you know. Friendly banter and occasional team-ups and stuff." He takes a deep, steadying breath, his sad, bitter smile fading.

"It's what got him in here," he adds, the words falling into the silence like a rock in a pond. Tim blinks.

"Being nice to his rogues?" He clarifies, and Tucker snorts.

"No, I meant the heart and the banter, but, in a sense, you're not wrong either. As far as the agency's records go, he was captured while he was rescuing one of them." Tucker turns to look at the tablet in Tim's hands, "How much more?"

Tim looks down, abruptly reminded of the reason they are here.

"Uh, three more minutes," he says, but then grimaces and changes his mind. Bruce and the rest of the League can go fuck themselves, honestly, "Actually, you might want to start now. Disconnecting it would take time anyway," he shrugs, as nonchalant as it's possible in these circumstances.

Tucker stares at him, his eerie eyes looking almost grateful for a moment. And then Tim blinks and finds him on the other side of the room, kneeling on the floor with his fingers dancing over the battery's control panel.

Tim breathes out and looks at the ticking timer on his tablet. Two minutes and forty-five seconds. Tucker is a tech genius, they've all had time to see and appreciate it in the last two weeks, so he is surely going to finish working on the capsule sooner than two minutes. Yet, Tim can't bring himself to really care — he knows Bruce has probably set the timer with a few minutes of delay, just to play it safe. But even if he didn't, it's not like Watchtower will fall down from the orbit after a two-minute blackout, so-

A loud hiss interrupts his musings, and when Tim raises his head, he sees the glass wall of the capsule opening slowly, reluctantly sliding to the left. He only has a brief moment to be surprised — he knew Tucker worked fast when he wanted, but not that fast — before some kind of thick, green substance starts pouring out of it. Yet, instead of spilling on the floor, it glimmers and fades into thin air like fog.

This hadn't happened with any other batteries, Tim thinks, but then the capsule finally opens completely, and-

That's a person.

A person who looks the same age as Tim, his skin and hair lacking any kind of color to it like it's all bled out. A faded picture of a human being.

The toxic-looking liquid around him keeps leaking, turning into clouds of greenish white, ice cold steam. It's kind of pretty; it would have made a great picture, or, maybe, a painting if you ignore all the implications that brought it to life.

When the colorless boy starts falling, Tim doesn't even notice how he drops his tablet. He steps forward, reaching his hands out to catch him.

A moment later, he is holding a ghost in his arms. He is surprisingly — or maybe not so, considering his species — light; it's like holding something that's only slightly denser than air.

The boy sluggishly moves, shifting in his arms. His white, floating hair gets into Tim's nose, and he huffs, trying not to sneeze.

There's a quiet, almost sleepy moan that feels like a vibration on Tim's skin, and the boy lifts his head.

Tim's heart skips a beat.

His eyes are bright green, and they hold the whole universe within them.

Tags:

@thewisperwitch @yassjr @calisto112 @failedbimboinstem @yesdangerpls @restedenergy00 @tf-wildstrike

[ibahibut]

💀: Fewer wounds, more kisses from me.

🐦‍⬛: Contract's accepted, mi amor.

Music inspiration: A Little Death by The Neighbourhood

[fzketch]

Hyperfixation strikes again so I thought about sketching a super rough cute thing of these two.

[sorry-not-feeling-it-right-now]

Thinking about writing shenanigans with Smitten and Cold

Smitten would write the most sappy and fluffy romance stories with happy endings every time. Cold would say that it’s getting predictable of how the story ends every time.

Smitten gets peeved and told Cold to write a romance story himself. Cold takes the challenge.

Smitten reads what Cold has written and lo and behold it’s the most heart wrenching, most antsy love story with pinning and longing that can never be filled.

Smitten cried reading it. He hated admitting that.

[patchs-curiosity-corner]

𝑳𝒆𝒕 𝑴𝒆 𝑯𝒆𝒍𝒑 𝒀𝒐𝒖 | 𝑺.𝑹. [𝟏]

𝐀𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐥 𝟏𝟓𝐭𝐡 𝟐𝟎𝟎𝟕 - 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑩𝒍𝒖𝒔𝒉

𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: A new member is added to the BAU soon after Reid’s kidnapping. She seems determined not to overlook him.

𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: angst, hurt/comfort, slight arguing, themes of drug addiction and self harm, referenced overdose, likely inaccurate depiction of drug addiction/withdrawal, Spencer and Reader being insecure.

𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕: 2.5k

𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓’𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆: Fair warning this could be horrible. It’s part one of hopefully six total oneshots stemming from the concept of ‘5 times you help Spencer Reid heal, and one time he helps you.’ So, heart attack levels of cheese. Largely inspired by my righteous fury when no one helped Reid with his addiction. I will do a tag list for anyone interested in being alerted when part 2 comes out! Not proofread.

𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒎𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

You and Spencer Reid don’t get along.

Maybe that’s the wrong way to put it; it would be more accurate to say that he doesn’t get along with you. You were brought on a month ago, 36 days 4 hours and 27 minutes had passed since you had first walked into the bullpen and given him one more person to deal with. It didn’t help that you were sweet, gentle and understanding in a way seemed to grate on his already frayed nerves. You’re 22, but only recently, recently enough to have just barely squeaked out the title of “youngest member to join the BAU” that had previously belonged to him. It’s a childish record, he’s a 25 year old man, and it shouldn’t affect him much less upset him, but it does. 

Your presence feels like a personal insult. Your arrival so soon after his kidnapping churns his stomach, makes him wonder if the team is questioning his capabilities as a profiler. Why else would they need to suddenly hire an extra person? Not-so-deep down he knows that logically, it probably had to do with the recent increase in the units budget. Nothing to do with him, but rather Hotch taking advantage of the opportunity to have another pair of boots on the ground during cases. None of that matters though, because Spencer doesn’t feel very logical right now.

He’s found more little ways to justify his distaste for you in the weeks since your arrival. The way you always seem to smile and nod along with his ramblings, despite the fact they’re not directed at you. You must be mocking him, he concludes, secretly patronizing him for his inability to shut up. Or the way you look at him after learning about his recent… ordeal with Tobias Hankel, the gentle sympathy in your eyes he willingly misinterprets as pity. He hates being pitied. He hates being patronized. He hates the analytical way you always seem to look at him, and he almost immediately convinces himself that above all: he hates you.

———

Something’s up with Reid.

You’d noticed it from day one, but it had been easy to disregard as growing pains. After all, with Emily having only joined months before you, you were sure there was going to be a bit of an adjustment period, especially when the sting of losing one of their previous teammates was still so fresh. You’d heard so many good things about Elle from everyone, and you’d be lying if it didn’t make you feel even a little bit insecure as the greenest among them.

It takes about a week for you to realize there’s something more to his behavior than awkward aloofness. The way he wears long sleeves even as the cool air of spring grows warmer, the near-constant twitch in his brow, and especially the way he seems to constantly fidget with those aforementioned sleeves, scratching nervously at his inner elbow. Even just the way his wiry fingers tighten around the strap of his bag, you can’t shake it.

Something is terribly wrong.

You try to remain casual, asking after him when he disappears into the bathroom for a touch too long, or when he takes a sick day that even as the newbie you know is out of character. Innocuous little questions like: “Is Reid alright?” or “Does he seem paler lately?” that gleaned no real answer from any of their teammates. It made you furious. Spencer was a part of their team, part of their family, regardless of his icy attitude towards you. So why wouldn’t any of them help him?

You watch him deteriorate over time, in the 36 days you’d spent on the team you’d been silently festering, mentally begging someone to do something, anything for Reid. Help him! your eyes beg Morgan, Hotch, Gideon, JJ, anyone. He’s going to die like this…

…but no one does, and enough is enough.

———

Spencer can’t eat, he can’t sleep either. Whenever he tries to his mind is filled with the memory of the horrible night he spent with Hankel, his crystal clear eidetic memory forcing him to relive that torture again and again the moment he closes his eyes. He knows there must be dark circles under his eyes, that his cheeks are likely sunken and pale, eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep. He’s certain the others must have noticed, there’s no way they couldn’t. But he tries to convince himself they haven’t, because if they had and no one had checked on him? …He doesn’t want to consider that reality.

The soft rapping of knuckles against his door stirs him out of his sleepless daze. It’s late, late enough that no one in their right mind would be awake right now, much less knocking on his door. In his drained state he heaves himself off the couch, plodding with weighted feet over to the door of his apartment. He doesn’t bother to check the peephole, if he did maybe he wouldn’t have been so startled by who he sees upon pulling open the door.

You.

A travel bag slung over your shoulder and a determined look set on your features. You both just stand there for a moment, until your voice breaks the silence.

“Hi.” It’s just one word, but it tugs at something inside him he can’t quite name.

“Hey.” He croaks back apathetically, or at least he tries to. Before he can say anything else or even question what you’re doing you push past him into his apartment, tossing your bag onto his kitchen island. “What the hell-“ Is all he manages to get out, irritation swelling in his chest as he scowls at your form, looking at him with arms crossed, fingers picking at the frayed edges of your sweater.

And just like that it’s quiet again. It’s his voice that breaks the silence this time, quiet and tired: “What are you doing here?”

“Make sure you don’t die, hopefully.” you murmur, your own voice cracked by anxiety and a frail attempt at humor. “Where are they?” That makes his jaw tighten, you both know what you’re talking about, and it causes long-suppressed frustration to boil up in his chest.

“You have no right to be here. You- you have no right to look through my things.” The words are gritted out through teeth clenched so tight you worry they may crack. It’s painful, watching him fight so hard against the help you’re trying to offer.

“Look, Spencer” you sigh, unable to hide the pained expression of your own face, “Hotch knows. I talked to him about it.” You brace for something, anything. Maybe shouting, you seriously doubted Reid would ever consider laying a hand on you but… drugs did funny things to those you would have thought you knew. “S-so you either let me help you, or I’ll be forced to report your current addiction to Strauss.” Your voice had wavered at the beginning, but the more you spoke the more conviction bled into your voice. Soon all the pent up anxiety and worry for your brilliant coworker was pushing you forward, fueling your words. “I won’t stand by Spencer, because if you keep going like this it’s not a matter of if but when it kills you, and that is the last thing I would ever want because you are too damn good for that.”

Reid glares at you, every ounce of misplaced anger in his system directed at you alone in a gaze far more furious than you or anyone thought him capable of. Then his shoulders slump, and that tired, worn appearance returns. He could deny it, claim you had no proof, but with no energy left in his tired, broken body- He didn’t have it in him to lie. When Spencer finally speaks it’s quiet, and reluctant.

“In the bathroom,” his voice croaks, “Inside the medicine cabinet.”

He would have expected you to immediately go there, to play the role of drill sergeant for his sudden makeshift rehab, but you don’t. Instead your own shoulders sag, and in a number of slow steps you cross the room to where he stands, wrapping your arms tightly around his middle. Spencer goes stiff at first, unable to process the sudden display of affection, why this girl seems to care so much about him when he’d been nothing but distant to her at best. After everything he’s been through though -even with his germaphobia- it’s impossible not to relax into the embrace, his own slender arms wrapping around you in return. It’s nice to be held again, he thinks.

“This is going to be awful.” You mumble against his chest, “A week and a half, that’s all Hotch could give us. Far as anyone’s concerned I had a family emergency and you’re on a mandated sabbatical.” It takes him a minute or so to process her words, stuck in the haze of affection after going to long without.

“…what are you talking about?” Reid asks, his voice is quiet. He can’t understand why you care so much, he just needs you to go away now, before he gets addicted to your presence as well. Before something happened to you and you left; like his Mother, like Elle.

