#this is most definitely not how the force works but you know what

[zepskies]

Oh yay!! Thank you so much, Wayne!! 🥹 LOLL I'm so glad you vibe with my humor because I had so much fun writing this. 🤣🤣

That already took me out. First two lines. Bravo. You've done it 🤣 I'm guessing this is post Chuck lmao

ahahaha thank you!! It certainly could be. That's also what I like about doing headcanons -- for the most part you can imagine it happening at any point/setting you feel is right.

You know why I picked it 😝 (👏👏👏) And not the flannel and the runny nose, yikes. Loved this exchange (and callback) lol

Oh I knew you'd pick up on that one! loll

Took a brief second from laughing, so I could push tears out of my eyes 😭 But absolutely agree, you'd have to wear Dean down and force him into it lmao

Awww a quick switch up from comedy to feels there. 🥹 I just love some hurt/comfort and fluff with Dean. Oh yeah--you'd definitely have to wear him down! loll

Back to laughing. My God, that was the sneeze of the century 😂😂

Mutually exclusive, obviously 🤷‍♀️

lol right? Germs don't care if you have a full plate at work today. 🙄

Seems like the man flu hasn't swallowed the charm either 🥰

Ha! I feel like Beau would try to still have a good attitude about it, at least at first. 😂

And that's the moment I realized Beau's like my husband when he's sick 😂 (🙄) It's like you were in my house and wrote a transcript of the last man flu epidemic of 2024 😆🤌

Ooooh my God, your man is a Beau!!! 😭😭 That's so hilarious (but also my condolences lmaooo).

(girl you're the BEST at finding gifs 👌🏽)

And oh my God you're so right about those Beau "add-ons." The "very weird right here" specifically took me out. 💀💀

Oh and then, Ben. Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben... I thought for sure he'd be the worst, like this virus is a personal attack on his virility 🤣 But I was pleasantly surprised when you brought in memories of his mother 🥹😭

LOLL that could've certainly been a way to go with him! But I'm so glad you liked that little window of vulnerability there. 💜💜

That immediate fuck got me so hard 🤣🤣

lmfaoo that's how you know it's serious work. 🤣 That fuck came straight from the center of his phlegmy chest.

Ah, yes, gramps 😂🫶 (And he honestly shares that with a lot of old man in hospitals and nursing homes who have to be repeatedly told to stay in bed lol)

Oh my God lol such a good point. 😂😂 Maybe we should get him a life alert. 🚨

He is a brat for real, making himself feel better by doing some online shopping now that he knows how to operate the Internet lmao.

Oh God, all their bickering was amazing! It's honestly always one of the most fun things when writing SB – the sheer frustration of the reader 😭😂🙈

ahaha pulling straight from BMD world on that one. 🤣 That's literally the best thing about writing SB -- all the snappy bickering and the frustration and his cockiness. 🫠

And I loved the addition of Priestly!! 😍💚💙🤘 (I've been thinking of finally writing that one-shot for him lol)

OMG please do!! I would love to see what you'd come up with for Priestly. 😭 He's suck an adorkable, loveable dude. He deserves great writers like you making stories for him. 💓

I could also totally see him turning into a Monica there 😂

Oh, oh, thank God! The relief I felt 😂 I mean, it's so, so sweet, but also you're very sick, dude, and germy... like, it's a lot 😆 (And I also sincerly hope there will be a proposal follow-up one-shot/drabble... maybe? 👀)

Right?! lol very sweet sentiment, but not the right time. 😂

Ooooh you intrigue me, hun. 🥰🤔 I might have to sketch an idea for that follow-up!

Thank you so much for your thoughts on these HCs, Wayne! You made my day. 🥰💜💜

HEADCANON: Man Flu

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader || Beau Arlen x Reader || Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader || Boaz Priestly x Reader

HC: When Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Boaz Priestly get sick, how would they act when you (try to) take care of them?

AN: After reading I Got You by @bettystonewell (Dean x Reader) and The Best Kind of Medicine by @lamentationsofalonelypotato (Soldier Boy x Reader), I realized that I've never actually written a sick-fic before. Here it is in headcanon form, since you guys seem to like these! lol 💜

Also adding Priestly to this lineup for the first time because some of you have been requesting more of him recently. 😉

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, hurt/comfort, sick-fic, some needy affection-starved men who don't want to admit they're needy, lots of fluff.~

Dean Winchester

He's not sick. Because he doesn't get sick.

Dean claims he has the constitution of a horse, but you still take the beer out of his hand before he can take a sip at 10:00 a.m.

He's too busy interrupting himself, namely by coughing half a lung, wheezing, blinking teary eyes -- the whole phlegmy nine yards.

Sam shakes his head, casting you a look that frankly says, Good luck.

He knows his brother is stubborn as hell, and one of the things Dean dislikes most is being fussed over for "no reason." Being seen as weak. Not being able to just shrug his shoulders and shake it off.

To be fair, Dean tries. Except this time it's accompanied by a body shiver and a reluctant sniffle. His pallid face is drawn, and his usually strong and solid frame looks unsteady as he leans a hand on the War Room table.

"Okay, come on, Rambo. Let's get you back into bed," you say, guiding your boyfriend back to the room you share with him.

"I'm find," he insists, even as he begrudgingly accepts the gentle pressure of your hand on his back and shoulder, pushing him down to the bed.

"Sure you are, baby," you say with a smirk. "You're in the primb of libe."

Dean shoots you a narrowed look. Damn you for forcing him to binge-watch all those episodes of Friends late at night when you both can't sleep.

Right now he's Monica, trying to convince you he's in tip-top shape, while you're Chandler, just trying to get him to use tissues instead of his flannel sleeve to wipe his runny nose.

After taking his boots off, you get him to change out of his jeans and back into his sweatpants. Then you manage to get him to lay down under the covers with the promise of coming back with medicine and soup.

"I don't want soup, damn it," he grumbles. You just roll your eyes and rub his arm.

"Just rest. I'll be back with the Vicks."

As you might expect, Dean is not an easy patient.

He refuses to drink tea, but he does down the pills you bring for him, with a measured toss of his head that still makes his head swim. He groans.

He swallows a couple of cautious spoonfuls of the soup, pausing when he realizes that its warmth actually feels good down his sore and scratchy throat. It tastes pretty good too, especially with the warm, buttered slices of bread on the side.

"You made this?" he asks.

"Mhmm," you nod, smiling. If nothing else, good food will pacify this man. "Chicken and wild rice, made especially for you."

"Hmm. S' good," he nods in reply. He manages to finish the bowl.

He has to admit, if just to himself, that he does feel like shit.

He won't admit that the way you're rubbing his back, the gentle pressure of your nails between his shoulders and down his spine relaxes him, makes him feel better.

He knows that you care about him. That you love him. But this is one of those moments where it hits him, just how much.

It's a little overwhelming. A heavy swell of pressure fills his chest, so he tries not to let himself think about it for very long.

(He fails.)

After he's done eating, you take the plates away and help him back into bed. You linger there, slipping your fingers through his soft brown hair and pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead.

"I really need you to rest, okay," you say quietly. "If you need anything, just text me or Sam. Don't get out of bed."

Dean grasps your hand before you can move away from him. Since you're probably going to wash your hands anyway, he lays a kiss on the back of your hand.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

Beau Arlen

Sheriff Beau Arlen is the type to run himself into the ground because he's so damn into his work.

He wants to do well in his station of responsibility, and he feels like he has to make up for his performance during the summer madness of Buck Barnes and Avery...and everything in between.

You just have to make Beau realize that he needs to slow down, before he well and truly burns himself out.

You put your foot down one morning.

He tries to get out of bed but has to pause, his head swimming. He takes a couple of steadying breaths while sitting on the edge of the bed.

You notice with a frown. "Hey, you okay?"

"Fine. Just fine," he answers a little too breathlessly. He raises a hand to his head. His throat is sticky and coarse. He wrinkles his nose when he also feels a sneeze coming on.

"Just need a...a...mugh-ah-ha-hugh."

His coughing sneeze makes you grimace. You didn't even know someone could sneeze and cough at the same time.

"Aw, babe. You're sick," you say as you move over to him, resting a hand on his back. He shakes his head and groans.

"Nah, can't be sick. Gotta lot of work to do today," he says. His voice is like gravel blended with broken glass. It would actually be sexy, if for the distinctly un-sexy way he tries to clear the great wad of phlegm from his throat.

He tries to rock himself onto his feet, but there he sways on the landing. You hurry out of bed to grab his arm and steady him.

"Oh no, you don't. Back into bed," you say.

"Aw, sweetheart. I'll be fine--"

"No. Lay down. You're not going in today," you say more firmly, all while you tuck the man back into bed with the blankets covering him.

"All right, all right. No need to be so pushy," he can't help but tease.

It earns a small smirk on your face. It seems like his man flu hasn't yet deprived him of his sense of humor.

"I thought you liked that though," you reply. You sit on the edge of the bed and rub his chest. He groans in defeat.

"Can't believe this," he grumbles. "Today of all days--"

"There's always going to be another case. This is your body telling you that you need to slow down," you tell him. "So how about this. I'm gonna call in one of my sick days, and we'll bunker in together."

You stroke his bearded cheek. He quirks a smile, grabbing your hand and squeezing warmly.

"How long until I'm allowed out, warden?" he asks.

"Until you can stand without keeling over," you dryly reply. A smile tugs at your lips. "Remind me to stop by CVS to grab you a Life Alert."

"All right, har har haugh--" His sarcasm ends on a very real, wheezing cough. Your amused smile drops. You relent from your teasing and stroke his chest once more.

"Okay, just rest. Let me get you some actual medicine and I'll be right back."

He stops you by grabbing your wrist. "Hey, uh...can I have some chicken noodle soup later?"

"Of course, baby. I'll swing by the store now and get some stuff for you."

"And some saltines?"

"Saltine crackers on the side. Got it."

You're about to head to the bathroom to brush your teeth before you start getting ready to go to the store, but once again, Beau's needy hand stops you.

"Before you go, some tea with honey and lemon would be good. Just something for my throat," he croaks.

You smile and nod. "Yeah, for sure. That'll be better for you than coffee."

"Oh, and can you gimme that quilt over there?" he asks, pointing to your favorite knitted blanket at the edge of the bed. You graciously lay it over his form and drop a kiss onto his forehead.

"And some cough drops. Thank you, darlin'," Beau adds.

Your lips begin to press together, but you nod and continue getting dressed.

You can already tell this man is going to settle into you taking care of him just fine.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Neither of you thought it was possible, considering his super genes that allowed him to eat and booze and drug harder than Andre the Giant and Keith Richards put together.

But one day, your over six-foot super soldier goes down hard. The warning signs came the night before, when you could hardly sleep with the way he was snoring like a grizzly bear.

In the morning, he wakes bleary-eyed with a runny nose and a coughing fit hard enough to shake the bed.

"Fuck," he groans, dragging a hand over his face before he turns onto his back. "This's gotta be some kind of bullshit hangover."

You move over to him in bed and feel the intense warmth of his clammy forehead. Your brows draw together in concern.

"No, I think you're sick."

"Not possible," he grumbles. "I haven't been sick since..."