“Getting you clean.” You say hesitantly, finally pulling away from him after what felt like a peaceful eternity. “Under normal circumstances quitting outright is a terrible idea, but-“ you swallow thickly- “you’re a federal agent, so there’s a clock ticking.”

“And your plan is…?” Spencer sighs, running a heavy hand through his hair and down his face. He tries to ignore the feeling that lingers, the ghost of you in his arms.

“Stay with you through the inevitable withdrawals, I hope.” The words are tentative, not as confidant as before while you pick nervously at the sleeve of your sweater. “The first thing I have to do is get rid of all the Dilaudid in this apartment.”

His body goes rigid again, this time with the flash of panic that goes through him at your words. Hands clenching and jaw tightening, the thought of losing the thing he’d come to rely on so desperately makes him terrified. Part of Spencer wants to say ‘no,’ to stop you- beg you not to let what gave him peace drain away… But he just can’t muster the energy, forced to watch in dejected silence as you conduct a thorough search of his apartment for the offending drug -his only comfort and companion in these past two months- and dispose of it, all in a few moments. Gone.

Once you’re finished, you settle yourself on his warm, comfortable couch, letting out a quiet sigh as you wave him closer. “C’mere.”

Reid lets himself be touched for the second time that night, accepting your offer and laying his head on your lap. He’s quickly hit with a hazy feeling as your fingers slide into his hair, playing gently with the chocolate strands and scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Are you angry with me?” You ask softly after a moment, concerned by the silent treatment he was currently giving you. Again he can’t lie to you, even compared to the unwillingness to admit his fear and anger. In an act of petty rebellion he refuses to look at you when he answers.

“…yes.”

“That’s alright.” He hears you reply, as soft and gentle as everything else you had been so far. “You can be angry, Spence.”

“Why are you even here?” He bites back, a storm of emotions behind his eyes as he finally looks up at your face: anger, sadness, confusion, fear. The brilliant ‘boy-genius’ reduced to an absolute mess.Your answer is just as easily spoken and simple as before: 

“Because I care about you.” Those five words ring in his head even as you continue. “Because despite how we started out you are an incredibly genuine person, Spencer, and probably one of the most brilliant minds I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing.” Spencer shakes his head, for once lost for words. Why were you here, being so nice to him? Why did you even care in the first place when he had been so cold and hostile to you over the past month. 

“I don’t- you shouldn’t care.” He spits out, turning away from her. The action feels petulant.

“But I do.” You say a hint of amusement in your voice despite the circumstances. “And you can’t stop me from caring.”His face feels hot, and his jaw clenches again as he rolls back over to hide his face in your stomach. Reid mumbles in a voice almost too low to hear: 

“You’re frustrating.” It makes you laugh.

“Don’t worry Reid,” you say through your laughter, “the feeling is definitely mutual.”

———

The next week is just as brutal as you had both been expecting.

Spencer didn’t know what he expected drug withdrawal to be like. He’d read plenty of textbooks sure but they did nothing to prepare him for a firsthand experience. The only way he can think of to describe it is pure, unadulterated misery. His body struggles without consistent doses of Dilaudid to keep him going, it’s evident he had become much more dependent than he realized in a short amount of time. He can’t eat, he feels violently sick. Too hot one moment and freezing the next with his emotions following much the same kind of roller coaster.

You stay through all of it, keeping him comforted during panic attacks and soothing his fevers with a cool washcloth as you try to get him to drink just a little more water, even if it may come back up minutes later. You’re tired, exhausted even, and yet you won’t leave Spencer’s side for more than a second. It’s easy to endure the moments of anger he has, shouting and cruel words flung in your direction are hardly any price at all if it means he might recover faster. He doesn’t understand how you take it, all the snapping, screaming and crying. Reid takes out every anxiety and fear he has on you, and still you remain in the end, ready to let him fall into your arms again and cry like a child.

He feels guilty, ashamed even in this state. An overwhelming feeling of helplessness weighs heavy on his heart, but little by little, things do get better, even if he doesn’t notice at first.

It must be the 8th day of this hell when he realizes that slowly, far too gradually for him to notice: things have returned to something oddly adjacent to normal. Sitting at his kitchen table with a cup of warm honey tea in his hands, watching you hum along to the radio while you prepare breakfast… Spencer almost feels human again. Things weren’t perfect by any means, his hands still trembled, the ghosts left behind by the worst of it all still tugged at his mind, a familiar voice begging him for just one more hit. But the voice is tiny now, easier to ignore. It was strangely peaceful, in fact, the way he could sit at this table and observe the domestic scene of you cooking breakfast in his kitchen. His chest warms pleasantly, and for what feels like the first time in years:

Spencer can finally breathe.

[lyn31]

Hi! Your writing is amazing and wholesome! I have a request if you don’t mind.

Can you write one where MC is visually paired/blind and feels guilty for relying on Zayne to take care of her? Like she’s no longer employed as a hunter and needs a lot of help with day to day things. MC feels like she’s burdening Zayne but he’s happy she trusts him to rely on him.

This could be amazing as a hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending piece. Thank you for your time! 🩵

Thank youuuuu 💕 I'm glad you're enjoying my writing but also how are you guys saying my writing is so wholesome and then asking just the saddest thing 🥹 and here I am enabling you guys ahahahaha

But anyway, what a request, from someone with such a shit eyes and cannot do anything without my glasses, losing my sight is one of the thing I'm afraid the most... So this was really hitting me... Although it wouldn't be the same, I try my best! Hope you like it! 🥹🫶🏻 Let me know what you think! 💕

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Seeing You

Summary

After a mission leaves you in the dark, with only the sound of your own breath to anchor you, Zayne is there—steady, patient, and always present—even when you can’t see him. You’re learning to navigate the silence, the hesitation in your steps, and the quiet adjustments he makes to help you find your way, but the weight of needing him still feels too heavy.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader CW: Losing eyesight, adjusting emotional and physically, hurt/comfort, establish relationship, sad and sweet!

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It’s been three months since that mission. Three months since the blast knocked you backward. It went dark—and stayed dark.

No light. No outlines. No vague movement. Just the memory of color and the sound of your own breath in the void it left behind.

You’re curled up on the couch now, knees tucked under your chin, your fingers absently worrying at the hem of your sweater. You’re still not used to the silence—not the real kind, but the kind that comes when you can’t anchor yourself to anything. You can’t scan your surroundings. You can’t gauge the time by the position of the sun through the windows. You can’t even see Zayne, though you know he’s there.

You hear the soft click of the stove turning off. The scent of shrimps and roasted vegetables still hangs in the air, rich and warm and a little bit sweet—he made your favorite again, not that you’d asked. You don’t really ask for anything these days.

A gentle scrape of a spoon against ceramic, the low thud of a cabinet closing. He moves around the kitchen quietly, but not in a way that hides him. You can always tell where he is now—by the soft brush of his clothes when he passes, the steadiness of his breathing, the tiny pauses he makes when he’s about to speak but lets you take the lead instead.

You shift, reaching out for the coffee table you know is just a foot or so away, fingertips hovering in the air like you’re afraid of touching wrong. You’ve done that more than once—brushed too hard, bumped too fast, knocked over whatever he’d set down for you.

You pull your hand back and curl into yourself instead.

You used to be a Hunter. You used to walk into danger without flinching, shout orders without second-guessing. Now you hesitate before every step, memorize the number of paces from the couch to the kitchen, trace the edges of every wall and object like they’re foreign terrain.

And Zayne—he just keeps showing up. Cooking meals. Leaving your mug always in the same spot. Letting you listen to the news through his holoscreen instead of reading reports. Helping you dress without saying a word about it, even though you know he notices when you pause—fingers lingering over the curve of your waist or the scar near your collarbone, trying to remember what you look like now.

You hate needing this much. You hate how fragile it makes you feel.

You sink deeper into the cushions and let out a breath that feels too heavy for your chest.

Zayne doesn’t say anything. Just sets a bowl on the coffee table—gently, like he knows you’re listening—and walks around to sit beside you. The couch dips under his weight. His presence radiates calm, a low thrum of quiet strength, and part of you wants to lean into it. But you don’t.

Because he’s still whole. And you… you don’t know what you are anymore.

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The kitchen still smells like the meal Zayne made earlier. You’d insisted on rinsing the dishes yourself, even after your hand brushed the edge of a plate too fast and sent it clattering. That one hadn’t broken. This one does.

You’re trying to find the sink. Your fingers skim the counter, the edge of the drying rack, too fast, too eager to prove you still can. And then—

Glass hits tile.

It shatters loud, sharp, immediate.

Somewhere beneath your ribs, your breath catches. You freeze.

And then the tears start. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just this slow, helpless stream that slips out before you can pull yourself together. You press your palm flat to the countertop, jaw trembling, but the pressure doesn’t ground you like it’s supposed to.

You don’t even hear Zayne coming.

One moment you’re alone, holding your breath like you can rewind time if you just stay still. The next, he’s there.

You feel the air shift before you hear the soft rustle of his sleeves, the quiet clink as he picks up the larger pieces, careful and methodical.

“I’m fine,” you whisper, though your voice cracks. “I didn’t cut myself.”

But he doesn’t take your word for it. His hands find yours gently, his cool touch steady against your skin—unmistakably him. His thumbs brush across your knuckles as he turns them over, checking for blood. You feel his breath when he exhales, low and steady, like he’s trying to pass the calm into you.

And maybe that’s what undoes you.

“I hate this,” you manage, your voice tight, hoarse with the effort not to break further. “I can’t do anything, Zayne. You’re always cleaning up after me. I can’t fight. I can’t even walk across the room without bumping into something.”

You expect silence. Or worse—reassurance that sounds like pity. But when Zayne answers, his voice is low and even, every word weighted with quiet conviction.

“You don’t have to fight for anyone right now,” he says. “You just have to let yourself heal.”

You open your mouth—to argue, maybe. But he’s not finished.

“And I’m not cleaning up after you,” he adds, his hands still around yours. “I’m just… here. With you.”

His tone doesn’t shift, doesn’t soften with sympathy or hesitation. It’s not a line he practiced, or a comfort he thinks you want. It’s just truth. Plain and steady.

You don’t know what to say to that. Not yet. But you lean forward, forehead pressing into his shoulder, and he lets you stay there as long as you need.

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You’ve stopped asking.

Not just for the little things, but for the bigger ones, too. Not like before, when the silence came from grief. Now it’s sharper—calculated. You tell yourself if you just manage on your own, even a little, you’ll stop feeling so heavy in the space between you and Zayne.

It’s not that you don’t need help—god, you do—but there’s something in you that can’t bear the sound of your own voice when you ask for it. When you ask where something is, when you hear the pause in Zayne’s breathing because he knows you’re trying to do it alone again.

You’ve memorized every corner of the apartment now. Counted the steps between walls. Traced the edges of cabinets and drawers like braille. And still, you trip. You reach too far. You knock things down.

You never say anything when it happens. Just sweep up what you can and pretend nothing’s wrong.

Until tonight.

Zayne’s shift ran late. You told him not to worry, that you’d be fine, that you might even be asleep when he got back. But sleep doesn’t come. Only noise—quiet and sharp—the kind glass makes when it slips from trembling fingers and meets tile.

You’re on the floor when he walks in. Knees tucked underneath you, hands moving gently over the broken dish like you could will it back together by touch alone. Your fingers skim each shard carefully, as if mapping it with memory might fix the cracks.

You don’t even look up when the door opens.

You whisper, like you’ve been holding the words in for hours.

“I thought if I just tried harder…” Your voice is barely audible. “Maybe I wouldn’t need you so much.”

Zayne doesn’t speak right away. No gasp, no rush to fix it. Just the soft thud of his coat sliding off, the quiet tap of shoes being set aside, and then—

He kneels beside you. Not in front of you, not across—just next to you.

His hands find yours gently. Thumb brushing the back of your wrist, then his fingers closing around yours to ease the shards from your grip. You feel the sting now—tiny cuts you didn’t notice in your panic, dull and blooming with heat.

Still, he doesn’t scold. Doesn’t even sigh.

He just wraps his arms around you, slowly, like he’s giving you time to lean in if you want to. You do.

“You’re not weak for needing someone,” he says, voice low against your ear. “You’re brave for letting me in. For trusting me with this part of you.”

You press your face into his shoulder and breathe—finally, deeply, like your chest had been locked shut for days.

“You are never a burden,” Zayne murmurs. “If anything, I’m grateful you let me be here.”

He holds you tighter—not caging, just certain.

“You’re still you,” he adds. “You always will be.”

You don’t answer right away. Your throat aches too much to speak, and your hands are still trembling. But you nod, barely, and he feels it.

He stays with you on the floor until the shaking stops. Until your breathing slows. Until you’re ready to let him help you up—not because you can’t, but because you don’t have to do it alone.

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

It’s been weeks since that night on the floor. Weeks since you let Zayne pull you close and whisper the words you needed to hear, the words you didn’t know you were waiting for.

Things don’t always feel easier, but they feel different now—less like the weight of your injury is pulling you under, and more like you’re learning how to breathe again. Zayne’s been a constant, never pushing, always there with quiet reassurance and those small adjustments that mean more than you ever expected.

He’s marked the apartment with subtle cues—soft fabric along the edge of the counter so you can feel it with your fingertips, a slight texture on the edge of the hallway wall that helps guide you without needing to ask. He’s arranged things so you can always find what you need without fumbling too long. The light switch for the bathroom has a tiny bump on it, and the door to the bedroom has a narrow line of tape so you know where it opens.

It’s not about making you reliant on him—it’s about helping you find a new way to move, to navigate.

And then there’s the audio device. You don’t know exactly when he got it, but one day he’s setting it up on the desk, programming it with your Hunter files. You can still help with missions, still offer advice, analyze strategy—all with just your voice. He never calls it retirement. Always, it’s a new way to fight.

It’s not the same as holding a blade or charging into the field, but your voice still cuts through static, still steadies others when they’re lost. Maybe it was never about the way you fought—maybe it was always about why.

You’ll never get used to how much he sees you, even when you can’t see yourself.

Today, you’re standing in the living room, fingers tracing the edge of the couch. The room is quiet, but it’s a good quiet. The kind that means you’re not trying to force yourself into something you’re not anymore. You’re just… moving forward.

You reach out instinctively. You know the kitchen is just a few steps away, and you trust the path Zayne’s mapped for you. One step, two steps, and then—

The edge of the doorway. Your shoulder brushes the frame but doesn’t slam into it. Not this time.

You stop. A soft laugh escapes you, more of a breath than anything, and you take another step, slowly, just to test it. And then you do laugh, quietly, like it’s a secret you’re finally letting go of.

“That’s the first time I didn’t smack into the doorway,” you say, almost in disbelief.

You pause, listening. Zayne’s footsteps are familiar now—the soft tap of his sandals against the floor, the subtle shift in the air when he’s near. And then, you feel him there, close enough that his warmth almost brushes against you.

Without a word, his lips find your temple, pressing gently, a quiet reassurance that you don’t need to see to feel. His presence wraps around you, steady and constant.

“Proud of you,” he murmurs, voice low and sure. “Told you—you’ve never stopped moving forward.”

You let the words settle, his touch grounding you in a way that’s become as familiar as his voice. You can’t see him, but you can feel him in everything—his pride, his belief in you, the quiet patience that’s helped you find your footing again.

And maybe, just maybe, in this moment, you’re starting to believe in yourself again too.

The days are different now. The apartment feels smaller somehow, not in a suffocating way, but like it’s been rearranged, reorganized—not just by Zayne, but by the new rhythm of your life. You’re adjusting, one step at a time. And it doesn’t hurt as much anymore to ask for help, to trust that you’re not a burden. You’ve found a way to move with it, to move with him.

But today, Zayne’s quiet about something.

It’s only when you’re halfway through the process of organizing some files on the desk that you hear his footsteps shift on the floor, the faint sound of him standing still just to your side. His voice breaks the quiet, steady and calm. “Pack a bag. We’re going somewhere.”

You pause, fingers stilling on the papers. “Where?”

“Just trust me.”

The bags are packed without much question. A couple of hours later, you’re in the back of the car, the hum of the engine the only sound filling the air between you. You don’t ask more questions. You just let him drive, let him take you wherever it is he’s planned for you. When you reach the cottage, the quiet of the countryside surrounds you like a soft blanket.

It’s peaceful. Still.

And when you step out of the car, the air smells different—fresher, richer, filled with the scent of trees and earth. Your fingers brush through the grass as you step forward, the slight give beneath your feet grounding you in a way the city never could.

Zayne’s there to guide you, his hand just a breath away, his touch cool and steady as it always is. He doesn’t say much, letting the place speak for itself.

He leads you slowly, guiding you toward the water. You hear it before you feel it—the soft, rhythmic lapping just ahead—and that’s when you stop, sinking to the ground. Not falling this time—just grounding yourself, steady on your own feet. Zayne follows, settling beside you in the grass.

The air is warmer here, touched by the water’s presence. You can’t see it, but you feel it—the subtle pull of the surface, the gentle ripple that hums through the space like a heartbeat. You reach out beside you, and his hand finds yours without hesitation. Cool, steady, familiar. His fingers wrap around yours like an answer.

“You don’t have to see to know you’re in the right place,” Zayne says quietly, his voice like the rest of the world—calm, patient, and full of certainty.

You nod, letting your fingers drift out to feel the warmth of the air on your skin, then moving up to trace the curve of his jaw. His face is familiar beneath your touch, every line etched in a way that’s become a part of you. Your breath catches for just a moment, the weight of everything you’ve been through settling over you.

“As long as you’re here, I already know,” you whisper, feeling the words more than speaking them.

Zayne’s other hand moves to yours, stilling it for a moment, then pulling you gently against him. His lips brush your temple, light and soft like a promise.

“I’ll always be here,” he murmurs, his voice deep, steady. “Always.”

You don’t need to see it to know it’s true. The world is full of so much more than what you can see. The warmth, the trust, the unspoken bond between you—it’s all here. In this moment. And for the first time in a long while, it feels like everything is exactly where it’s supposed to be.

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

Notes

Before I got teary eyes, this one is water work 😭 I cannot even imagine... too scary man, and I know I'm the one writing their exact reaction and dialogue but man... Zayne... where do I find this man??? He's not outside that's for damn sure 😦 I say it before but I really am my biggest fans, I like my joke, I like my story first so yk 😩🤣 Alright serious now, hopefully y'all enjoy this 💕

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

I hope this is finally what Sonic needs to open up. Even if it's painful and messy and it gets worse before it gets better.

[anachronismstellar]

I'm here again, this time to further the MQF/SQH agenda!

And I'm happy to help the MQF/SQH agenda fjshskdjsk :D

-----

Mu Qingfang had no idea how he got there, all he knew is that when he blinked he had walked all the way to An Ding Peak, hand up in the air, ready to knock on Shang Qinghua's private quarters.

In his defense, it had been one of those days... For the past weeks. And today it seemed that the Heavens decided to test all his skills, only to deem him unworthy.

He considered leaving, now that he had woken up from his haze, but the Heavens intervined once more, apparently. The door opened slowly, and a sleepy Shang Qinghua blinked at him looking like a dream, his outer robe open, revealing the silk of his inner shirt and pants.

"Mu-shidi?" He asked as he opened the door fully for the other get inside. Mu Qingfang hesitaded, considering his options, an excuse ready on his lips. But the final blow came in the form of a hug, strong arms picking him up, their bodies melting as two soft candles burned out by long nights.

"I head about the attack," Shang Qinghua said he walked them towards his room, gently laying the doctor on the unmade bed, kneeling next to him to help with his boots. "Here's what we are going to do. Are you with me?"

Mu Qingfang nodded, even though he might not being entirely truthful, focusing on Shang Qinghua's voice to ground himself.

"Good. I'm going to make us some tea, the good lavender blend you like," Shang Qinghua said as he got rid of the first two layers of Mu Qingfang clothing, pulling a heavy blanket over him, the weight making Mu Qingfang sigh with relief. "Then you're going to eat and sleep. Sounds like a good plan?"

Again Mu Qingfang nodded, blinking as his glasses were carefully taken from his face and left on the small table next to the low bed. After that came off the pins in his hair, Shang Qinghua's hands combing it until all the knots were gone, scratching Mu Qingfang's scalp here and there.

"Good. Take a nap, I won't be long," Shang Qinghua whispered and Mu Qingfang didn't need to hear it twice. He didn't actually sleep, body too wired to let go without anyone there to wake him in case of trouble, but he was able to lull himself into a meditation state, focusing on his breathing and heart beat.

His mind wandered, eyes closed, the smell of ink permeating the bed mixed with the scent of Shang Qinghua’s bitter tea. He made a mental note to pull his ear for drinking it too much, chuckling when the memory of his first time he had to scold Shang Qinghua came to his mind.

It had been just another afternoon, and technically it was supposed to be just another mission. But as a Head Disciple, Mu Qingfang was starting to learn that nothing was "just a" or "normal" when certain disciples were involved.

"So explain to me again," He held back a sigh, because sighing in front of a patient was unprofessional and made things harder for him in the long run. "You were responsible for a delivery of-"

"Two, one for Zui Xian Peak and-"

"Two deliveries, right." And this time was impossible for him to hold back his sigh. Honestly, this guy had his brain scattered all over the place, how he didn't end up in his office before was a miracle. "Two deliveries, one of Jasmine tea and another of- What's the name again?"

The An Ding disciple shuffled his feet as he looked everywhere but Mu Qingfang's face, a drop of sweat running down his cheek even though outside the winds of Autumn were already strong enough for him to force a ban on sword flying for the next weeks.

"Uh. Tiger Lilies?" the other said with a weak laugh, picking on his nails as he finally had the courage to look Mu Qingfang in the eye, warm brown almost vanishing under the size of his dilated pupils. "But then I ran into Qi Qingqi-shiji and she had to have tea delivered immediately because of a party and-"

"And between one delivery and the other you mixed the parcels and-"

"And I kinda gave the Jasmine tea to Qi Qingqi-shiji, the other tea to Zui Xian Peak and-"

"And you brew some Tiger Lilies tea for yourself."

It was Shang Qinghua's time to sigh as he pressed both hands against his eyes, his shoulders sagging under the embarrassment he must be feeling.

It happened to all of them at some point, no need to shame. But to be hit with an aphrodisiac for the first time because you mixed up the delivery order?

Yea it was a bit embarrassing.

"Here's what we are going to do," Mu Qingfang got up from his low chair to check his cabinet for all the things they would need, picking up some bottles. "I'm going to prepare the room, and I'm going to help you out. Then you're going to drink proper tea and eat, and rest for at least two days, got it?"

The fever must be picking up, because all that Shang Qinghua could do was nod, licking his dry lips as he stared at the bottles on Mu Qingfang table. For a second he seemed terrified, and it crossed Mu Qingfang's mind that- this might be his first time.

He felt bad, scratching his head as the considered if it was a good idea to ask. The poor guy already looked so stressed, Heavens, should he offer to call someone else?

"This one- This one appreciates Mu-shixiong offer, but I know you must be tired, you don't-!"