Well, since he was a kid, probably. He won't admit it, but he's surprised he still has that memory lodged in the back of his mind.

It comes to the forefront now: your hand on his cheek unknowingly mimics his mother's gentle touch, her soft, kind voice.

"Aw, my sweet boy. Let's get you feeling better."

He can almost recall the floral scent of her perfume, echoes of it in the shampoo you use.

Ben claims he's fine, that he doesn't need your help or want the medicine and tea you bring for him. (He tries the tea, grimaces, and spits it out when you're not looking.)

He's a sourpatch grumbly patient who only begrudgingly stays put in bed when you ask him to. He doesn't mind lying around and watching movies all day, not to mention episode after episode of Below Deck. It reminds him that he wants to get back into boating.

"Hey, sweetheart," he calls to you from the bedroom, his voice croaking all the while. "I'm getting you a yacht for Valentine's Day. You want it all white, or throw in a bit of gold? Actually, check out this one with the navy trim."

You roll your eyes to yourself when you step back into the room. You're carrying a tray with a large bowl of soup and a fifth of whiskey. He claims the latter will help soothe his throat, and you don't have the heart to argue with him when he's clearly feeling so shitty.

"You mean you're getting you a yacht," you reply wryly. "We live in the city. Where the hell would we put a boat?"

"In a yacht club, where it belongs," Ben retorts. He hooks an arm around your waist and peruses what you've brought him on the tray. He doesn't look all that interested.

"Look, I know you're not exactly a soupy kinda guy, but this'll make you feel better," you say.

"Why can't you put some fucking steak in it or something?" he grouses. He tries and fails to hide another wet cough.

"Why can't you just eat what I lovingly made, just for you," you snipped back.

He rolls his eyes at your attitude, but he pipes down. In that silence, he's conceding that you have a point. There was a time were all he had to do was glance in someone's direction, and there'd be some fucking moron to fulfill his every whim.

Now, you're probably the only one in the world that would actually do what you're doing...

Cooking for him, putting your heart into it, for the simple reason that you do care.

Ben takes the bowl of soup from your hands. Raising a brow, you offer him the spoon as well.

He eats without further complaint.

You smile and reward him with a sweet kiss on his forehead, brushing his hair back as you do so.

"See? That's not so hard, huh?" you can't help but needle him. "It's okay, baby. I'll take care of you."

He eyes you dryly, but he won't admit that there's a different kind of warmth coiling in his chest.

Boaz Priestly

"Uuuughhh, babe," he groans. "I feel like death on toast."

You're standing beside the bed with a smile playing on your lips. You brush back his for once un-gelled hair back from his face. It's weird to see it all limp and lifeless, slightly damp with sweat.

"Unironically, I should make you some toast," you reply. "What kind of medicine do we have?"

Priestly unearths his head from under his pillow to look up at you with miserable red-rimmed eyes and a sniffling, stuffy nose. "Can we count the tequila in the mini bar?"

"Maybe later," you laugh. "How are we on groceries?"

Priestly struggles to think. He takes your hand and rubs it back and forth across his chest. Maybe your sweet, loving touch has the power to clear away his congestion without him needing Vicks. Too minty.

"We have that pastrami I brought back from the shop," he says.

"That's six days old already," you shake your head.

"Aw, that's still good," he argues. "But uh, other than that, I think I have half a cheeseburger left from last night."

Last night's date at TGI Friday's, he means.

You heave a sigh. "Okay, clearly I'm going to the store. You just stay in bed and rest. Drink your tea."

He grimaces like a child. "I don't like tea."

"I know you don't like tea, but you need to drink it. It's good for your throat and your immune system."

He groans and flops back over onto his stomach. You bite your lip against a smile. He's such a whiny baby when he's sick.

Talk about Man Flu.

"Come on, be a good boy for me," you say, smacking him lightly on the ass. "Soon enough you'll feel better."

A smile creeps across his face where it's pressed against his pillow.

"Know what would really make me feel better?" he hedges. He tries to guide you down to him by tugging on your hand, but you resist him.

"Oh, no. You're not gonna get your germs all over me," you say.

"Hey, what happened to in sickness and in health?" he croaks. Even while under the weather, he's still plenty strong enough to grapple with you. He manages to yank you down. Laughing, you stumble into a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Huh, I don't remember exchanging any vows. You see a ring on this finger?" you tease, flashing your bare hand in his face to try and distract him and weasle out of his grip. "I can jump this ship anytime I want."

Priestly pouts. His arm hooks tighter around your waist. "Huh, guess you got me there..."

He turns his head and coughs roughly into his arm. Your amusement fades into concern and sympathy. You lay a hand over his chest while he struggles.

Once again, he clasps his free hand over yours. He glances up a bit hesitantly into your eyes.

"Well, maybe it's time there should be something on this finger," he murmurs.

You blink your eyes wider. Your head tilts, wondering if you just heard him right. Is this delirium fever talking, or is he serious?

"O-Oh yeah?" you ask.

Priestly tries to gauge your reaction. Seeing your face break out into a cute, shy smile raises the corners of his lips. Hope blooms in his chest, right beneath your hand.

"Yeah," he says, trying to clear his cracking throat. "I mean, if you're okay with that. If it's not too soon--"

You slip your fingers over his plush, chapped lips, and your smile brightens.

"When you're feeling better, you can ask me that question properly."

AN: 😆 I hope you liked the first ever addition of Priestly!! It was so fun to try and write him again (it's been a while lol). Feel free to imagine this vignette in the same storyverse as The Miracle Man and Code Red.

But I also hope you enjoyed the "Big 3," as I call them, even though Russell is starting to give Beau a run for his money on one of those slots. 😂 Let me know which guy you had the most fun reading on this one! 💜

And if you want even more fluff before Valentine's Day, check out my friend @waynes-multiverse who just posted her set of V-Day headcanons with Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau, and Russell: Headcanon: Valentine's Day 💕

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[wendichester]

𓂃˖ ࣪ 𝔠𝔬𝔪𝔭𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔟𝔦𝔩𝔦𝔱𝔶 𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔦𝔫𝔤

˚₊‧꒰ა @honeyryewhiskey ☆ dean winchester ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ⋆˙⟡ where aries, scorpio, libra meets aquarius, leo, saggitarius. ⟡˙⋆

𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐⭒๋࣭ ⭑✧˖⋆𖤐

ꔛ. meeting each other,

now, your relationship with dean would be the definition of fire and rebellion, trust and intensity, and pushing each other to be better---or driving each other insane trying! from the moment you meet, there's an instant clash of energy. your aries fire meets dean's aquarius defiance and sparks fly---not necessarily the good kind at first. dean is used to taking charge and you... well, you don't take orders. there's immediate friction, sharp words exchanged, and a challenge hanging in the air. but beneath that? respect and recognition. and when time comes to fight side by side? you'd fall into sync like you've done it a hundred times before.

ꔛ. friendship compatibility,

once that initial standoff fades, you'd become inseparable. you communicate with emotion and instinct, while dean is blunt and practical. you'd argue a lot, but somehow, you'd always manage to understand each other. where you need connection, dean craves adventure. you push each other, learning to open up without losing your independence. and despite having different approaches, you have the same fearless attitude. you'd become best friends in the most chaotic way---bickering between hunts, teasing each other, but always having each other's backs. when dean's walls start to crack, you'd see right through him. you'd know when to push, when to give space, and how to remind him he's not alone.

ꔛ. romantic compatibility,

if you ever crossed the line, it would be intense. a wildfire neither of you would be able to control. you love deeply, with devotion and emotion, while dean is restless, drawn to excitement. your love would be messy, consuming, impossible to ignore. you're drawn to each other, constantly challenging, constantly coming back for more. the problem? you're both stubborn as hell. you want all or nothing. dean's afraid of losing the people he loves. it's passionate, volatile, and could either burn bright forever or burn you both out.

ꔛ. request, getting to be part of team free will, and becoming dean’s best friend and partner in the process.

from the moment you meet, there's an undeniable spark---a recognition of kindred spirits, two people who don't fit into neat boxes. dean is used to calling the shots, but you also like to give out orders. at first, there would be a lot of friction, but soon, it would turn into something else: mutual trust, an unshakable bond. you'd work in sync, watching each other's backs in a fight, trading sharp banter whenever possible, making each other stronger. you'd be the kind of partners who don't need words to understand each other, who know what the other needs before they even ask. with your mars in aries and dean's in aquarius, you'd fight hard, love hard, and never back down. you're a team in every sense of the word. and when things get too heavy, when the weight of the world presses down, you'd be there---to remind dean he's not alone. to fight for him, like he fights for everyone else. you'd be more than friends. more than partners. you'd be family.

ꔛ. overall, score : 8.5 / 10

no matter what, you and dean are a force to be reckoned with. whether you're best friends, hunting partners, or something even deeper, you challenge each other, protect each other, and never, ever let the other fall alone. because when it's you against the world? the world doesn't stand a chance!

❛❛ scenario,

"Dammit, Justyce—" Dean’s voice is sharp, footsteps pounding after you as you dart through the warehouse, gun still hot in your hands. "I told you to wait!" You spin on your heel, eyes blazing. "And let you get ripped apart? Yeah, no thanks." Dean glares, chest rising and falling fast. You can see the frustration in his clenched jaw—but beneath it? Relief. "You’re reckless," he mutters. "You overthink," you shoot back, tucking your gun into your holster. A scoff. A smirk. And just like that, the tension fades. Sam jogs up, shaking his head. "You two done with your little moment, or—?" Dean throws an arm over your shoulder, tugging you into a rough side-hug before you can dodge. "Yeah, yeah. My partner in crime here just loves making my life difficult." You grin, elbowing him in the ribs. "And you love it." He rolls his eyes. God, the way you get under his skin. But he doesn’t deny it.

𓂃˖ ࣪ request a compatibility reading here .ᐟ

* since the birth time of dean hasn't ever been mentioned, I've placed him as a leo rising, since it's the sign that makes more sense to me.

[grayskiesandink]

You know, i've always really liked Ink's concept of forgiveness/way to deal with conflicts and now with your jewish interpretation, i like it even more!

So, according to Ink's FAQ, Ink never tries to attack a enemy first and always tries to reconcile and understand where the problem is coming from, which includes him talking with the enemy in order to be able understand the issue and try to brush them in the right direction.

You may already now this but i realllyyy want to explain for anyone who doesn't, there's a concept in judaism called "teshuvah" (meaning "repentance" or "return"), it's a concept of forgiveness where the perpetratir undergoes a rigorous self-examination that requires engagement with the victim, by confessing, expressing regret and making an active effort to right thr wrong of what they commited.