"Shang-shidi," he interruped the other with a wave of his hand, cutting off that nonsense by the root. "You don't need to worry about me, I'm here to help you, I won't stand here and watch you suffer-"

"No! No, I know, Mu-shixiong is a good person, and I know you care about us all, even when we make dumb mistakes I- Uh. I just-"

The compliment made Mu Qingfang pause, surprised that the other had such high esteem for him. He thought they had met just a few times?

"- so, I think, maybe I could take care of it by taking care of you?!"

The hushed sentence made no senses for a long while, Mu Qingfang trying to process what in the all realms was the other talking about. And his confusion as plain to see, because Shang Qinghua took a deep breath and started explaining again, blushing all the way up to his hair, picking on his nails again.

"I mean, Mu-shixiong is kind and I've seen how you treat everyone and- I also know this is your third night shift so you must be tired, so I was thinking, maybe, since I have all this energy and Shixiong- Not that you won't be able to handle your duties! I know you are a strong cultivator, I just thought-"

"Yes," Mu Qingfang answered half to spare them the embarrassment of the situation, half because-

Holy shit when was the last time someone wanted to take care of him? And what a sad truth, but a truth one nonetheless.

"I mean, if makes you more comfortable, o-of course." he quickly corrected himself, trying to ignore his own sweaty palms and the heat climbing up his neck.

Memory mixed up with reality as Shang Qinghua kissed him on the forehead like he did for the first time so many years ago, making Mu Qingfang smile as he forced himself to stay in the moment, humming as Shang Qinghua kisses went all the way down his face until he got a peck on the lips.

"Feeling better?" Qinghua asked, to which Mu Qingfang nodded, still not entirely ready to speak. "Good, come on, I've stolen some cake from Shen-shixiong, they're really good."

It took him a moment to be able to stand, but slowly and surely he walked, Shang Qinghua's arm a comforting presence on his waist, his blabling a soothing white noise.

And just like that Mu Qingfang let himself go, allowing someone to be there for him for some time.

[deluxewhump]

Nightfall: Icemelt

CW: threat of recapture, accidental whump, coping mechanisms that I really can’t go so far as to call self harm, apology with some petting, vampires and mortal bloodbag/pet, hurt/comfort

Just after dusk, Carlo took two of the largest ice cubes he could find from the freezer and held them in his hands over the sink. While they melted, he kept his head bowed as if in evening prayer. Water dripped from the sides of his clenched fists and from between his fingers, pooling on his knuckles like snowmelt. Their soft taps as they fell into the sink seemed like the only sound in the house.

He wouldn’t call it a painful ritual, but it was uncomfortable. That discomfort grew until it took up in the empty spaces in his chest and head, and for a while he had some relief from the restlessness that started in his legs and found its way to his idle hands. The memories his body held in each of his silver scars were quieted, for a time. When the ice was gone he opened his palms. They were splotchy, yellow-white. He watched the slow way the blood pooled back in.

The light over the stove flickered, came back to life, and then went out. He dried his damp palms on his pant legs and peered under the stove hood, tapping the bulb. When that didn’t work he twisted it gently tighter. Nothing. He remembered seeing extra lightbulbs, along with cleaning supplies and tools at the top of the stairs that led down to the basement. Maxim wouldn’t care if he ordered a new box of appliance bulbs, but he ought to at least check first.

The cellar door was off the kitchen and looked to have been repainted white many times in the last hundred or so years, and shut only with an old hook and eye latch. He flicked the lock open and the door swung out with no help. The damp stone smell of the cellar drifted up to him from the yawning dark. He scanned the shelves on the landing for bulbs. Regular ones, yes, but nothing that would fit that small appliance socket.

Three taps from behind him jumped him so suddenly that he dropped the box of regular bulbs, breaking one. He spun around, heart pounding. Behind him was a first floor window, but nothing was immediately amiss outside it. There was only the gathering darkness. He looked more carefully, past his own reflection, scanning the sides of the house and the grounds that were visible.

His cellphone vibrated harshly on the kitchen countertop where he’d left it a few hours before. He pushed his fingers against his eyes, annoyed with himself for startling so hard, for breaking a bulb, for being so frayed at this time of day. The time of day they used to wake him from whatever half-consciousness he was living in to feed and play with him like cats with prey.

The number on the top of the screen was a local area code. He answered it with a guarded hello, prepared for a waste of time anyway.

“Carlo?” someone asked. They sounded far away, like the connection was bad or they were on speaker.

“Hello?” he said more earnestly this time. Both the phone and the number were relatively new— gifts from the vampire upstairs. And Carlo was likely as good as dead still to anyone who once knew him. Who could be calling that knew him by name?

“I knew you were alive,” said a voice brimming with pride and relief. “I just had to find you.”

It was Jude. A little muffled by the connection, but unmistakably Jude. He felt as if the air had been knocked from his lungs and for a moment, he couldn’t respond. After what was probably ten seconds but felt like a solid minute, he broke the surface of his disbelief enough to ask, “…how did you find me?”

“With perseverance,” Jude answered, his voice tinged with familiar humor. “Where are you?”

“Where are you?”

“Looking for you. Some fuckass back road northwest of the Valley? Can you meet me?”

Carlo’s thoughts tripped and stumbled over themselves, trying to find an order of importance that made sense. How did Jude even know where to look? Who would know where he was to lead Jude this way, and this close?? Was he talking to vampires? And if so, was he in danger? Had they followed him? Dread was cold in his gut as it spread, freezing over his initial elation at hearing Jude’s voice.

“What was the last sign you saw?” he asked, heading for the front of the house. He hadn’t turned any lights on, and the high foyer ceiling was lost in shadows. He peered out the door’s stained glass window. Jude might be close enough to give directions to. He might even see headlights at the end of the driveway at any moment. He unlocked the deadbolt, then the doorknob, his hand hovering on its brass handle. He scanned the driveway and yard again and saw nothing. Not even the fireflies. Were they already gone for the year? No, that couldn’t be right.

“Come outside,” Jude said.

“It’s a long driveway. I’d see you. Have you passed a lookout on your left yet? You can see the Valley really well from it, you’d have noticed it.”

“Come outside,” Jude said again, and there was a hint of urgency in his voice that had not been there before.

If he went out on the front porch, he could see down the driveway and front yard, through the thin line of trees that separated the property from the road. If any cars were coming, he’d see the headlights.

He turned the knob and stepped into the humid night air. He was going to ask Jude about the lookout again, but didn’t have long enough to draw a breath before he was grabbed sharply by the wrist and wrenched back inside.

The door slammed, drowning out his yelp of pain. His hand felt like it had been torn from his wrist, and his shoulder felt much the same. Pain bloomed hot and bright up and down his arm, a sensation that was nothing like the slow discomfort of the ice cubes. Maxim stood between him and the slammed front door. He cradled his elbow close to his chest and shrunk away, every instinct telling him to run. He pushed back against a row of hanging coats, his mouth still open in pained surprise from when he’d cried out. He looked down at his wrist, half expecting it to be visibly broken.

Maxim hurt him.

Maxim had never hurt him.

“What are you doing?!” Maxim hissed. “Give it here.”

He flinched as the vampire— both taller and broader than he, and immeasurably stronger— took the phone he forgot he’d been clutching out of his uninjured hand. The light from the screen flashed on his humanlike face, across those slightly uncanny pupils. He checked that the call was disconnected. He was dressed like he was going someplace in the city, which meant he’d be gone most of the night and come back looking noticeably more flushed, young, and vital in the hours just before dawn.

Again, he posed the question. “What are you doing?”

Tears blurred Carlo’s vision. Ever since the lightbulb in the kitchen had blown not five minutes before, he’d been more and more confused, his every thought underlined with the warning that something was not right. And now Maxim was being so harsh with him, and had nearly ripped his arm out of socket. He tried to blink them away, but the tears were hot and unrelenting.

“Someone called me,” he whispered. “A friend.”

Maxim secured the deadbolt on his front door. “When was the last time you talked to this friend? Other than tonight.”

“I…” How long had it been? He remembered how painful their separation had been at first, and then later how his life before Erik’s vampires and their den of horrors seemed like a faraway dream. “I don’t know.”

Maxim pulled up the recent calls. “This is the number?”

Carlo didn’t understand why he was asking, but nodded yes. I’m sorry, he wanted to cry. I don’t know what is going on. Please stop. He bit back the words.

Maxim redialed. He set it to speakerphone, and the sound it made when it rang through as disconnected was like a screech. Carlo felt himself flinching again.

Maxim powered off the phone and put it in his own pocket. “That wasn’t your friend.”

Later, remembering those words would give him chills like a pair of sleek brown rabbits running back and forth over his grave, but at the moment he was too shaken to think on what that might mean. He nodded, accepting whatever the vampire said as fact and letting him know it was so. This was a survival tactic he’d learned the hard way with the others. It was only then that Maxim seemed to focus on Carlo enough to recognize it as such.

“Your arm,” the vampire said. And then softer. “Oh, no. I hurt you, didn’t I? Come here.”

Carlo wanted to sob in relief at the familiar tone that had come back into the vampire’s voice, but he felt dizzy and his face was becoming strangely hot. He stayed pressed against the coats, keeping his hurt wrist close to his ribs. Was there a chance this vampire was something like the others after all? Was there even a sliver of a chance these past months had been a cruel game? Surely there were vampires with that kind of patience who enjoyed a bait and switch. What did they have but time?

“Come here,” Maxim coaxed again in the dark foyer. “I didn’t mean to, sweetheart. Please let me see.”

He was sweating now, he could feel it in his hairline. The coats were hot and scratchy against his back. He pushed away from them gingerly, holding his hurt arm out between himself and the creature who’d hurt it. If Maxim hurt him now, he’d know. But part of him knew he wouldn’t. And he wanted so badly to trust what he thought he knew.

Cool hands took his forearm so gently that he closed his eyes and whimpered without meaning to. If only the vampire would touch his face with those hands, he might be able to cool down.

Light prodding. A skimming touch over his wrist and then his shoulder.

“Not broken,” he heard Maxim say, as if through a tunnel. “You need to sit down. Come here.”

—

He woke in an armchair. Maxim must have carried him. If he walked, he didn’t remember it. His wrist was bandaged tight in a way that made his heart flutter with panic at first, until he remembered where he was. It was not a restraint. Just a way to keep his wrist from moving or bumping into things. The braided rug was familiar, and the hearth, and the french doors that separated this room from the next. The surroundings soothed him even before his mind was entirely at his command again.

“Alright?” asked the vampire. Carlo blinked and turned his head. Maxim was coming from what seemed like thin air, but was just a shadowed part of the room with a built in bookshelf that ran from floor to ceiling. Carlo spent many sunny afternoons on this floor, flipping through the dusty pages of books, stumbling upon old notes and letters tucked among volumes or between pages.

Carlo nodded. Yes. He was alright.

“Do you remember what happened?”

He nodded again. “I should have known that wasn’t Jude. It seems really obvious now. Was it… one of them?”

One of Erik’s, he meant and didn’t have to say.

“I’m not sure who else to blame.”

“Are they here?”

“If they were nearby, they’re gone. And if I ever find one within five miles of here, I promise you I’ll hurt them.”

“How did they do that? Mimic his voice like that.”

“It’s more about influencing your perception than actual mimicry. They likely don’t even know who your friend is or what he sounds like.”

“What if they do?” he asked. “What if they have him?”

“They would’ve come out and said so. That’s a better card to play, and they’d have played it. They don’t have your friend. They just have an in with you, so they took it.”

Carlo shuddered. Come outside. And he nearly had. “If that had worked I’d have deserved it for being so stupid.”