I've always thought that his formula of dealing with fights to be very Teshuvah all around! In my opinion ofc

But anyways, i think the previous anon expressed their thoughts incorrectly because his need to "follow the script" is not a part of this headcanon at all. (it's actually a result of his abandonment issues, dissociative outlook on pretty much everything and always thinking what's best for the creators rather than what's better for him but i digress)

What i could however consider a part of this interpretation is his importance on life and the creations. It was said by comyet that Ink thinks all creations/life should exist because "it's fair", and that's actually one of the main reasons to why he decided to protect such creations in the first place! He loves them with all if his nonexistent heart and wants them to exist (this does imply that he protects AU's with bad endings but i'm trying to focus more on his want for living you know?)

yes !!! finally someone talks about Ink's fighting style...... It is so important to me that he's not this aggressor- in reality he'll do anything to not have to fight/aim to kill. He's a talker!! Fighting uses up his ink and that can always be dangerous (in how I write Ink- he does fight a bit more often but there's reasons for that. I still like to keep in mind his usual fighting style. and also my Ink is Not canon). It's really interesting to connect teshuvah with his fighting style... turning it around in my brain. honestly I always find thinking about forgiveness and how characters would deal with it super super interesting. I am always thinking about how Ink would deal with forgiveness. does he acknowledge his own mistakes... I think he'd more openly engage with his mistakes towards the Creators than he would for other people. is he haunted by his actions towards other characters. is he??? does he understand that's what he's feeling??? I NEED TO KNOW !! WAHGAG. Ink you're so cool and interesting I love youuuuu. I love thinking about Ink's worldview <3 I agree with everything you said about his attitude towards the scripts- I haven't seen it put into words often but there is something super intriguing about how at the same time he's both self sacrificial and selfish. I say selfish in the most non judgmental way to be clear, textbook definition of the word. How I see his desire to keep the scripts running is both out of deep respect for the creators and out of a desire to keep them happy so they keep creating (giving him access to the life force he needs). But, at the same time, this means everyone he cares about is put at risk (his dads!!!!!!). He's sacrificing his own personal attachments so he can focus on his own survival (at least, in part. I do think it's clear he just loves the creators). I do agree that his love for all creations is very Jewish of him <3. slaps the top of Ink. you can store so much love in this lad. soul or not. I think there might also be something to how he views everything as fiction- you can argue that he's fighting for the life of the creative work. the characters in it aren't like. real deaths. technically. idk. there's a lot to think about !!! I love answering these asks btw I hope that's clear. everybody feel free to come into my askbox and talk about Ink and also Judaism to me

[noctispuffin]

Danny Phantom x Dc universe crossover

Hey Guys, I've been captured by the hyperfixation train as you can probably tell what it is from above. I have started writing out a fic and just wanted to post the beginning of what I have here to get a general consensus before I think of publishing it on AO3.

So Long summary short, it's gonna be braindead pairing (Tim/Danny). The general ideas I have going so far are as follows.

Notes/plans for Future chapters: -captured by giw (gonna work on some gore, get that absolute hate going for them, and we all love the autopsy scar) -cosmic/eldritch horror danny (later in fic/Series)

maybe trans danny -ghost cannibalism

revenant red hood

liminal amity parkers

constantine/ soul fragments

ghost politics

coffee Is ambrosia

17yr old danny/ 17 year old Tim Drake

summoning - jl bashing

scarred danny

ghouls Are Trapped By The Bound. -ghouls are the boogeyman of the infinite realms -ghouls feed off the life force of other beings -ghouls use spiders as spies -All realms have spiders/ Spider adjacent creatures.

There will be Oc Villians and Characters later in the Story

So yeah Long post but here is the beginning of chapter 1.

Waking up with a raging headache was not fun. He was dead. Or half dead at least. Headaches should not be an issue. Also, A. He was missing his coffee. B. He was tied to a chair in some… Funhouse? Warehouse?? and C. His. Coffee. Was. Missing.

Now don't get him wrong the tied-to-a-chair thing was rather important but being who he was it wasn't the first time it's happened and it won't be the last. Now the lack of "guys in white" was a bonus, as it means his identity is still intact at least but that doesn't rule out any of the other usual suspects. However, the Funhouse or warehouse… (seriously what's with all the weird clown-themed shit??) atmosphere was at least a little off-putting.

He frowns a bit as he looks out from beneath his bangs at the large area, boxes, and crates pushed out of the way to the sides of the warehouse. Nothing particularly menacing persay… if you could ignore the fruitloop standing 10 feet in front of him in the plum tuxedo with wild green hair, and holding a comically large red button monologuing to a camera.

A Camera.

Shit.

That means he can't just up and leave, even if this is Eisenhower he can't just leave and reveal his identity as Phantom or add any more suspicion to Danny Fenton. The GIW were dumb but they weren't that dumb.

He heaves a deep sigh and decides to at least get this dumb interaction over with.. Maybe he can make this freak knock the camera over cause he's almost entirely sure that the camera is still functioning enough to send out a signal if the red light on it meant anything.

"Freakshow what the hell. Look, We get it circus gothica-" He snaps his mouth shut as the man turns to look at him with a small glare and a deranged smile.

That.

That was most definitely not Eisinhowen. Not unless he somehow managed to fuck up his pale ass face more than it already was.. were… were those scars??!! up his cheeks?!! What the fuuuuck…

"It seems ladybirds and gentle bats that our esteemed guest has finally awoken from his beauty sleep!! What do you have to say to the people of Gotham Young Timothy Drake?!" The man (- the Joker. OH fuuuuuck This is the Joker!!!-) cackles to the camera as he makes a grand sweeping gesture towards him.

Wait, how did he get to Gotham?? -- Not the time.

"who?"

Ok well, that wasn't the smartest response he has ever come up with.

"Wh- What do you mean? Who? WHO?? What is this some sort of knock knock joke?" The clown looks at him and deflates slightly with his confusion before he shakes himself, fixes the lapels of his suit and turns back to the camera with a large smile and a deranged cackle.

"Well, it seems the young CEO has some gal to him! What’s to say I finish this knock-knock joke with a punch line hmm? Better hurry Batsy you know how much I love a good punchline." He giggles with a smile - giggles? seriously?? How much creepier can clowns get-

"Look uh… Joker right? I think you have the wrong person" He starts off, slowly speaking as if he were talking to a particularly unstable ghost. Only to cut himself off at the gun that swiftly appears out of the clown's suit and is pointed directly at his head.

“You have half an hour, Bats. Half an hour before the smart mouth here learns what the taste of good old-fashioned lead tastes like.” The clown's smile just grows ever wider as he takes a few dancing steps towards him.

He feels his mouth pull into a disgusted grimace as the barrel of the gun swings around to tap him on the forehead as the creep gets closer to him.

“Look-” He tries to start again, his view of the camera obscured by the gaudy purple suit and painted face hosting wild eyes.

BANG

He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t. That would be silly. He was already half dead. There is no way that a simple bullet through his frontal lobe, mixing the grey and white matter of his brain together with a burning efficiency and the fury of a fire would kill him fully.. Right? When did he close his eyes?? Fuck this asshole was laughing again..

His blue eyes opened slowly and trail to the sting along his left temple. The gun was aimed just to the left of his forehead and there was some sort of sharp metal rod with a piece of fabric hanging from the end laying along the stinging, and now he was pretty sure bleeding along his temple.

“Hehe! Whoopsies!” The red of the clowns painted smile seemed to crack a bit as he leaned away and waved the gun around, splattering small drops of red blood from the-

Was that a fucking prop gun?! With the whole stick with the bang flag on it?? Wtf…

“This thing just has a mind of its own!” The freakshow look alike turned back to the camera with that deranged smile of his.

“Now as I was saying, As much as i'm sure Mr. Wayne would like for you to come and rescue him, you my little friends have some more important things to be dealing with!” The man strides away and grabs the camera swinging it away from Danny so it could focus solely on what seemed to be some sort of pipebomb- no- time bomb? Bomb. Was attached to a crate full of gas cylinders.

“This is one of many I have set up at certain places in the city. Detonated, of course, by the timer running out. You only have enough time to find and disarm all of them or save the poor soul of this child. See cause if you miss even one bomb, well they all go off. Disarm all of them or None of them!! HAha! Now I'd hurry along. The timer has already begun!!” The joker slams the camera back into place on the tripod so that both Danny and the digital clock behind him are visible.

He keeps his face carefully neutral as he watches the Joker waltz past him to presumably where the exit is located in this mess of a warehouse. He can hear the distant sounds of a door slamming and a large padlock clicking shut before a car starts up and drives off.

Well. This is not how he expected to spend his evening.

Last thing he remembered was trying to put together how much savings he had saved up so he could visit Jazz at college and meeting with his mom and dad for his birthday supper at nasty burger… After that it just became fuzzy and when he tried to think harder his head started to pound and the stinging of his temple seemed to double in intensity. Weird.. Not the current concern though. Time to get out of here. He couldn’t see the clock from where he was tied up but he could assume it probably wasn’t the most gracious amount of time.

He shifted back to lean into the back of the chair and wiggled his hands and fingers to figure out just how tight he was tied up. Tight but not terrible. He still had the normal amount of decreased blood flow in his hands. So, not as tight as the GIW goons like to do them but tight enough to bruise his skin.

Scowling lightly, his left hand phased through the ropes with little issue before bringing both arms around front to wiggle his torso out of the rooms holding him to the chair. His legs took a bit more work from slightly numb fingers to work the knots open and free his legs.

Pushing himself to his feet and nearly falling flat on his face was a surprise however. His legs felt like dead weight. Pins and needles starting in his thighs alerting him to the lack of blood flow to his lower half. His legs were.. Asleep? That was not normal. With his slowed heart rate and half dead metabolism the only times that ever happened was when he was with nocturne and went into a more “dead sleep” as he liked to call it. Usually the ancient would help him wake up before it got that far though..

Letting go of the chair that he had used to catch himself and half shuffling half limping over to the camera he scowled at the older model and flipped the screen so he could see what was being recorded.

A very static filled screen with hints of warehouse at the edges. Perfect. That was normal at least then, well normal for him around non ecto- contaminated electronics. He stepped back towards the chair and watched the static recede with his figure from the camera. Alright, hopefully this works.

“Hey uh.. Look I am not who he thinks I am? I am fine, I'll disarm the bomb here as best I can and then I’ll head out.. It seems like we are by a river? So I am hoping no workers are around but better to get rid of the thing, am I right?” He chuckled nervously, hand coming up to wipe at the beads of blood trailing down his cheek.

“So uh yeah Ill just do that and go? Uhh.. Yeah bye.” He nods a bit as he walks back to it and shuts the camera off.

Alright disarming a bomb.. It can’t be that hard can it? The mess of wires and C4 clay connecting the bomb and the cylinders looked more like a mess of silly string and playdoh than anything. Well it was more intuitive than the wiring his dad used at least.

Alright so that one to there.. That one connects the detonator and the… Right. Ok looks like separating the yellow and purple wires from the timer and the green and red from the detonator and back up detonator should prevent this thing from turning this entire area into a gas covered crater. Hopefully.

Using his fingers he disconnects the first two wires from each other only swearing slightly when electricity races through the wires and singes his fingertips. He sucks on the finger that got the worst of it before turning his other hand invisible and pushing it into the bomb to disconnect the wires hidden within the clay casing without disturbing anything that would set the backup detonator off.

“Fucking clowns… Robbing banks, kidnapping people, and now bombs.. Of all the things that could make me hate clowns more..” He grumbled around his finger under his breath as he observed the bomb closely and used his enhanced hearing to listen for the tell tale buzz of the still live bomb.

Silence.