The vampire came closer and squatted down in front of the armchair he was curled up in. “Do I need to tell you that I didn’t intend to hurt you?”

Carlo eyed the bandage cocooning his wrist. It hurt, but only distantly. Like the ice. He was lucky nothing was broken, and that his arm hadn’t been pulled from the socket. Maxim was always so deliberate and calculated when touching him. A quick movement could have easily been far worse. He shook his head.

The fingers Maxim placed under his chin surprised him. He let his head be guided back to look at him, waiting before letting his eyes follow and leave his bandaged wrist. Maxim looked a little hungry. It was subtle, but Carlo could recognize it now. He was likely headed out when he’d found his mortal pet sleepwalking into a trap. His color was off. There was a tightness around the mouth, a slight hollowness to the cheeks. But his eyes were soft with concern. “I don’t think I could stand it if you thought I had ever hurt you on purpose.”

Carlo doubted there was any worldly disappointment a centuries old vampire couldn’t stand, but the words filled him with pleasure anyway. It was a tangible warmth, spreading through his veins and making his eyes heavy. He pulled back to nuzzzle the hand that held his chin in place, and was rewarded with the other hand rising up so that one cradled each half of his face.

“I didn’t mean to,” he whispered in apology to the vampire that held him.

Thumbs stroked his cheeks. “I know.”

[clowns0cks]

guys I desperately need thoschei fic recs cause I have very specific criteria and I don't seem to find anything.... I want something that is really fucked up (killing, cannibalism, blood, gore, you choose. I basically want them to really destroy each other...) but possibly no smut. It's so hard to actually find something I don't think it even exists....

[lin-sterling]

He wakes up, struggling to breathe, taste of ashes and blood on his tongue. Cool air from a crack in the window does not soothe the heat of inferno still searing his skin, the quiet of night does not drown out the roaring of flames and singing of steel. He wakes up, heart nearly breaking his aching ribcage, tears staining his face with white trails. Faint sound of talking from somewhere below does not make him feel less alone, the serene chirping of birds outside can do little to silence the bellows of nightmare. He wakes up, tangled in sweaty wet sheets, calling out loud for the dead, hands painfully gripping the hilt of the sword he held in his dream. He wakes up. He wakes up. He wakes up, he wakes up, hewakesuphewakesuphewakesup, he wakes… Fingers, long and gentle and cool, brush away hairs stuck to his temple, quiet voice still raspy from sleep sends cracks through the nightmare like beam of the sun through the shutters. He isn't alone anymore, and the blazing perdition of Skalitz relents. He stays in his reverie at the edge of the bed, faintly aware of motion behind him. A sigh, and soft lips ghost over the scar on the blade of his shoulder. "I am right here. I've got you." ..He sleeps.

[hmsdoodlin]

(102) Saw angst and immediately had to draw them to remedy it

[lyn31]

Making another ask to make a request hehe i hope it's okay with you 🥰 can you pretty please write about mc's early pregnancy stage? (If you're not planing to write it already) Like how would they feel with mc's job as a hunter? I feel like during this time they might have a little argument since zayne probably would want her to take a break from her job the moment they found out y'know since her job is very pyhsical and the risks of harming the baby but mc might be a little bit stubborn about it? imagine her fainting during her mission because of fatigue and how would zayne's reaction to it be? (maybeee just a little tiny bit of angst? but definitely with a happy ending cause i can't handle sad ending, you can add a bit of smut too if you want hohoho) I'm sorry if this is too hard for you to write 😭 anyway thank you for all the amazing stories, i'm looking forward to read more of your writings! 🥰

It ended up being a hurt/comfort 🫶🏻🥹 I never thought I'd write one of these, but then again, that’s what I said the first time I wrote smut 😂

Speaking of smut—I didn’t end up fitting any in. I was thinking maybe it could happen when they get back home. Obviously no sex smut since MC’s still in early pregnancy, but some comfort smut would be nice.

BUT I thought this ending already tied things up with such a great little bow :D

Hopefully you like it! Let me know what you think (good or bad—lay it on me) 💕

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Stubborn

Summary

In the aftermath of a close call, you navigate the haze of recovery surrounded by unwavering love—from your partner’s steady care to your sister’s fierce loyalty—until the weight of fear gives way to healing, one quiet moment at a time.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader Hurt/comfort, family feels, early pregnancy.

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Zayne closes his tablet with a soft click, his gaze already on you. He doesn’t say anything. Just looks.

You shut the door a little harder than necessary when you step back into Zayne’s office, the familiar scent of disinfectant and tea grounding you just enough not to explode. He’s still seated at his desk, calm as ever, reading one of his medical cases.

You just finished a call with the HQ.

“They’re not letting me work in the field anymore,” you huff, dropping into the seat across from him. “But if I really want to work, I can be support from base. You know—report duty, logistics, the fun stuff.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t give me that look.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he replies mildly, folding his hands like he’s a neutral party in a murder trial. “But if I had, I might’ve said this was predictable.”

“I know it’s not possible,” you groan, tipping your head back. “And I don’t want to be in the field anyway. I’m not trying to hurt our baby.”

He reaches for your hand, which you take immediately.

“But they didn’t have to say it like that,” you go on, toying with his fingers. “Like I’m fragile. Like I need to be wrapped in bubble wrap and locked in a temperature-controlled room.”

“They didn’t say that,” Zayne points out, far too calmly.

“That’s what they meant.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Did they also say it in a tone you invented for them?”

You shoot him a look. “You’re very smug for someone who’s supposed to be on my side.”

“I am on your side,” he says smoothly, standing up and walking over to you. “Which is why I’m supporting your decision to, what was it? Rot behind a desk with a highlighter and a clipboard?”

You groan again, burying your face in his stomach. “Don’t remind me.”

He chuckles, then leans down slightly, his cool fingers brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “They’re not saying you’re useless. You’re not.”

Your hands wrap around him. “I’m not.”

He tilts his head. “Then stop talking like you are.”

You purse your lips, stubborn, but you can’t hold the tension when he leans down, voice dipping just enough to soften the blow:

“You’re still you. Even if you’re not kicking down doors right now.”

That gets a small breath of laughter out of you, even as you lean your head back against the chair again.

“...I’m still going to complain,” you mutter.

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Zayne murmurs, brushing a kiss to your temple. “But next time you get assigned report duty, I’ll make tea.”

You glance at him. “...With the good honey?”

He smiles faintly. “Only if you stop acting like being careful is a personal insult.”

You snort.

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The hum of the squad’s base is a quiet background drone—keyboards tapping, screens flickering, comms static fading in and out. You’re perched at the long center table, elbow-deep in reports you’d rather not be writing, a stylus clutched in your aching fingers.

Tara walks by with a cup of something steaming and suspiciously sweet-smelling. She pauses when she sees you still working.

“You’re aware no one’s asking you to finish all those today, right?” she says, eyeing your growing stack. “Unless you’re aiming for a stress-induced birth.”

“I’m behind,” you mutter, not looking up. “Someone’s gotta get them done.”

“You mean besides the two rookies we literally hired for this?”

“They’re slow.”

“They’re new.”

“They’re too new.”

Tara sips her drink and squints. “You know this is your villain origin story, right? ‘Hunter turns paperwork tyrant after desk job.’”

You give her a withering look. She grins and walks away.

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

Later, Lara leans in behind you without a sound, placing a small snack packet next to your elbow.

You blink. “What’s this?”

“Protein and fiber,” she says with that calm smile of hers. “You skipped lunch just because your husband isn’t here to give it to you.”

“I did not—”

“You took two bites of toast and drank a coffee.”

You frown down at the packet. “I’m not hungry.”

Lara just squeezes your shoulder. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t eat.”

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The next day, you’re rearranging case logs and editing mission summaries—because, of course, no one else formats headers right—and your back is killing you. You stand to stretch when Rose walks in and catches you mid-pose, one hand bracing the small of your spine.

She crosses her arms, already judging you.

“You realize you’re not obligated to be the Association’s unpaid intern, right?”

“I’m just keeping busy.”

“You’re nesting in spreadsheets.”

You glare. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting. I’m continuing.”

She tosses a folder onto the desk, tone sharpening just enough to dig in.

“You don’t like this work. You’re not even supposed to be doing it. But you’re acting like if you stop for five minutes, the world��s gonna forget you exist.”

“I’m not—!”

“You are,” she cuts in. “And the worst part is, if I were doing this? You’d be the first to tell me to sit my ass down and breathe.”

You open your mouth, but the only thing that comes out is silence—and a wave of heat rising in your cheeks.

She sighs, more gently now.

“You’re not going to disappear just because you’re slowing down. You’re pregnant, not invisible.”

You drop back into your chair, tense and unwilling to admit she’s right.

Rose lingers a second longer. “You wanna prove something? Prove you can listen for once.”

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You're curled on the couch in the corner of Zayne’s office, tablet propped on your thighs, stylus dancing across the screen as you breeze through another stack of reports.

He’s been pretending to review scans, but he’s mostly been watching you.

“How many reports is that today?” he asks finally, eyes not leaving his tablet.

You don’t look up. “Just a couple.”

“That’s your third ‘couple’ since this morning.”

You sigh, the stylus slowing. “They pile up when no one does them.”

“There are other that can help you as well.”

“They’re busier than me.”

He hums, noncommittal. You recognize that sound—it means he’s noting everything and choosing silence for now.

He stands after a moment, crossing the room without a sound. You expect him to hover, maybe offer tea again. Instead, he crouches in front of you, cool hands gently taking your ankle before you can object.

“Zayne—”

“You’ve been sitting too long,” he says simply, thumb pressing into the soft, swollen flesh near your arch.

You let out a sharp breath—not from pain, but the sudden relief that spreads like warmth through your foot. It’s startling, how much it hurts and soothes at the same time. Like peeling off a pressure bandage you didn’t realize you were wearing.

“I’m fine,” you murmur.

“Mm,” he replies, entirely unconvinced. He keeps working, fingers precise, careful. “Do you want me to stop?”

The ache in your calves pulses in response—a dull throb reminding you of every hour spent hunched over case files and mission logs. You hadn’t meant to ignore your body. You just... forgot.

He moves to your other foot, and when he finds the sore spot along your heel, you twitch slightly.

The moment his fingers start to knead with practiced care, your shoulders sag. The tension there slips loose without permission—like your body had been waiting for someone else to give it the okay to stop.

“You didn’t even stretch today, did you?” he asks.

“I meant to.”

He glances up, expression unreadable—but the way he shifts, drawing your legs into his lap so he can rub deeper along your calf, says everything. You don't protest. You just let your head fall back against the couch cushion, exhaustion seeping out of you in slow waves.

“You’re not helping your case by spoiling me like this,” you murmur, eyes closed.

“You’re not helping mine by pretending you don’t need it.”

He doesn’t say slow down. Doesn’t tell you you’re overdoing it—you’ve heard that enough from everyone else. Instead, he presses his thumb gently behind your knee, finding the tight muscle you didn’t realize was sore, and stays silent.

It makes you feel safe enough to rest your hand on your stomach.

He notices that too.

After a while, he murmurs, “You’re not a machine.” His voice is soft, but there’s steel underneath. “Even machines get maintained.”

You sigh. “Don’t start lecturing. I already got one from Rose.”

“I’m not lecturing,” he replies, moving his hands to your leg. “I’m observing.”

You scoff. “That’s worse.”

He keeps his massage pace steady. “Your body’s telling you to rest. You’re just not listening.”

“Because if I stop, I’ll—” You cut yourself off.

Zayne’s hands still for a second, before he continues again. But he still waits. Doesn’t press.

“I just... don’t want to feel useless.”

“You’re not,” he says simply. “You’re growing a whole human. You’re working harder than all of us.”

You drop your gaze. Your hand drifts to your stomach, and for a moment, a flicker of guilt settles in your chest—before you brush it off.

He touches your knee gently. “And before you say that doesn’t count—it does.”

You exhale, stubborn to the bitter end. “I just want to do my part.”

“You are,” he murmurs. “Even when you’re tired. Even when you’re quiet. You’re allowed to take care of yourself and still be part of everything.”

He stands, smooth and graceful as ever, and disappears into the office kitchenette. A moment later, he returns with a steaming mug and a little packet of dried fruit Lara had slipped you days ago.

You blink. “You kept that?”

He shrugs. “I’m observant, remember?”

He hands you the tea, careful not to say more.

But when you settle against the back of the couch again, sipping quietly, his fingers brush yours—just long enough to remind you he’s still there. Still watching. Still ready to catch you if—or when—you finally fall.

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The mission had gone smoothly—standard sweep, zero surprises. And just when everyone was ready to head back and clock out, the patrol assignment came in.

You straighten without a second thought. “I’ll come.”

Tara, still adjusting her gloves, pauses. “Come where?”

“On patrol.”

A beat of silence.

Rose levels you with a look. “No.”

You raise a brow. “It’s just a regular route. You said yourself it’s the quietest zone.”

“That’s not the point—”

“I’ve been sitting for days, my legs are cramping, and if I stare at another report I’m going to set fire to the desk.”

Tara mutters, “That’s valid.”

Lara looks at the sky. “Please don’t actually set fire to the desk.”

“I’ll stay in the middle,” you add, like it sweetens the deal. “I’m a support unit. Ranged. I’m not going to be diving into anything.”

Rose folds her arms. “You’re still—”

“Pregnant, yes, I know,” you cut in, already tugging on your jacket. “Not made of glass. I’m not even showing yet. And HQ already approved base-side support, didn’t they?”

“They didn’t mean outside the base,” Rose mutters.

“They didn’t not mean it.”

Everyone looks at you.

You lift your chin, undeterred.

Lara speaks next, dry as ever. “Fine. But you’re in the middle.”

“I was planning to—”

Rose cuts in sharply, “You’re. Staying. In. The. Middle.”

You squint at her. “You’re not the squad leader.”

Lara, hand on her forehead. “You’re staying in the middle.”

You roll your eyes. “Noted.”

Tara snorts, clearly enjoying herself. “I’ll take rear side. Can’t have mom-to-be dodging wanderer guts and ruining her pretty boots.”

“I hate those boots,” you mumble.

“Exactly. That’s how we know you’re tired.”

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You fall into formation—Rose at the front, Tara flanking rear-left, Lara bringing up the back, and you moving steady in the middle. It’s familiar. Easy. Your steps sync with theirs, your gun balanced at your side, Evol humming at your fingertips.

No one says it out loud, but they’re all subtly adjusting around you. Slower pace. Widened spacing. You catch it—but you let it go.

Because for the first time in weeks, your legs don’t ache from stillness. The air smells like rain instead of hospital antiseptic or your base’s office.

The zone is clean—stray wanderers here and there, nothing your squad can’t handle in their sleep.

You’re tired, sure—but this, you can handle it.

Until the air tears.

It doesn’t start as sound—it’s pressure. Your lungs forget how to breathe a moment before the world bends and tears open.

A Deepspace tunnel splits open in the middle of the street.

“Contact—two o’clock!” Rose snaps, a violet slash coming from her hands already singing through the first thing that crawls out.

You shift, instinct kicking in. Your Evol flashes, syncing instantly to Rose’s—sharpening her edges, accelerating her strikes.

Tara surges forward, intercepting another, and you link to her next, boosting her reflexes mid-movement. Lara flanks right behind with a glowing barrier.

It’s a tight formation. Efficient. You keep your distance, keep your focus. Your hands tremble a little, but you bite it back. One more boost—one more sync—

It starts getting hard to see clearly.

Your head pounds. Your knees buckle, unsteady.

You shift focus again, try to keep up with the flow, but your Evol stutters with jagged pulses, like it’s struggling to hold a signal. The edges of your vision blur.

Something disconnects. You think you hear someone yell your name—

And then nothing.

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It’s the faint beep of a monitor you hear first. A soft rhythm, too steady to be anything from the field.

Then fingers. Wrapped around your hand, cool yet steady. Anchoring you.

Your eyes flutter open.

White ceiling. Hospital lights. The faint scent of antiseptic.

And Zayne.

His face is the first thing you see—tired, eyes ringed with shadow, but locked on you with absolute focus the moment you stir.

“You’re awake,” he says—relief and fear tangled in his voice.

His voice has that low, careful tone he uses with patients—except it’s thinner now. Strained around the edges.

Before you can say anything, he’s checking you, doctor-mode overriding everything. Fingers at your pulse, brushing against your wrist. A touch to your forehead. Gentle pressure along your wrist.

“No fever,” he murmurs to himself. “Vitals are stable... you fainted from exhaustion.”

You try to speak, but he’s already leaning in, brushing your hair from your face like he needs to see you fully to believe it.

Then, his hand lifts yours, holding it close. His lips press to your knuckles. Then your temple. Then your cheek.

No anger. No lecture. Just that quiet sorrow in his eyes.

“I was scared,” he admits, barely a whisper. “You weren’t waking up.”

Your chest tightens. You try to blink it away, but his hand squeezes yours, grounding you again.

He exhales through his nose, like he’s been holding it in for hours.

“I should be angry,” he says finally, voice low. “But I’m mostly just... terrified.”

You blink at him, throat tight.

“You could’ve gotten hurt. Worse. You and the baby.”

His eyes stay locked on yours, steady now—but not cold. Just bare.

“I know you want to help. I know sitting still drives you mad. But pushing yourself until you pass out—how is that helping anyone?”

Your lips part, but he shakes his head gently, thumb brushing your wrist.

“I’m not saying this to hurt you. I’m saying it because I love you.”

You swallow hard, your throat dry and raw. “I didn’t think it would get that bad,” you murmur, voice barely there. “I just… I thought I could still be useful.”

His expression doesn’t shift much, but his thumb stills against your skin. “You are. You always are. But not like this.”

He lowers your joined hands onto the blanket, his other hand trailing along your arm like he’s reminding himself you’re still here. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Least of all to me.”

You look away, eyes burning. “It didn’t feel that way.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s what scares me.”

He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours. His touch is cool, his presence a balm—but beneath it, you feel the way he trembles. Just faintly.

“I need you to take care of yourself,” he whispers. “Not just for the baby. For me, too.”

You nod—slow and aching, the fight bleeding out like water through a cracked glass.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he says, and his voice shakes just enough to break your heart. He lifts your hand again, presses it to his cheek like he needs the anchor just as much.

“I know you were trying your best. But I need you to stop carrying all of it like it’s only yours to hold.”

His eyes meet yours—clear, but so raw. “You’re not alone in this. You never were. So please… stop acting like you have to be.”

You swallow hard. “I just... I didn’t want to be a burden.”

He closes his eyes for a moment, jaw tight, like the words cut deeper than you meant them to.

“You’re not,” he says. No hesitation. “You never have been. Not now. Not before.”

Your throat stings. “Then why does it feel like I am? Like if I stop, if I let go even a little, I’ll just fade into the background while everyone else moves on without me?”

Zayne shifts, leans forward, and rests his forehead against your temple.

“Because you're so used to holding everything up, you don’t know how to not fight for space. Even when no one’s trying to take it from you.”

You breathe in slowly. His scent, the warmth of his skin, the steady thrum of his presence—everything about him quiets the noise in your head just a little.

“I thought I was helping,” you whisper. “I wanted to help.”

“I know,” he says again. “But pushing yourself until you collapse doesn’t help anyone—not me, not the baby, not your squad. And especially not you.”

His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye where a tear slips free.

“I don’t need you to be perfect,” he says gently. “I need you to be here.”

Something in you breaks—not with violence, but with mercy. Like something brittle giving way to light.

You nod, a little shaky. “I still want to do better.”

Zayne presses a kiss to your temple. “Then rest. Let yourself breathe. That’s where it starts.”

And this time, when your eyes close again, it’s not from exhaustion—but relief.

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You wake again to the sound of a quiet page turning.

Zayne sits beside you, long legs folded, a medical file in one hand—yours, probably—but his attention snaps to you the second your breathing shifts.

He sets it down. “You’re awake.”

His voice is softer this time. Less strained. The lines around his eyes are still there, but something in them eases.

You blink at him. “You’re still here?”

“I wasn’t planning to leave.” He brushes his fingers over your wrist, like he’s making sure your pulse is still real beneath his touch. “How do you feel?”

“Tired.” Your voice comes out dry and rough.

He nods once. “That’s good.” Then he picks up the glass of water from the side table and offers it to you. His fingers graze yours as you take it—but he don’t pull away immediately.

You pause, then shift your other hand to gently hold his, anchoring it there. Your thumb brushes over his knuckles, light but deliberate. He squeezes your hand in return.

“It means you’re listening to your body, not fighting it.” His lips twitch, just a little.

You exhale before taking a slow sip of the water, letting the coolness ease the rasp in your throat. His hand stays in yours.

When you lower the glass, you don’t let go.

And for the first time in hours, you feel more at ease.

Zayne’s thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles—once, twice. Then, gently, he says, “Rose and Caleb are here. With the twins. They’ve been waiting outside—Rose didn’t want to crowd you unless you were ready.”

You go still. “The twins?”

“They were very insistent about seeing their favorite aunt.”

You arch a brow. That’s your line—he usually waits for you to say it, then replies with, “their only aunt.”

But this time, he says it for you.

And something about that—gentle, unexpected—makes a strange, delicate flutter rises in your chest.

Tender. Fragile. But steady.

Hormones, yup, that’s why.

“Can I see them?”

Zayne leans in, kisses your forehead, brushes your hair back with careful fingers. Then he steps into the hallway. A few quiet murmurs follow. The door opens.

Rose is the first to step in.

She looks... fine. Hair tied up, usual jacket slung over her arm, lips pressed into a flat line. But her eyes linger too long on the monitor beside you. Her fingers twitch at her side like she wants to check the IV, double-check your vitals—anything to do something. Instead, she stops at the foot of your bed.

“You look like shit,” she says, dry as ever.

“Thanks,” you rasp, voice hoarse.

Rose exhales. Shoulders sink. “I mean. You scared the hell out of us.”

You open your mouth, but she holds up a hand. “Let me get through this without crying yet.”

Caleb enters with the twins—both wide-eyed and quiet for once, clinging to his hands. They’re three now, just tall enough to peek over the bed railing. Caleb gives you a small smile, nods once—like we’ll talk later—and steps aside.

“I shouldn’t have let you come on patrol,” Rose says, voice quieter now. “Even if it was routine. Even if nothing was supposed to happen. You’re my twin. My squadmate. I knew you weren’t at full strength. I just...” Her breath stutters. “I just thought if I said no, you’d push harder. And I didn’t want to be the bad guy.”

You swallow. “I wanted to be there.”

“I know.” She folds her arms, eyes wet. “But I should’ve been the one to stop you anyway.”

“You tried,” you say. “You did more than anyone. I just—” Your voice cracks. “I didn’t want to be left behind.”

Rose’s expression finally breaks. She moves toward you, voice shaking. “You’re not behind. You’re with us. And you always will be. Just—don’t do that again, okay? Don’t scare me like that.”

You reach for her at the same time she leans in. Arms wrap around each other tight—shaky, unsteady, clinging like you're both trying to fix something that cracked open between you. Her forehead presses to your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she chokes out.