Good. Now to get the hell outta dodge and figure out a way back to Amity.

And maybe pick up another coffee.

He wiped his fingers on his now rumpled jeans and dirty shirt before walking directly through the wall out to the side of the warehouse.

Tim was a smart kid. Sure he could get a little.. Exuberant, when something caught his attention. But that was normal. Completely normal. So maybe he gets a little sleep deprived now and then and maybe a little dehydrated, but that doesn’t mean anything!

Any person would stay up for 4 days straight to figure out why the riddler changed the font of his riddles to make sure it wasn’t some convoluted plan that meant he was working with some cult or was a clone working as a distraction for something larger!!

So sue him for drinking from a random coffee in the mess of half empty mugs in the hidden study he was working in, that may and or may not (read: definitely was) laced with enough melatonin and benadryl to knock out a horse while he was distracted with a case.

That was 13 hours ago.

Waking up from a sleep like that can always be a little disorienting. So when the silence of the manor finally reaches his muddled mind through the thick fog of sleep he immediately clocks something as wrong and is fighting to wake himself up fully. He narrows his eyes at the cups around him before pushing himself up and stumbling down the halls to the kitchen where he can grab a can of cold coffee from Dick’s stash hidden in the locked minifridge.

A few good sips from that has him at least alert enough to clock once again just how quiet and still the manor is. Now to be fair the manor was always a revolving door for the Wayne family and friends. But the only people who were often living here were him, Alfred, Bruce, and the demon brat.

Even with such a big place like the manor he should at least be able to pick up the tell tale signs of Bruce listening to music while doing paperwork or Alfred moving around the manor cleaning, or even the demon Brat playing with his menagerei or working with his literal arsenal of sharp weapons in his room.

Now, Silence.

Ok so based on his phone he was out for about 13 hours. That wasn’t all that long. He had gone longer without checking in so it's not like B had everyone panicking looking for him.. But where was everyone?

He lifted the cold coffee to his lips again and reveled in the bitter taste for a second before starting off towards the cave. It was probably fine. They were probably just out on patrol and Alfred was probably out doing something or other..

The cave was in a state of pandemonium. Well as much pandemonium as could be considered as such for the bat family. B, Dick, Steph and Damian were all standing staring up at the main computer. Well Dick was holding on to the hood of Damian who looked like he was trying to escape the grasp to get to his weapons and Bruce looked downright murderous. Even Dick and Steph looked pissed off.

The lilting and crazed sound of the joker's laugh echoed in the cavernous space of the cave and his scarred face and lithe body filled up most of the screen. He seems to have wandered in, just in the middle of the Clowns next big scheme. Great.

"Well, it seems the young CEO has some gal to him! What’s to say I finish this knock-knock joke with a punch line hmm? Better hurry Batsy you know how much I love a good punchline."

CEO huh? Wonder who he grabbed this time, he scowls slightly as he takes another sip of the cold drink only to choke as Joker steps aside and he catches a glimpse of himself?!!

He coughs sharply and feels 4 pairs of sharp eyes swing to him. Out of the corner of his eye he can see 3 sets of shoulders relax slightly and 1 set of suspicious eyes immediately start ping ponging between the screen and him as he works to clear his windpipe of cold brew.

“What the fu-” He starts to cough out before being interrupted by Not Tim.

"Look uh… Joker right? I think you have the wrong person" Not Tim starts as the camera tries to focus on them but seems to have difficulty as the picture around him is warped and covered in pixels and static. Even his voice had a slightly warped and staticky quality to it.

Shit. Everyone in Gotham knows not to give the joker sass.

“You have half an hour, Bats. Half an hour before the smart mouth here learns what the taste of good old-fashioned lead tastes like.” The joker cuts the guy off as he takes a few steps towards the man. And man he was.. Damn he looked skinny and honestly not that great from the little bits and pieces he could see of him through the static and distortion but the closer the Joker got to the kid the more the static seemed to open up a bit.

All eyes are drawn back to the Joker as he pulls his revolver from his coat pocket and aims it at what he can only assume is the other boy's forehead. Bruce- No Batman, the cowl and uniform were on. Was already leaping into the batmobile and Robin and spoiler weren’t far behind him. Here’s hoping Oracle had already pinpointed the location this was at, but it was unlikely even B and the others would get there in time to save this kid from Joker's wrath.

“Look-” the kid tries again and he can hear the slight waver in their voice as the Joker obscures the camera’s view of the kid.

He feels his jaw tick as he looks back up the screen, feet slowly carrying him up to the platform to stand just behind Dick as they watch the unfolding scene. The pixelation and distortion of the screen was visible in an almost halo effect around the joker as he stands just in front of the boy. The boy was completely obscured but the joker was perfectly clear.. Well about as clear as an old video camera got. Looked like from the quality like it was an old D90 digital point and shoot.

Not known for having video problems like this though..

BANG.

He scowls looking directly at the screen even as his stomach rolls slightly, expecting to see the blood start dripping down the guys pixelated form and his head to be forced back by the metal pole from which Joker had probably skewered him with his gag gun.

Blood and guts weren’t exactly a new thing to him and his siblings. Especially not in this profession. Not in this town..

““Hehe! Whoopsies!” The lack of blood that he is seeing as the Joker laughs and steps back enough for them to get a quick view of the form before the pixels swarm back in to obscure him.

“This thing just has a mind of its own!” The Joker prattles on as he reaches past Dick to press a few keys on the keyboard and bring up a still shot of the somewhat blurry but probably the clearest view they have had of the person tied up so far. It sits hovering in the left corner as the Joker goes on to prattle about his plans for destroying the city or the bats or whatever in the background.

“Now as I was saying, As much as i'm sure Mr. Wayne would like for you to come and rescue him, you my little friends have some more important things to be dealing with!”

“Mr. Wayne?” he says quietly to Dick who was standing beside him leaning forwards to look closer at the screen.

“Thinks it’s you apparently.” He responds sounding confused himself as he glances between the still shot and Tim with narrowed eyes.

He just shakes his head slightly as he starts running the still shot through the city's databases. He hears Oracle reporting sites of possible bombs to B and the others as Dick stands up and walks off to get on his bike to go help.

“Nightwing you're with Red who I hear is completely fine by the way.” The voice says pointedly as Tim slides a com into his ear.

“Hey it's not my fault you guys thought it was me!” He retorts as he slips into his uniform and starts his bike to follow Nightwing out of the cave towards the docks.

“Oh Noooo It's not like the black haired insomniac who went MIA for half a day definitely couldn’t be the Black haired unconscious insomniac tied up by The Joker of all people.” Jason retorts shortly through the comms as they pull away form the cave. He can see Dick smirk a bit as they make the trip over to the area Oracle sent them.

“Nice to hear from you too.” He snarks back slightly, even more annoyed now, knowing that even Jason was brought in on this. He did not need more blackmail for Todd to use against him. “Why is the walking dead helping anyways. Shouldn’t he be digging his own grave again?”

“Fuck you too replacement.” Comes the annoyed response.

“Enough.” B’s voice cuts across the banter. “While the unknown civilian was unconscious we could see him a lot better on camera. After being unable to contact and locate you we assumed the worst. Focus on your missions. I want all bombs and statuses related to Oracle as they are defused.” The communicator clicked slightly meaning he had been put back to a channel with only him and Nightwing and presumably Oracle if she was still listening, well she was always listening but not the point.

“Did they really look that much like me?” He asks after a few seconds of silent racing through the paved alleys and streets of gotham. The docks on the gotham river weren’t too far off he could smell it in the distance through his helmet. The building they were going to was in Gotham Proper (the lower of course).

“Yeah. They did.” Nightwing responds, his voice slightly strained showing that he was concerned that it really had been Tim kidnapped at the time.

“Huh..” Is all he can respond with as he thinks back to the still shot and pulls his bike to a stop behind Nightwing in the alley across from the building that Oracle sent them.

From the outside it was dark, not exactly clean and obviously uninhabited. The same couldn’t be said for the remainder of the buildings on the street. Light from covered windows and the distant rattle of a cart being dragged showed the life wading through the heavy atmosphere of Gotham lower.

Once Nightwing and him had gotten into the building and had located the bomb. Connected to laughing gas. New batch probably seeing as Robin and B had destroyed the last manufacturing plant. Which means no immediate antidote. Great.

He sighs as he pulls open his wrist computer to start analyzing the wiring only for his com to be reconnected with a flurry of activity from the others. Making him and Nightwing glance at each other as he worked on disarming the bomb in front of them.

“He’s escaped-”

“Not Possible-!!”

“He’s gonna get himself blown up?!!”

“Quiet.” The commanding voice of Batman broke across the chaos of the comms silencing all of the voices at once. No one wanted to cross a direct order from Batman.

“Oracle. What is going on.” He continued after a moment of silence.

“The civilian managed to escape his bonds and is going to attempt to defuse the bomb at the warehouse.” Her voice was calm and for the most part steady as they had all been trained to be when giving reports but the slight tremor was unmistakable. She was concerned.

To be fair, so was Tim. Who was this kid? Why did he think he could diffuse a bomb??! Especially one made to specifically lull those into a false sense of security only to blow up in your face a second later! A glance over at Nightwing showed he was just as concerned about the news as he was.

“Ill deal with it.” Batman’s voice responds after a brief pause and then the coms are silent once more aside from Oracle directing members of the bat family to the secondary bomb locations of those who had managed to defuse the initial ones.

He hissed softly as a sharp jolt manages to pierce his insulated gloves when he disconnects two of the wires. He can feel Nightwing’s eyes on the back of his head but he ignores the look and continues reaching further into the bomb to find the last 2 wires that had to be disconnected from the detonator and backup detonator.

He pulls his hand out and Nightwing reports that they defused the bomb getting an affirmative grunt from Batman.

“Bomb at the warehouse has already been defused. Civilian is no longer in the building or immediate area. Robin and I will go after the joker. Keep your eyes open for the civilian. I want them found. There was blood at the scene, they may need assistance.” Batman’s words are short and clipped but the concern and curiosity are there.

That only works to make Tims curiosity over this whole thing even worse.

After a brief discussion, Nightwing and him split up in hopes of covering more of Gotham to see if they can find this strange civilian. Oracle was going to keep an eye out on the cameras but Tim had his doubts that that would work with how the camera acted when it recorded the stranger.

Pausing on the edge of the roof he crouches down slightly to pull up the footage of the Jokers video before he got to the cave. All this concern over if this kid was him or not was starting to bug him. B and the others prided themselves on being able to pick out small details. Small differences. That is what made them such great detectives!

So how was it there was someone out there that looked exactly like him, was not in any of the records of Gotham and that also got captured by the joker? It just wasn’t plausible!

Now sure dopplegangers, clones, shapeshifting aliens, those were all things that came with the lifestyle and things that they had encountered and dealt with but usually with all that they tended to claim that they were the original.

Well most of the time at least.

But not this kid.. He scrubs through the footage quickly on his wrist hologram, it was just so weird.. One minute the Joker is setting up the camera and laughing as he taunted the Bats, an unconscious “Tim” in the background. The next his eyes flashed open under the black fringe of hair and the pixels and distortion just appeared!