“Me too.”

That’s when the twins—silent up to this point—decide they’ve had enough of being observers.

They scramble up the bed, climbing over your legs like determined little puppies, wedging themselves between you and Rose, their small arms trying to hug both of you at once.

And then they’re crying. Loud and messy and confused.

“Mommy’s crying,” your niece says, and your nephew wails, “Why is Auntie sick—stop being sick!”

Rose laughs through a sob, pulling them in tighter. “She’s okay, baby. She’s okay now.”

It’s a mess of limbs and tears and sniffles on the bed, and for a moment, the whole room is soft with the sound of people trying to breathe again.

At the side of the room, Zayne stands with Caleb, arms loosely crossed, watching the scene unfold.

“Should we hug it out too?” Caleb murmurs, glancing sideways.

Zayne gives him a bland look. “No.”

Caleb grins and then sighs, dramatic. “I thought we had something, Zayne. Where’s my love?”

Zayne doesn’t even blink. “Buried somewhere beneath your need for theatrics.”

“Ouch,” Caleb mutters, clutching his chest like he’s been personally wounded. “Ruthless. No wonder your patients love you—you leave just enough emotional damage for a lasting impression.”

Zayne exhales through his nose, gaze drifting back to the bed where the tangle of you, Rose, and the twins is still unfolding—small hands clinging, Rose’s face pressed against your shoulder, the kids hiccuping their tears into your sides. The corner of his mouth pulls, barely, almost a smile.

Caleb watches him for a moment longer, then, softer. “...Glad she’s okay.”

Zayne doesn’t say anything to that. Just nods once.

And that’s when Caleb pulls out his phone. He doesn’t even hide it.

“I’m taking a picture.”

Zayne lifts an eyebrow, but doesn’t stop him.

“For the photo wall,” Caleb says, angling it just right. “Or the ‘look at your chaotic emotional legacy’ folder for when they’re teenagers. Whichever comes first.”

He takes the picture with the absolute stealth of a dad used to capturing chaotic moments.

Zayne watches, quiet. But this time, when the screen captures your face mid-laugh, he doesn’t look away.

Your hand in Rose’s hair. Little fingers tangled in yours. Tears drying slow on your cheeks. A smile caught between sobs, still glimmering. The moment is already saved.

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Notes

This week is just serious week I guess... Are we all just in our period? Is that why? Cuz I am.... 🫠😂 Joking aside, hope y'all enjoy it! 🫶🏻🥹

[serenity--writes]

Devotion | Peter Parker x Reader

Being friends with Peter Parker is easy. You fit together so well, it’s like sliding a puzzle piece into its designated slot on the first try. It’s studying together, laughing together, having him take you up to the Empire State Building in the middle of the night because he can, gaping down at the city in awe because wow, New York really can be beautiful. Or, Peter Parker as your best friend, your boyfriend, and then your husband (to be). //3.7k~ words. Unedited. GN! Reader. Any Peter, I just really like Andrew Garfield's face (even though it's hidden in the gif lol).

You can’t sleep. 

All you can think is, ‘Is he okay? What if he’s hurt?’ Your mind spins with each and every fear, and your body aches with it. Anxiety is nothing new, but it’s so constant now. You wake up and wonder if he’s still alive, if he’s safe, and it feels like you can’t breathe until you see him in person. Texting doesn’t help much anymore, because he could be texting you on his metaphorical deathbed and you wouldn’t know—

Your name echoes in the air. You whip around, eyes wild. “Peter?!” He’s barely inside your bedroom before you’re throwing yourself at him. The window falls shut as he slides his leg in with the rest of him. 

Peter winces as you enclose his waist in your arms, groaning. Jerking back, you peer worriedly at him. You spot dark red on blue and your blood runs cold. “Do I need to get the med kit?”

He shuffles over to your desk chair with his breath stuttering in his chest. Despite the jerkiness of his movements, his voice is even. If you hadn’t seen him, you wouldn’t think anything was wrong. That thought frightens you. “Yeah. Please.”

You’ve done this what feels like hundreds of times, but your hands still shake as you grab the stocked up med kit, courtesy of your nurse mom. She probably never imagined you’d be using it for Spider-Man. Who also happens to be the little boy (now teenager) she’d watched grow up with her kid.

She would shake Peter up and down, asking why he was putting himself in so much danger. 

In that, you and your mom are very similar. 

You return with the cargo, watching as your idiot best friend inhales, then exhales. He’s sprawled out on your chair, all long legs and mussed hair. His face is pale. No shit.

“Okay,” you start, hands ghosting over his suit. You don’t know where to touch and where to avoid, anxiety cruising through you like it was on a fucking joyride. You kind of want to puke, but don’t feel like vomiting up chili right now. It would burn. “Suit off. Can’t stitch you closed if the suit’s in the way.”

Peter wiggles his eyebrows, eyes still closed. “If you wanted me to undress, all you had to do was ask—”

“You’ve been saying that line for six months, Parker, learn some new material.” 

“Ouch,” he pouts, but complies. The suit is skin-tight, and he struggles to get it off without wincing so hard you’re afraid his face will stay that way, so you help him tug it off his shoulders, letting it pool around his waist. Blood soaks his stomach. “Last name already?”

Your stomach churns, his joke going in one ear and out the other. “Jesus Christ, Pete.”

He smiles shakily. “Not as bad as it looks, promise.”

Looks pretty fucking bad. You dig out the needle and suture kit without looking, then grab a disinfectant pad and steel yourself for another night of praying your hands don’t fail and you accidentally fuck him up even worse. 

Peter grabs your shaking hand and squeezes. “You got this,” he says, soft. His eyes are tired, but so kind. “You’ve done this before, and you were perfect. Okay? You can do this.” 

You nod, wiping your hands with the disinfectant pad before grabbing another. The wound looks daunting compared to the last, and it’s no wonder he’s drooping like a sunflower with too little sun; he’s losing a lot of blood. “Shit, okay. You’re right. Fuck, Peter, you really need to be more careful.”

His response is swallowed by a pained gasp as you run the pad over the serrated skin. “Fuck,” he whines. Then he laughs at himself. “Hurts more than getting stabbed, which is really w-weird.” 

“Duh. Alcohol burns, and you were probably running on adrenaline back there.” Your lips will be ruined in the morning, with how much you’re biting them, but you can’t bring yourself to care. The small sting of pain helps you focus as you thread the needle and start sewing him up.

You try to distract him from the pain. And yourself from the heavy weight on your chest; if this gets any worse, you’ll start suffocating. “So, we’re still on for the Star Wars marathon this weekend, right?”

Peter grins, and the sight of it steadies your hands. “Smooth. But yeah, unless there’s, y’know.”

You roll your eyes, kissing your teeth as you complete the first stitch. “Not all of us are masters of conversation, Your Majesty. And yeah, I do—gonna ditch me for your heroics, huh?”

“Let’s hope t—they… all decide to take a day off,” Peter jokes. Despite the improbability of it happening, it’d be nice to have a night with him all to yourself. “Mandated time off, even. With pay.”

“Paying criminals now?” You tsk teasingly. “Spider-Man, the meddling menace who’s secretly working with his, quote, ‘greatest foes!’ to make a quick buck—”

Peter laughs so hard he almost dislodges the stitches; would have, too, if you didn’t put a hand on his stomach (wow, he’s toned) to keep the wound steady. “You did not just try to imitate Jameson. Oh fuck, that’s funny—” He giggles breathlessly. 

“Laugh it up, Spidey, and there’ll be a new podcast out there slandering you any day now.”

The last stitch is done, and you don’t even attempt to hide your grin as you tie off your work. Peter hands you the bandages before you can reach for them, whispering a small ‘you’re welcome’ before you can say anything—typical Peter—and helps you wind it around his stomach. 

“For the record, your podcast would suck.”

“Suck it, Parker.”

—

Being friends with Peter Parker is easy. You fit together so well, it’s like sliding a puzzle piece into its designated slot on the first try. It’s studying together, laughing together, having him take you up to the Empire State Building in the middle of the night because he can, gaping down at the city in awe because wow, New York can be beautiful.

It’s… patching him up after a long day, taking him in your arms as he weeps because he couldn’t save her—God, I couldn’t—and trying not to cry as your hands shake and you feel like your body is an electric current, so in tune with him that it feels like you’re falling apart with him but not knowing why. 

.

.

.

“Honey.”

You narrow your eyes. Shake your head. 

“Love?”

You grimace. 

“Yeah, not British enough.” His eyebrows furrow. “Love-er?”

“Pete, we are not British. We are also not in the middle ages.”

He laughs, throwing his hands up. “'Babe'! That’s literally a classic. Can’t go wrong. It’s like the bread and soup of pet names.”

You wrinkle your nose. 

“C’mon, that’s perfect. You’re acting like a baby, so it fits, anyway.”

“Fighting works, Parker,” you warn him, biting your smile away. 

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Right,” he drawls. You don’t look at him but you know he’s flexing his irritatingly good-looking arms. Yeah, you have eyes. And a functioning brain. 

“Just call me by my name,” you suggest. Like a normal person. 

He sighs like you’ve exhausted all of his patience. “I love you, babe, but you are seriously in need of some relationship etiquette lessons. I’m sure Aunt May would love to be president. She’d be great at it. And she wouldn’t charge you admission because being my boyfriend has benefits—”

“Yeah, gotta make up for the lack of health care somehow.”

You turn around to find him wide-eyed. 

…

Okay, maybe that was too far. “Pete?”

He collapses onto the floor with a dramatic gasp. “Stone cold words from the love of my life! That hit harder than Rhino, and I gotta tell ya, he hits like a truck. Wow,” he chuckles breathlessly, eyes meeting yours. 

You soften. “Hey, bugboy.”

He doesn’t make fun of the nickname, but you can tell he wants to. “Hey, lover.”

“... Still weird. Why’re you so bad at pet names?” You crawl over and lay down beside him, cushioning your head on his upper arm.

He shrugs his other shoulder. “I guess I just excel in every other field but that one. Don’t hold it against me?” Cue the puppy-dog eyes. 

You snigger. “Help me with that chem question, and we’re all good.”

“Mmm, fair trade. I accept.”

—

You’re familiar with it: the longing. The loneliness. It doesn’t get better, but you adapt to it. It hurts less, even though the sting lasts longer now. You can’t brush it off as easily.

You know what you signed up for, and you’re not a quitter. 

Especially not when it comes to Peter Parker. 

He’s late, again, and you know why—it’d be hard to not see the fight happening a few miles away. Social media is blowing up with doom and gloom, worry for Spider-Man, hate for Spider-Man (you block people who post those comments; you don’t need to see that shit), and demands for better security. 

Peter’s swinging circles around Electro, who blasts electricity at him in between moments of chase. How he got out of the Raft is anyone’s guess, but he did, and now your boyfriend is chasing him around Harlam like it’s life or death. Which—you guessed it—it most likely is.

Being in prison, much less one like the Raft, festers a type of hate that can only bring destruction for the person who put you in there. 

People rush to the windows to gape at the scene, pressing you against it as they vie for a look. You’re suffocated literally and figuratively, your breath stuck in your chest and unable to escape. “C’mon, Spidey,” someone whispers from beside you. 

You glance at the man, but he’s already walking away. 

Your fists clench at your sides as you brave another look at the man who haunts and blesses your dreams. Electro staggers as Peter throws something—a car door?—at him. Your body lights up with hope from the inside. Yeah. C’mon, Peter. You can do it. 

Soft, brown eyes. Gentle, calloused hands. Warm, inviting arms. Feathery, windswept hair. You breathe out slowly, remembering the feel of him. The sound of him. He’ll be okay.