Ok that was kinda weird, he’s pretty sure he has that shirt.. And those shoes but they were way cleaner and didn’t look like they had run a mile and a half through the swamp. The lighting was crummy enough in the warehouse that he supposed the jeans could look like the new pre- worn pair that he got from Kon.. Just who was this guy?

He pauses the feed after the Joker leaves and the guy manages to get out of the ropes holding him to the chair in a frankly worrying amount of time. No civilian knew how to get out of ropes that fast. Not even a tried and true gothamite who got tied up on the regular.

The stumbling and almost falling flat on his face on the concrete definitely was not something that spoke to someone who was just knocked out however. Drugged maybe? Or a concussion?? Both of those weren’t above something that the Joker would do..

And there is the static and distortion again. What the hell is going on with this camera and this guy.. It's like the static was specifically hiding this guy's identity! It followed him for god's sake as he walked away from the camera!

“Hey uh.. Look I am not who he thinks I am? I am fine, I'll disarm the bomb here as best I can and then I’ll head out.. It seems like we are by a river? So I am hoping no workers are around but better to get rid of the thing, am I right?”

The voice was similar in tone to his but even with the distortion warping it it had an accent to it. He couldn’t place the accent immediately but it was definitely there. “So uh yeah Ill just do that and go? Uhh.. Yeah bye.” The camera shuts off shortly after that concerning statement. Although, he supposed there was nothing to really be concerned about? After all this guy diffused the bomb. And well enough to have B concerned.

The sound of a trash can falling over and quiet swearing from a few alley’s over quickly garners his attention. Probably some drunk stumbling around but better to be safe than sorry. He deftly stands from his crouch and swings over the next few rooves, dropping onto the edge of the roof to look down into the darkened alley curiously.

That was.. That was the civilian. Well guess it's his lucky day! Wait - night? Night.

“SHit?!” Danny hisses to himself as he clips his foot against the metal trash bin sending it and whatever was inside crashing onto the already disgusting alleyway. His one leg was still bothering him for some reason. The pins and needles had barely eased up in his leg calf and foot and yet his right leg had returned to normal already. Something was up with that.

He lifts his hand to his left brow to double check the bleeding from the gunshot (stab? Cut- thing?) had eased off and closed up. With how polluted Gotham was already he didn’t need to be adding his weird ass blood to the mix. Luckily enough for him it seemed that Gotham had a larger than normal amount of ambient ectoplasm in the area meaning he could heal up his wounds faster then he would be able to using his own ectoplasmic energies.

“Son of A BI-” He spits out as he trips over a shade that darts out of a wall and makes him fall face first into the sticky and wet alley ground. He groans annoyed as he pushes himself back up to his knees and looks at his shirt and pants. How the hell was he supposed to explain this mess to his parents now… He smelled like piss and vomit and unfiltered ectoplasmic waste. They would already be pissed he missed his birthday supper and now he was in another state entirely. Fuck.

Someone was watching him.

He blinks slowly knowing the familiar feeling of eyes on him but this time it wasn’t some ghost. No, these eyes had weight behind them that ghosts simply couldn’t convey.

Homeless? … No, too intense.. Robber? Probably not but can’t be ruled out… Murderer? Well knowing his luck..

He frowns to himself and glances down at his left leg before pushing himself to his feet and angling himself to see if he could spot the person watching him without letting them know he knows they are there. As long as it was just some human he can lose them pretty easily by walking through a few walls but if it was something else.. Well he will cross that bridge when he gets there.

There. On the roof. He could just barely see the slight movement as whoever this was slid out of his line of sight.

Fuck. Probably a vigilante then. That was the last thing he needed right now. He just needed 5 minutes to himself to breathe, check his leg, and get the ring out of his pocket dimension to tear himself a portal back to amity.

He takes the next turn down the maze of allies and picks up his pace only to practically turn the corner and run into a dark figure about a head shorter than him.

He scowls slightly as he takes in the cape and domino mask. So a vigilante then. He was right. Damn.

“Where are you off to?” The guy smirks, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks up at Danny. His outfit was a mix or red and black armour. Well at least the armour cut some nice figures over his outline.. Wonder if being hot was a necessity for being a vigilante here.

“Anywhere but where I was.” He answers cryptically, crossing his own arms over his chest as he gets a better look at this guy. Sharp jaw, thick black hair, high cheekbones, fit- damn if this dude wasn’t a vigilante he would be just his type..

“Well that's one way to answer, but seriously why are you out here? Don’t you know it's dangerous out here at this time of night?” The vigilante frowns slightly as if he was worried about Danny of all people.

“I.. I can take care of myself.” He responds shortly as he looks down at the smaller hero and moves to step around the guy. “Now if you don't mind.”

“I do mind actually,” Red responds, reaching out to grab his arm.

Danny moves out of reach as quickly as he can, letting this guy's hand phase through his arm to prevent him from actually touching him.

“Don’t. Don’t.. Don’t touch me.” He snaps out quickly trying to reign in his emotions before he actually did something to this guy he might regret.

“Look, it's been a long night. I just want to get home and sleep all this” He waves vaguely around and behind him “off. So I don't know what you want or who you think you are but leave. Me. Alone.”

He glares at the vigilante, hoping that this would work. Maybe if he was just rude and annoying enough the guy would back off enough for him to go intangible and get into one of these buildings so he can properly work on getting home.

Red just raises a brow making his mask arch with the movement, as his hands come up in a surrendering gesture.

“Easy there friend, look probably not the best way to have started this encounter but it's clear you aren't from around here. And therefore probably don't know who I am” He says the last bit under his breath.

Danny can't help the small snort that he gives that sentence but otherwise doesn't acknowledge him aside from just glaring.

“Names Red Robin, vigilante of Gotham. And you are??…” the guy- red Robin, offers him a hand to shake like a peace offering.

He considers the hand for a moment before sighing through his nose and dragging a hand through his hair. He shakes the hand and drops it quickly to keep the contact to a minimum. He didn’t need to give Red another reason to be suspicious and his lower body temperature tended to be a cause of concern for people who didn’t know him. He grits his teeth a bit before shifting his weight off his left leg. The feeling was still coming back, if a lot slower than normal. He would have to have Sam take a look when he got back.

“Danny. Now I really do need to be going.” He says shortly. “So if that's all.”

“You're injured.”

Those two words make him freeze and his heart stop In his chest.

“Look we can help just-”

He didn't even notice when this body decided to start running but he was. Dark and twisting alleys flashing past him as he pressed his legs to go faster. He couldn’t phase here. He said ‘we’. Who was we?? The GIW?? Fuck if he was working with them- who was he kidding they all probably were, the justice league any of their little hero's. Fuck he needed to get out of here yesterday.

He risked a glance behind him as he could still feel the energy of the person chasing him but for the moment he was out of sight. He had to risk it. There's no way a Gotham Vigilante would give up the chase. He'd seen what they were like from the news.

He dove around the corner and threw intangibility around himself like a familiar cloak as he nearly crashed through the brick wall that made up the end of the alley.

He quickly stopped breathing as he heard the near silent steps round the corner he did just seconds ago. The vigilante was alone still… For now. He couldn't stick around to see how long that would last. He stuck his hand into the fabric of reality and opened up his pocket dimension sliding the ring onto his finger with a small frown at the familiar overwhelming wave of power that accompanied the damn thing.

He shifted slightly and let the phase cover him silently till he was back as Phantom. It was familiar at least. Being Phantom. Not ‘high king Phantom’ just.. Phantom.

He shook his head as he listened to the other side of the wall. Red Robin seemed to be talking to someone but there were no other signs of living energy in the 500M radius of the two of them. Must be some sort of communication system.. sounded like it wasn't working very well if the muttered curses were anything to go by.

That would be his cue to leave anyways. If the vigilante put 2 and 2 together about the electronics.. If he hasn't already. He really would be screwed.

The high-pitched whine of something being launched and catching on the roof above him had him simultaneously ripping a hole in the fabric of reality and turning to look at the windows that were not boarded up, above his hiding space.

The minute toxic green eyes met those of the domino mask he was throwing himself through the portal and sealing it shut behind him.

[taeaura]

What would the dynamic in the family be if Thomas's first and potentially only child is a female? Will she have a hard time because of her circumstances, will she be regarded as more of an unwanted child because she was born a girl, and therefore, getting insults about being useless, or will she be handled with care?

This is a wonderful question!

How Thomas + The Hewitts Would React to a Daughter

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･.

Thomas:

Thomas never thought he'd have the privilege of having children, he was always focused on the job at hand. When that changed, however, Thomas was thrilled - Anxious, but thrilled. He didn't care if the child was male or female, they were his child, and he would love them as such.

Honestly, Thomas seems like such a girl-dad. Idk why, that's just how he reads to me.

In fact, he'd be more protective of a daughter than a son - Especially if she inherited some of his traits {such as his skin condition}. He'll love her to the ends of the Earth just as he would a son. I don't think Thomas would teach his children gender roles; He'd be more focused on their survival and fulfillment than some irrational societal performance. He never fit into society anyway, and he fit the gender roles just fine?

He'd rely on Luda Mae for a lot of parenting guidance: Doing her hair {by this I mean literally just taking care of it}, dressing her {as in finding clothes that suit her}, and discussions of puberty. He does NOT feel comfortable explaining that {not that he really could, anyway.}

What he will teach his child{ren} no matter the age or gender, is to be strong. Mentally strong more than anything. He wants his children to be able to survive, but not be forced to. He'd work himself to the bone if it meant his partner and {their} children could be comfortable, and safe.

He'd also sew his child{ren} stuffed animals, blankets, and some clothes - with guidance of his momma of course 🫀 He loves family very very much.

Luda Mae:

Gosh, Luda Mae would be in the seventh Heaven! She's wanted a daughter her whole life, having a granddaughter is even better. She'd offer to help with everything: Clothes, hair, babysitting, anything you could think of. And you know she'd be ever so protective of her granddaughter - Men will go nowhere near her without proving themselves fit {Thomas would hold the same view}.

Really wants to teach her how to cook, sew, bake, sing, and take care of the house - Traditionally feminine things, y'know? Luda grew up traditional, it'll most likely bleed into her granddaughter. She'll always call her "Sweetheart" - "Baby" - "Angel" - anything endearing and sweet, really. Very very affirmative of her granddaughter dearest 🫀

Luda will sing lullabies, read to her, probably invite her to tea with Kathryn/Tea Lady. She's a very comforting grandma :)

Now, I know we're having fun in la-la-land, but we gotta go back to TCM 2003 for a minute.

Luda Mae is a strong, independent, and direct woman. She will NOT tolerate ANY disrespect - Never. If her granddaughter acts out, consequences will be appointed.

Hoyt:

Now, I know what the immediate answer SEEMS to be: "Oh, Hoyt would hate that Thomas had a daughter instead of a son - He's a misogynist who hates all women!" And listen, I thought this too UNTIL I re-watched the TCM 2003 movie just to make sure. During one of the final scenes: 1:12:10 - 1:28:40, Hoyt can be seen peering over Henrietta and Luda Mae, looking down at the {unnamed} baby. He seems very affectionate {for Hoyt} - Smiling and cooing at her {Yes, the baby is confirmed female "She's mine"}

The truth is, I don't think Hoyt would mind it all too much. Would he have preferred a nephew? Yeah - But he loves his niece just the same. He'll teach her how to shoot, how to hunt, throw a punch, be strategic, and he'll definitely teach her a.."wide vocabulary."

He'd definitely be the type to say "this type of stuff ain't for women, young lady." For example:

"Now ___, I know you wanna get yer hands dirty like yer daddy and I, but this type of game isn't for little ladies like yourself."

Depending on how sassy Thomas' daughter is, Hoyt's tolerance for her will differ. If she's a foul-mouthed sassy sailor, Hoyt's patience will decreased as compared to an "innocent naive angel."

He's also..terrified, to say the least. He'll be wayyy more cautious about his remarks around Tommy's daughter - Afraid of how Thomas {and Luda Mae} will react.

Oh - and Hoyt will be one of the first to offer advice and protection for his niece, especially if she starts dating:

"He called you what? - Ugly? Hell, let's see this fella; See how 'ugly' he can get."

"Now ___, don't you be dating any soy-boys, make sure a man can take care of ya real nice, y'hear?"

He loves her, but he's not an affectionate {or kind} guy.

Henrietta:

God, she is so so so jealous - She's always wanted kids, but never had the opportunity to have some of her own. She'll definitely offer to babysit any chance she gets. She'd offer the same things as Luda Mae, just more often. Oh! And she'd be a wonderful..aunt? Second cousin? Idk what she would be in relation to Thomas' daughter, but she'd be wonderful at it! Always open to talk, and very very supportive.

{Uncle} Monty:

Would not care. At all. Leave him alone and he's all good 👍

"Stop staring at me with them bug eyes.."

"Girl, would you get me a beer?"

"Thomas! Get your daughter to stop taking my damn cane!"

"If you keep touching 'im {the dog}, he'll bite you."

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･.

Okay yay! Sorry for Henrietta and Monty's parts being short, I just don't seem huge influence with the two of them - Plus Hen's basically Luda Mae 2.0, just less strict.

[blueteller]

Very interesting perspective! Allow me to throw in a couple of my own thoughts, because while it's similar to yours, I have a couple different takes on the whole situation.

This is actually a good opportunity for me to do some solid White Star character analysis. Let's get started!

First of all: you are right, the White Star was a terrifying, powerful villain at the start. Let's not forget his first appearance in the novel. I remember when I first read the reveal of his character, I was terrified for Cale and everyone else. He seemed less like a beatable human opponent and more like an ancient, semi-divine being. And his threat to kill Raon and force Cale to eat his heart? Truly, horrifying. 10/10 villain introduction.

However, most of us already forgot that first impression by the time Part 1 wrapped up. Why? Because nothing seemed to go right for the White Star after that point. The only times he seemed to even remotely have an advantage was 1) that time at the Castle of Light when he had Cale and co. surrounded, which that did not last long, and 2) when Cale was trapped in the Sealed God's Test and everyone had to fight him without their Commander. Aside from those two instances, every time Cale clashed with the White Star everyone was prepared to face him... and no important character ever died. So naturally, the intimidation factor dropped drastically over time.

However, there is something else to consider here. And that is one simple fact:

White Star set himself up for failure since the start. Cale/Kim Rok Soo actually had nothing to do with it at the beginning.

There's a reason why I do not respect the White Star at all (as a character, sure, he's well written, but as an actual person? Not in the slightest). You can blame – spoiler alert...? – the Hunters for deliberately setting him up for failure, since it was probably their intention all along. However, Cale Barrow knew EXACTLY what he was getting into when he cursed himself by breaking that Vow of Death.

And you know what? No matter how I look at it, the very tool he used to become immortal, became the exact reason why he failed in the end.

Allow me to go all the way back, to Choi Jung Gun.

The reason why "Nelan Barrow" created the Dragon Slayers was because they were meant to be the protectors against overpowered tyrants. Cale Barrow read the journal that was meant to inspire others to defend the world against threats such as the Ancient White Star, and instead decided to become such a threat himself. This lack of reading comprehension from someone in a leadership position is, quite frankly, completely idiotic.

Tell me, what kind of moron wishes to emulate the guy who famously LOST?!

And sure, you can argue that collecting the Ancient Powers to become invincible is a sound plan. However, what was NOT A sound plan was getting yourself cursed WITH SOMETHING THAT GIVES YOU MISFORTUNE. If you wish for success in conquest, cursing yourself with BAD LUCK is quite counterproductive, don't you think???

You could try to argue that's not how the curse works. But trust me, it is exactly what it is. The curse doesn't just make you live alone forever as punishment: it makes you lose everything you care about! The very definition of bad luck!! And even if you think, "oh, it only applies to LIVING THINGS", um... No it did not??? Not if we consider all the implications.

At the end of Part 1, Cale saw the White Star's Annual Rings of Life and saw that he was on the brink of losing himself. If he continued to reincarnate just a bit longer, he would completely forget his identity and his goal. He would inevitably fail because of the very curse that kept him alive.

And that's not the only reason! Another factor was that the White Star kept losing people he valued in any capacity. In other words, he could not have REALLY competent, trustworthy subordinates. Lich Bernard? Yeah he did not give a crap about him. Dragon Half-Blood? White Star considered him a failure, same with Syrem. Dorph and Sayeru? I'm pretty sure the Hunters set them up as his helpers, there is no way the White Star could have found them on his own. If the White Star actually considered them worth his time, they wouldn't be able to stay and help him. Such was the nature of the curse.

There was also the fact that the White Star could not feel any sort of pleasure, and thus, and rewarding feeling he could get from getting closer to success would turn obsolete. The only reasons this guy did not give up is because 1) he is stubborn to the point of insanity, that's an established character trait, and 2) he literally had no choice but to keep going. Giving up wasn't an opinion with the curse. He was given all the time in the world to get to his goal (or so he thought), and no way to turn back. He doesn't deserve sympathy or admiration for his tenacity when he CHOSE this stupid fate himself.

Oh, you think it wasn't stupid? I can name at least 3 ways he could have extended his own life without cursing himself. Not enough time for him? Too bad, loser – if you actually did your research you could have at least went for the freaking life extending jar! I'm pretty sure there was at least several hundred years inside that thing. Not a bad start, to give yourself time to find a better solution than a freaking bad luck curse. It's not like the curse option would have expired soon, you know? Raon wouldn't hatch for another 1000 years!

And my final point... by choosing to break the Vow of Death the White Star created his own greatest enemy.

Oh, you think I'm talking about Cale? Nah.

Choi Han? Nope.

Sheritt? Not even close!

White Star's greatest enemy? Obviously, I'm talking about the God of Death.

Think about it. How could Cale Barrow fail to see how much it must have pissed him off? Imagine someone uses the power of your curse, which was meant to be a DETERRENT from stupidity by the way, to turn yourself immortal. With the goal of becoming a god. And the White Star thought the God of Death WOULDN'T KNOW? Or wouldn't CARE?

Obviously, he did!!!

From Choi Jung Gun, to Choi Han, to Choi Jung Soo, to Kim Rok Soo, God of Death kept trying to send obstacles. It was literal divine intervention. Because the White Star deliberately messed with the divine, and not just once. He also made a deal with a demonic god for the Sky Attribute, too! Am I really the only one who sees how reckless that was? Cale Barrow was completely delusional thinking he wouldn't have to pay a price for it. He really thought he could outsmart the Sealed God and take his power? Pfff. That never would have worked.

Let's be real here. In the TBOAH timeline? I bet that after the White Star won, he either would be eaten by the Sealed God, or sacrificed by the Hunters for Karma. There is no outcome where Cale Barrow was successful in becoming a god. He was nothing more than their puppet.

Of course, his inevitable tragic ending aside, the White Star was indeed a threat that took quite a lot of effort to defeat. The 20 years of war mean that the resistance of the world was formidable, but it was not enough. Choi Han and his allies would have lost. The White Star's allies would have razed the land to the ground, both with their armies and dead mana. Even if Choi Jung Soo accepted the deal offered by the God of Death, it probably wouldn't have changed much. Not without the knowledge from TBOAH volumes. If Choi Jung Soo got transmigrated WITH the knowledge... who knows? But I still doubt it would have been as clean of a victory as the TCF timeline.

Speaking of which! Let's talk about Cale – Kim Rok Soo – for a bit, and what his existence meant to the White Star.

As I stated before, I do not respect the White Star. Because he chose to curse himself. And that curse would have been his downfall even without Cale in the picture.

But Cale WAS in the picture. And why was that, exactly? One, because of the God of Death. And two, because of – once again! – the curse.

If it wasn't for Kim Rok Soo getting kicked out of his original body on Nameless 1, being born in Korea, living through trials that sharpened his skills to perfection, and finally getting transmigrated because he was a convenient Variable... he would have never been such a threat to the White Star.

Cale Barrow created his own downfall, from scratch. From beginning to the end, the existence of Cale Henituse was his own fault. Heck, it's even the same name! I very much doubt it was a coincidence. I get the feeling the God of Death had a lot of fun with that bit of irony. Like smacking someone in the back of the head with a weapon named after them. Truly, poetic justice... or possibly pure, petty revenge. Quite in character for the God of Death, don't you think?

So you can say that Cale had all sorts of help and advantages handed to him, just so that he would be successful in defeating the White Star. And while that is kind of true... That's not even the half of it.

Cale worked just as hard as the White Star, except he did it better. Because like you nicely stated, "he had more experience even if he did not live as long". Because Cale actually LEARNED. That is what truly makes his entire character. He never stops learning from his mistakes and improving. The White Star probably never once internalized a life lesson in his semi-immortal life.

You say that the White Star wasn't an idiot? Well, I say the opposite. He wasn't dumb in the sense of intelligence. He was dumb in the sense of WISDOM.

He figured out that Cale was a transmigrator, but only thought the distorted perception of a man who had too much pride to realize how little it can take to topple a plan with a 1000-year-old foundation. The White Star had been trying to roll that rock of success uphill his very own curse, and he was surprised that once it slipped out of his hands it rolled all the way down? Pathetic. He had to make up an entire imaginary history and rivalry with Cale in order to justify his own failures... the exact opposite of how each of Cale's perceived failures weighs on his mind.

Cale never took the easy path, and it is perfectly represented by his Ancient Powers. The Powers which stood against the Original White Star 10,000 years ago. How could have the White Star fail to predict that history might repeat itself? Truly, he learned nothing from his predecessor.

So, those are my thoughts on the White Star! Interesting character? Sure. Solid villain who was a real threat to the world and the main character? Certainly! Someone worth respect?