He always is. Even if it takes a while. Even if it’s hard. Sometimes, it feels impossibly far away, but you’ve been there throughout it all. You know him.

And he promised—

“I’ll always come back to you.”

—

“Honey?”

You pause your stirring, heart beating so fast that you have to take a deep breath before turning around. Tears well in your eyes and he panics, stumbling forward. He calls your name as you tremble. 

He holds you against his chest, knowing just what you need. Thump, thump—

Peter’s arm moves away from you, moving the pot off the burner. It makes a small clink against the glass stove. You exhale warily, knees shaking as the stress that weighed on your shoulders dissolves. Thump, thump, thump. It’s all you can hear, that lovely sound. His heart beating is your favorite thing to wake up to, and it’s so beautiful. Too perfect to put into words. 

“You’re okay?” you ask, voice a whisper. You can’t manage anything more.

Peter’s grip tightens for a moment as he tugs you away from the kitchen and to the couch. “Just a little fried. I’m okay, everything’s pretty much healed already.” He pauses, and you wait. There’s more. “He wasn’t prepared like last time. I don’t know who got him out, but… it was a spur of the moment kind of thing.”

Not Octavius, then. 

“I’m sorry for missing dinner. I—I really wanted to make it. I tried to text but he fried my phone.”

Thump, thump, thump. 

You shake your head against his chest. His heartbeat jumps as you settle against him, and you smile. Thump, thump—thump. You want to crawl inside him, that’s how empowering your love is. It scares you, sometimes, how much you crave him. A world where only you and him exists doesn’t sound too bad on days like these. Love crawls up your throat like acid, but it’s sweet. You can’t help but let it go, let him experience your devotion—“I love you, Peter Parker.”

His name is like honey on your tongue. 

Peter laughs, voice wet. “I love you, too. More than anything.”

You grab his wrist and slip your fingers between his, and marvel at the snug, comfortable fit. It’s perfect.

—

Being partners with Peter Parker is like a trip on acid, if you had to sum it up. It’s messy, full of ups and downs, euphoric but with a crash that’s unlike any other. But there’s always another rainbow on the horizon, another chance that maybe it’ll go better this time. It’s a life unlike any other, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

.

.

.

Peter gets down on one knee the day he almost dies. 

He’s pale as a ghost, blood crusting underneath his fingernails. His arms shake as the pain sets in, but his eyes never leave you.

Neither of you are dressed up, and you both desperately need a shower, but he gets down on one knee, no ring, and lets his devotion spill from his lips and the genuine love in his eyes make the emotions bubbling inside you burst. A sob tears through your throat, and you let him devour it with his lips, and it feels like healing. 

Yes, yes, yes, yes—

It’s an easy choice. 

Blood soaks your clothes as he falls into you, but his frantic eyes and strong hands pull you from your worry and you fall into pleasure. He’s lovely, this way, so fierce and vibrant, vigour pouring out from him in waves. 

Thump, thump, thump—thump. 

He murmurs your name, and that’s all it takes.

I love you.

—

“Blue,” you suggest. “And white. With hints of red.”

Peter side eyes you as you conspire with your mom about the colors of your wedding. You smirk at him when she turns away, and he grins back, bashful, before letting May steal his attention.

“You’re not at all patriotic,” your mom complains. “Where is this coming from? And why couldn’t you do this when we went to that football game—”

“Spider-Man wears red, white, and blue,” you explain. You know you’re confusing her, but it’s fun to watch. And Peter’s blushing face never gets old, even as you two do; teasing him is one of your favorite pastimes. 

Your mom thinks Peter has a ‘man-crush’ on Spider-Man, and she doesn’t tolerate it. ‘His heart is meant for you, and only you, honey. This Spider-Man is a good man, but he’s not Peter’s man. Take some sense into him before I do.’ 

It’s hilarious. 

Peter’s gone through this before, which makes it even more funny. Posts on Twitter about him dating Spider-Man have gone viral before, and you tease him about it mercilessly, more than a decade later. 

“You’re not really planning our wedding based on Spider-Man, right, honey?” Peter slides an arm around your waist, placing a chaste kiss to your cheek as your mom watches in approval. She loves Peter, Spider-Man crush notwithstanding, and she makes sure he knows it. He’s been a part of your family for a while, but she doesn’t want him to question his place. Even your father loves Peter, which is a miracle in and of itself. 

“They are,” your mother sighs, leaning back in her chair. You and Peter share an amused look. “I told them that blue and white were perfect, but they insisted.” She eyes you. “Talk with him, and get his opinion. It’s your day together, not just yours.” She smiles at Peter as she stands, patting his head like she always does. “Don’t let them strong-arm you into something you don’t want, Peter.”

You cross your arms, every bit the petulant child you were twenty years ago. She says that you’ll always be her little baby, and you’re kind of convinced she’s mind-controlled you or something. She did have a pocket watch when she was younger… Maybe she hypnotized you, like that one Scooby-Doo episode; you’ll ask Pete later, he’ll know. “Mom.”

She does that mom-thing, you know the one—she goes ‘ah-ah-ah’, finger wag included, and gives you a look. “You are stubborn, and Peter is madly in love with you. He will say yes to everything, despite what he wants. Be mature, child of mine.”

Peter pouts as she walks away. She throws her arms around May and laughs; they’re the perfect picture of best friends. You smile before turning back to your lovely fiancé, whose pout dies down as you snuggle up to him. “Hey,” he says breathlessly. “Love you.”

(… Your mom may have had a point earlier.)

If you thought you fit together perfectly before, years ago, then you are practically melded into one being now. His skin against yours was like being enveloped in warmth, and his breath mixing with yours could send you into a lovesick spiral if you weren’t careful, too drunk on him to do much else. But his smile, crooked and unabashedly stunning, stands out as the moon to your night sky. 

You kiss him, slow and deep. He tastes like chocolate and mint tooth-paste. You pull away when your smiles become too wide to continue. Your voice is tinged with sweetness as you giggle into his neck. “I love you, too.”

—

The hectic day of wedding planning ends with the sky streaked in golden rays, oranges and yellows towering over the blues. It ends with long, dark eyelashes resting against soft cheeks, chocolate eyes hidden from the world. Soft, chestnut curls tickle your cheek from where Peter leans into you, and your thumb drifts over his hands, calloused and worn but ever-so gentle.

Your music hums in your ear, the artist crooning about love and life and the days that fly by. You tap your foot to the beat, the slow rhythm unfamiliar but lovely all the same. It gives you nostalgia for a life you’ve yet to live.

Suddenly, you get an idea. 

Gently guiding Peter onto his back, your couch significantly better than the one he’d endured while he was fresh from May’s house, you press a kiss to his forehead. 

Your earbuds stay in your ears, and you sway back and forth as you enter the kitchen, letting the infectious happiness of the music overtake you. 

One thing you know Peter loves is wheat cakes, May’s recipe. Of which she’d just given you as the two of you left. ‘A little gift,’ she’d hummed, clicking her tongue as you stammered and thanked her. Her hug was warm and kind, and you had melted into it without a second thought. May Parker will always be a lovely woman, but she shone like diamonds to you in that moment, when she pulled away and told you that you were the best thing to ever happen to Peter.

Even now, just thinking about it makes you tear up. 

Knowing how much Peter values May’s opinion makes it all the sweeter. You feel like you’re on top of the world. It’s almost too much, but the view you’re gazing at now is so much better than the one you saw on the Empire State Building; you’re staring at Peter, and he’s so bright, a star glowing amongst the dark, and he’s yours and you’re his, and he’s the best thing to ever happen to you, too.

—

You shake Peter’s shoulders, coaxing him out of sleep. He groans and wipes his eyes groggily. “Lover,” he says with a lop-sided grin as he takes you in. You’re wearing his clothes. A soft, faded MIT sweatshirt with sweatpants that hang low on your hips. You’re surrounded by the smell of him, and the only time you’ve felt safer was in his arms.

“Bugboy,” you retort fondly. The game is old and familiar, memories of nights spent play-arguing rushing to the forefront of your mind before they’re stolen by the lips pressing against yours. You smile against his lips as you wrap your arms around his shoulders. They’re broad, strong enough to hold the world upon them if they must. And your ankles, but that’s neither here nor there.

“I made food,” you say as he pulls away. He looks dizzyingly attractive, all flushed and pliant. You want to eat him instead, but you worked hard on that dinner, damn him. 

He’s smug as though he knows what you’re thinking, scooping you up and into his arms as he waltzes into the dining room. Your music plays softly in the background, earbuds unplugged and set aside. The wheat cakes are finishing baking on the stovetop, the smell enough to make him perk up and remove his face from your neck.

Peter’s eyes sparkle. You want to grab his camera and capture him in the moment—you're rarely the one behind it, and it's a shame. “No way!” 

Abruptly, the tension—the good kind—fades into lighthearted tones. From rose-red to tulip-pink, from dusk to sunrise. You grin. “May gave me the recipe,” you say, settling into your seat.

“Really? Oh wow, they smell so good…”

Without looking, you call out, “No dessert until after dinner. Y’know the one I just spent an hour making!” His chair, right beside you, sits distanced from the table, right where you left it. 

“Whatever you say, honey.”

You grin smugly, swallowing your bite. “Good boy.”

He doesn’t whimper, but it’s a near thing.

—

Being (almost) married to Peter Parker is like… dancing in the dark, not knowing where you’re going but having so many feelings in your heart that you’re about to burst. It’s small moments of silence, comfortable in each other’s presence that no words are needed. It’s biting back tears as he grimaces and comforts you as he bleeds onto your floors. It’s the days where you wake up to his face, painted gold and flush by the morning sun. 

It’s the small acts of devotion. Notes left in every nook and cranny of the house, small little assurances and reminders and nonsense that leaves you smiling. Dinner made and put away for him to reheat when he gets home, cold and hungry. Little things you had your eye on, placed perfectly in your space so you can’t miss them. Arms open, so he can soak in your presence and bask in your love for him. Music playing, low and crooning, as he takes you into his arms and twirls you around your home, laughter decorating the walls and saturating the air.

Thump, thump, thump.

[bunninophia]

Erm.... Random comic ideas I had that would work instead of whatever the fuck they had now

Huskerdust comic

Transcript::

*Making drinks*

Husk: Here. You've been acting weird lately

Angel: Whaddya mean? —i haven't been acting any differently?

Husk: if you say so,

Angel: if anything you're being weird. Why do you care?

Husk: I don't. I'm glad you feel less touchy, but. I can't help but notice how unusual it is. — especially for you.

Angel: I guess.

Husk: fuck you mean "I guess"?

Angel: ...

Husk: listen uh, I don't do this a lot. Or at all, but if somethings bothering you angel. You can tell me. —but you don't gotta tell me anythin if you don't want to.

*Flinch*

Angel: yeah uh— I'm not ready. To talk about it....

Husk: okay.

.

Explanation:

So basically some context is.. and brief s/a mentioned but not enough to be censored

I hated the idea of EP 4 so I had this idea that instead of it being explicitly shown or described. I thought about what my friend said and just shown through the victims behavior. Angel definitely stopped being flirty and touchy as he was with husk and he noticed that.

So he commented about it when Angel came to get a drink, I'd say it's pretty late anyway so they're alone at the bar.

Husk isn't much of a person for contact comfort or touch at all. So he doesn't mind that the angel seems unsettled by it now, he just finds it a bit odd.

So he respects that and lets him lean into him for comfort.

Because angel was never the one who got to dictate that, he felt that husk did care about his boundaries and how he felt. Especially in that moment when providing comfort was hard to do.