...Naaaaah 🤡 [Insert Circus Music]

White Star

I know the fandom often makes fun of White Star. However, when it comes to power and influence, it is a terrifying opponent. It cannot be forgotten that in the original timeline, White Star first appeared 20 years after the beginning of the war in front of Choi Han. Nothing happened only thanks to regressor. We also saw the diary of the God of Death, a lot of people should have died. In the original timeline Roan kingdom would be destroyed, the Whipper kingdom would lose to the Empire. Jungle would be under the rule of Elisneh. It's likely that many places would be destroyed by dead mana because of the Empire. The dragons we met would be dead. Bud would probably have been killed too, after all, White Star was hunting him. The whales had a war with the mermaids, but it is possible that they later lost. White Star would have the most powerful ancient powers. After all, he was trying to obtain Sky Eating Water and we know how powerful this power is. It's better not to mention the balance of the 5 attributes. Additionally, it has races with a dark attribute on its side. He managed to gain a lot of sacrifice, so his Sky attribute would be more powerful than what we have seen. He has its own kingdom, and Kingdoms that work with him.He also got rid of two dangerous people, Saint and Holy Maiden. There is no one who can use the artifact left by the Sun God. The corrupt Church would realize too late how dangerous the enemy is, it is impossible for them to sacrifice their lives to purify dead mana. It was obvious what their reaction would be after we already seen their reaction when Prince Valentino asked for help. There is also no one who can use fire of destruction, because the person who took this power was an elf, a person with no money and without correct acquired power. The world tree would be destroyed and replaced by a new tree controlled by him. There would also be no weapon capable of completely destroying his soul.

There is something that seems interesting to me. The proposal the God of Death gave to Choi Jung Soo. Nameless 1 already had Choi Han, since a second Single Lifers is needed. That could mean Choi Han lost. It's possible that he didn't die, but something worse happened to him. From being controlled by illusions to becoming a Half Blood-like monster or becoming a demon. It is possible that hunters could have killed him later. CJS preferred to sacrifice his life to his closest family. KRS has become someone whose future cannot be predicted. Thanks to this, KRS has become someone who can change the future of others. KRS read the book with the necessary information. Besides, he had the power, intelligence, experience. It's not that WS was an idiot, this person was terrifying. He managed to guess that Cale was a transmigrator, that the person in this body wasn't the real Cale. Even if the other theories were wrong. We have to remember how unlikely it is that he is someone from another world. After all, he had too much information. While it is laughable to say that Cale works with the Gods, he was actually partly right. Cale was sent to this world by the God of Death, and the God likes him and offered him the position of a saint. Even thank to God he gained the power that allowed him to imprison White Star. White Star lost because Cale had help from God and was loved by nature. And so Cale is someone that nature likes, elementals are part of nature, the world tree has lost branches for him many times, even gave him the oldest root. Dragons liked him because of his power and character. Elves were interested in him many times because of 5 attributes, so different from each other. He did not discriminate against any race, so even the necromancers and dark elves cooperated with him. Of course, Cale is also someone who survived the apocalypse, he managed to become someone strong even in such circumstances. Even White Star who lived for 1000 years couldn't compare to how many difficult and demanding missions Cale completed while he was still in his old body. Because White Star has always had the power, he never had to fear that the monster would eat him, that if he lost, the people he protected would be next. I can say with confidence that Cale has a lot more experience even if he didn't live as long. Compared to White Star, Cale never took the easy path. I would also like to talk about the powers of these two, but that's for another time.

[chibishortdeath]

Great googley moogley it’s all going to shit! Every day becomes exponentially more terrifying!

And all perfectly timed to just right at the start of what’s supposed to be my adult life where I get my shit together and be useful and productive!

[supergraphicultramoderngirl]

aaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

[amplexadversary]

.

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Beginning to really wonder how much of my financial concern is manufactured and handed to me as opposed to something I'm genuinely concerned by

[starscreamingg]

Looking back on Detroit become human in the wake of the ai craze is like. The most morbidly funny thing to me One of these days I have to write something on how the story of that game just gets HORRIFYING when you view it through a (more) modern lens. Man

[jestiamy]

art is fun except for the several times it's not

[xervn]

melatonin

two-shot | enemies to fuckers sevika x reader

pt. 2

ao3 link

summary: you're forced to go on a business trip with your least favorite coworker and share a room with her. now you can't sleep.

18+ MDNI | 4.1k words | tags; canon divergence, sevika is a little mean, sevika is nonchalant fr, reader is a brat, very light sub/dom, vaginal fingering, scissoring, begging kink, praise kink kinda, porn w/ plot-ish, no use of y/n

new record; took me 4 days to write. i don't know who possessed me. i love enemies to lovers so bad FUCKKKK!!!

“One room.” The motel owner, an old, short, and grotesque-looking woman with a thick accent, says. 

 “One room? Clear another one out then?” You insist, mildly threateningly. The woman’s eyes glaze over as she blinks. She’s not moved.

“There are two beds; who cares?” Sevika grumbles, clearly over your antics.

You shoot a glare in her direction, lip forming into a scowl. “I’m not sharing a room with you; you look like you snore.” 

She tells you something along the lines of go fuck or kill yourself (you weren’t really listening) before pushing past you and replacing the room keys on the counter with a stack of silver cogs. 

The owner collects the cogs with a grunt before adjusting her small reader glasses. Sevika strides off towards the rooms, and you quickly turn after her.

“Couldn’t you have tried to help?” You ask. Your eyes burn a hole through the side of her face.

She doesn’t spare you a glance. “You’re dramatic, and I don’t have the patience to deal with your bullshit right now.”

You hate her. You fucking hate her. You’ve been working alongside Sevika for two years now, yet you can’t shake the feeling. It started when you first met; Sevika was cold and critical, reprimanding you even though you were young and starting out. That’s not even what drove you to hate her, though; at least back then it felt like she was looking out for you, but you were painfully mistaken when you got promoted within the year. 

You don’t know what it was; jealousy, doubt, but her distaste for you only grew more apparent. There were fewer critiques and more insults about how you work or about your intelligence. Insufferable. She was insufferable.

There hasn’t been a day she’s been likable since then, so imagine your reaction when Silco tells you and her to go on a little business trip to Bilgewater. No matter how much the both of you wanted to protest, you didn’t. Instead you two argued amongst yourselves the whole trip there. 

Why would you want to spend even more unnecessary time around her?

The minute you guys enter your room, you don’t speak a single word to each other, let alone look each other’s way. You take turns using the restroom to get ready for bed, and then you find a place for your belongings, and Sevika ejects her bionic arm for the night. Although you two definitely don’t like each other, it doesn’t mean you don’t trust each other. You know she won’t rob you; she knows you won’t (can’t) take advantage and kill her. That’s the only semblance of peace you share.

— 

A faint amber light soaks through your eyelids, and you blink them open to the popcorned ceiling. You toss and turn in your bed, rustling around, unable to find a good position, and it doesn’t help that the cheap mattress is, well, cheap. You can’t sleep. You’ve always had trouble sleeping, but it’s never been a real problem before; you’d just stay up. Yes, you have permanent eye bags because of it, but it’s not like you can choose otherwise. You‘re from Zaun; any aid for it is not exactly accessible. 

However, the meeting you have tomorrow is important, so it’s important that you find a way. You can’t afford to slack off or doze off during it; you’re the negotiator, and tomorrow makes or breaks a trade deal that will be most beneficial for Zaun’s income. 

You rustle in your bed sheets again, and Sevika immediately groans. “Can you stop? And turn the lamp off.”

You look at her and you’re about to apologize, but you hold your tongue when you remember who you’re talking to. “I can’t sleep.”

“Turn the lamp off and fucking figure it out.” She snaps, turning her back towards you.

“Can’t you hear?” You squirm around, making as much noise as possible to get your point across. “I’m trying.”

“Find a different way. Count poros. Turn the lamp off.”

You scoff, eyes back on the ceiling, “I’m not five; counting poros doesn’t work, and I’m not turning off the lamp.”

You can hear Sevika shifting in her bed. “I knew you should’ve stayed back,” she sighs, “and you’re scared of the dark? Grow up.”

“Wow, fuck you. If you had asked nicely, I would’ve turned it off, and what do you mean I ‘should’ve stayed’? You’re not my boss. I’m more valuable than you are.” You angrily rant. 

“Alright, you are talking way too much right now. Cut it out.” 

“…No.” You reply. It sounds unconvincing with your lack of words, but it was the best you could come up with.

“Do you need calming tea or something? What will get you to shut up, because I’m about to hold a pillow over your head and call it a night.” She growls.

“Nothing. I can only sleep if I get a concussion or if I drink my pants off.”

She says your name like a warning, “If you ruin this deal, I’ll make sure to see you off myself.”

You bite back, “Sevika, if I could sleep, I would be sleeping. I don’t want to ruin it either, but your scolding isn’t helping.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, then Sevika grunts stubbornly. It’s followed by sheets moving and a dull stomp on the floor. You turn to look, and you see Sevika sitting at the side of her bed. 

You glance at her muscular thighs in those gray shorts—you couldn’t help it—before staring back at the ceiling. “Are you going to make me tea?”

She pushes off the bed with her one arm. “No.”

“Switching rooms then?” You ask as your eyes follow her shadow’s movement on the walls. 

“No.”

“Then... What is it?“ You turn, flinching a bit when you find Sevika peering down at you. 

She looks hesitant, timid; the first time you’ve ever seen it. “I’ll help you.”

Your defenses go off, and you quickly sit up. “Wait. You’re not going to kill me, right?”

“Over sleep? Are you stupid?” She pushes you back down, and not with much force, obviously.

You lay there, defeated. “So?”

“I said, ‘I’ll help you.'” She restates.

You stare up at her with slight annoyance, “Well, you have to tell me how?”

She has an indecisive frown before exhaling, “If you come, you’ll shut up.” 

Your head shakes in confusion. “Come? Where are we going?” 

“You’re an actual idiot.” She groans.

You gasp in offense. “You’re the one being fucking cryptic—“

“I’ll fuck you to sleep.” 

“What?”

“I’ll fuck you to sleep.”

“I heard you; I’m just,” you laugh nervously, “are you serious?” Your ears must be playing tricks on you. 

“We’re not close enough to joke around with each other.” She says plainly.

Baffled, you reply, “We’re not close enough to fuck either?” 

“Do you really care about shit like that? Sex is sex.”

You think about it for a second. You’ve never been in a proper relationship, and you’ve only had a handful of hookups, but you’ve never slept with someone you dislike, and you definitely don’t like Sevika. Even if she is hot. “Well, I guess not—“

“—Then what’s the issue?” Her eyes bore into you.

You gulp at the sudden weight of her stare, but you don’t crumble. “The issue is that I don’t like you. At all.”

Sevika scoffs, “I’ve seen the way you stare at me. You’re not subtle. At all. I saw you do it a few minutes ago.”

How embarrassing. It’s true, between all your hate are moments of admiration. Sevika is “cool,” she’s respected, she’s feared. She’s also full of herself, naggy, and blunt. Both things can be true. But on top of that, she’s hot to the point it’s frustrating. 

One time, while she was sitting in her designated booth at The Last Drop playing poker, she locked eyes with you after a big win. There was that sexy, satisfied grin she always gets after every win, and she had the audacity to lock eyes with you. 

Your thighs pressed together. You beat yourself up over it for the rest of the night and the following day; you couldn’t even look her in the eye without getting unreasonably angry.

Your face is turning warm, but there’s no point in turning away—you have to fake it until you make it. “Okay? What’s your point?” You ask, even though her point was very clear. You’re running yourself into walls.

Sevika already deciphered that; her face reads, ‘Where the fuck are you right now?’ “Listen, I don’t like you either, but if you want to sleep, I’ll help you, and if you don’t, I’ll get another room.” She explains.

You can tell it’s her final offer. You chew your bottom lip until you remember Sevika is still looking at you. Hiding your face behind your hand, you can’t believe you’re considering it. Sex with Sevika. Sounds mad when you repeat it in your head. It’s just sex, though, right? You knew she loved Zaun, but you didn’t know she loved it this much. Sleeping with you, practically her arch nemesis, for the betterment of society. That sounds insane. This is insane.

Sevika kisses her teeth, “Forget it—“ 

“—Okay,” you interrupt, “help me.” You’re unable to look her in the eyes. 

She looks at you dubiously, and her lack of doing anything unnerves you, so you continue. “Please?” You slowly look up at her, and you swear her eyes darkened. 

“Please?” She mimics. “Didn’t take you for the submissive type.” 

“No idea what you’re talking about.” You reply, although it comes out like a whisper.

“Mhm,” she hums apathetically, pulling up the covers draped over you. Her knee makes a dip in the bed. “Make some space,” she asks. You sit up, and you have no idea what to do. Looking left and right, you'd think you were trying to cross the road. She stares blankly. “Just spread your legs.” She commands.

You immediately do as she says, and she chuckles to herself at how you continue to prove her right. You’re clearly not a fan of that, your frown prominent. “What’s funny?” 

Sevika kneels herself between your legs, using her arm to help balance her in place. “Man, you love to argue.” 

You shrug. “I’ll stop when you fuck me to sleep. If you can... Don’t you think you’re a little overconfident?” 

Sevika slowly blinks at you, unsure of whether she should be turned on or irritated. You take it as the latter, and now it’s your turn to chuckle to yourself. But your self-satisfied giggling stops when she leans over you, inches away from your face, “You’re about to find out.” 

You never took the time to process Sevika kneeling between your legs, and now you can feel each exhale from her on your face. Your body starts to process it too: your breathing gets heavier and your heartbeat gets faster. You don’t have a crush on her or anything, but this is an unusual, unsurprisingly hot experience. Your eyes flicker to her full, uneven lips before they squeeze shut.

Sevika flicks your forehead. “Wh—ow?!” You whine, rubbing your head with your hand to soothe it. 

“I’m not kissing you.” She clarifies.

Your face warms with embarrassment, fingers gripping at the fabric beneath you. “How was I supposed to know you wanted a staring contest?” You grumble.

Sevika rolls her eyes, barely shaking her head in disappointment. Her face moves on from yours, and her lips attack the exposed curvature of your neck, licking, biting, and rendering you speechless. She gives you no time to regulate your emotions, and you let out a soft groan you would’ve otherwise swallowed down. Just what she wanted: less talking, more moaning.

Letting her guide the tilt of your head, you awkwardly rest your hands on her shoulders. You’re unsure of whether you can or should touch her. She pauses. “Sor— I… uh…” You stammer and put your hands up. You decide to just stop speaking to save yourself.

“Relax.” She tells you, gazing at you through her loose, dark hair. It stirs something below you. 

You place your hands back on her shoulders, albeit reluctantly, and try to maintain eye contact so you look composed. 

Sevika doesn’t buy it. She glances at your hands, very tellingly. “…Relax.” She repeats, softer than she did before, and your heart skips a beat like you’re in a cliché. 

Hesitantly, you slide your arms around her shoulders, linking your hands together. It feels intimate, too intimate, and looking at her is getting harder by the second. Sevika chuckles in a way that borders on a scoff. “You wanted to do that; don’t be shy about it.”

You huff, “I didn’t know I was being teased to sleep…”

“Is it working? It’d save me time.”

“Fuck off...” 

“You’d hate that.” She replies, as if it’s undeniable. It is, but she’s way too cocky about it. You look like you’re about to curse her out, but you’re holding it back. 

Sevika grins smugly, and for a moment, she considers kissing you. Your arms are wrapped around her shoulders, your eyes are yelling, ‘Fuck me already,’ lips practically begging to meet hers.

This is intimate, too intimate. It’s fucking with her logical reasoning—not that this is logical to begin with. It sounds stupid, but it’s worked for her so far; she casually fucks on the regular, and she doesn’t kiss them ever. Never really felt like it. Yet, here you are, making her feel new things. She knows there’s no going back if she makes an exception with you, and quite frankly, you still piss her off. It’s conflicting.

You impatiently perk a brow at her. You had to stop yourself from flat-out asking her to continue; your ego can’t afford you coming off as begging.

For a millisecond she looks like she got caught, then a millisecond later, she’s on you again. 

She attentively kisses the skin below the curve of your jawline, her tongue making frequent warm appearances. It’s much more fervent, but rough in a way that makes you tremble. She always makes sure you feel her teeth gliding over when she moves to the next spot. Your legs move on their own, one leg curling up against her side. You’re already pooling where you’re seated, but now it’s getting uncomfortable to sit this damp. 

Experienced is how you can describe her right now. You heard rumors of her activity, but you never believed it. There was no way her ol’ grumpy ass was getting laid, no matter how incredibly sexy she was. Then again, you never got along, which makes this situation, this fucking feeling, even crazier. 

She was being extra careful not to bruise you at first, but she seems not to care anymore, only driven further when she hears your little gasps or feels your arms tightening around her. She’s getting carried away, but she’ll figure out how to play it off some other time.

 Sevika pulls back. She throbs at your dazed and confused expression.  “Come closer.” She ushers as she transitions to sitting rather than kneeling on the bed. 

With no hesitation, you don’t let go of Sevika as you push yourself forward on your hips, sitting your ass comfortably on the edge of Sevika’s lap. Her hand lands on your waist. She says, “Lay down for me.” 

You nod shyly, removing your arms from Sevika’s shoulders and descending onto the mattress. Sevika tries to ignore how the loss of your arms around her made her feel. Her hand travels to the waistband of your joggers. “You’re going to have to move these for me too.” She asks, shrugging her shoulder that’s missing an arm as a reminder. 

She doesn’t move; she waits. Your insides do a flip. She’s waiting for you to remove them how you are now: legs diverged around her, hips pointed towards her. You think about how vulnerable you’ll look and feel when you slide them off, showing her the sopping mess she unknowingly made between your legs. You know she’s going to see it eventually, but from you doing the honors? That’s tearing you apart. She notices a shift in your demeanor, but she doesn’t acknowledge it. “Hurry up.” 

“Can’t you move back…?”

Sevika rolls her eyes. “No.”

You whine in embarrassment, briefly shielding your face in your hands before hastily pulling at your waistband. You wish you had turned the lamp off.

Sevika’s hand clasps over yours. “Slowly.” She scolds. Scolds. You’re fucking flabbergasted. She’s doing this on purpose, you can tell. She’s barely holding back another signature, smug smile. 

“You’re such a dick.” You curse. A direct juxtaposition in your actions that don’t defy Sevika at all. Hell, it juxtaposes your body because of how you’re aching for her.

“Yeah, yeah. Off.” She pulls at the band of your pants, letting it slap down when she releases it. 

You mutter out a few more curses that she fully grins at before you silently begin to remove your joggers and underwear simultaneously. You lift your hips for mobility, and Sevika’s eyes are glued to the fabric making its way down your thighs, and you’re forced to watch how intently she’s watching you. You can try to insist this is humiliating and cruel, but you can’t stop throbbing just from this; her eyes anticipating your reveal, like you’re a self-opening present.

The clothing starts to bunch at the middle of your thighs, and your arousal is halfway there to being exposed to Sevika. The scent is what hits her first; it makes her want to yank your pants down and give you what you want, but watching you do it so much better.

Once it reaches above your knees, she partially moves out of the way so she can help you remove them properly. While she tosses it elsewhere, you debate pinning your legs shut. 

Sevika looks back at you—your legs, actually—and you do flinch them closed. She tsks. “Don’t be stubborn. Not now.” She didn’t sound like she was insulting you, even though a small part of you wanted to be offended. 

You let out a shaky sigh and avoid her gaze, slowly parting your legs. Thighs slicked with arousal, folds glistened with the same, you’re undeniably soaked. You prepare yourself to look at Sevika’s shit-eating grin, but when you do, it’s nothing of the sort. Her eyes are low, shaded, and memorializing, and her bottom lip fully disappeared between her teeth. 

Then she grins; she even laughs, just as you expected. You groan, not at her, but at how wet you got from it. “I didn’t even do anything yet.” She teases, her eyes still locked on the ego-stroking mess she made of you. 

“Such a di—“ You cut yourself off to moan sharply. 

Sevika’s thumb came in contact with your swollen clit, the rough pad of her thumb making perfect circles; the rest of her fingers positioned in the patch of hair crowning above it.

“How fast do you think you’ll come? I’m thinking,” she pretends to, only to press her thumb over your clit. Filthy words flutter from your lips, and you instinctively grind into her touch. “Three minutes?” 

You look pissed between your bouts of pleasure; it molds together attractively. Sevika can’t wait to make it break, make you cry, and fuck the attitude out of you. “What? You should see how wet you are; you’d think I already fucked you.” 

She feels the way you twitch at her words, and it makes the pressure between her legs unbearable. She should just strip and grind her cunt into you, but she knows she won’t be able to stop there. Fuck her stupid life; she’s losing the plot. 

Her thick forefinger collects your slick as she paths towards your entrance. You twitch as she slides it in, making you gasp. She chuckles as your walls clench around her finger, and she starts pushing it in and out, painstakingly slow. 

It’s not enough, yet you can’t bring yourself to beg her for more. It’s at the tip of your tongue, but Sevika was right; you are stubborn. She reads you like a book, and she can read you now. She angles her finger in a way that brushes against your g-spot, but at the same mind-numbingly slow pace. 

Your body doesn’t know what to do; you can’t find friction anywhere; you can squeeze against her finger, but it doesn’t change her speed; all you can do is writhe in place. “You look like you need something,” she says, almost like it’s a thought in her head, so condescending, so fucking hot. Your pussy tenses around her finger for the millionth time, and you almost, almost, cry. “You’re gonna cut my finger off at this rate.” You tense again. She chuckles. 

“Sev—Sevika,” you bite your lip to hold down a sharp inhale, but it fails miserably. “Sevika, you’re not helping.”

 “Should I stop?” She asks with the tilt of her head. Her finger does stop regardless of the answer. 

Your hands reach out for her wrist, weakly clawing at it. “No! No, pl...” You mildly cringe at yourself, turning away. 

Sevika’s brows lifted. “What was that? Pl...?” She begins her pace again, and you realize you didn’t appreciate it enough before. “You said it once already; come on.” 

Your lips tremble, “Plea—se—?” She barely lets you finish the word before slipping another finger into your drooling cunt. Her pace increases, and you let go of her wrist as you succumb to pleasure. 

 Your arousal coating her fingers makes the most obscene noises; she wonders if the entire motel can hear it. You try to suppress your moans with your hand, but you can never do it right, not with the way she’s fucking you. Sevika’s glad you can’t; having one arm would’ve been even more inconvenient otherwise. She needs to hear you sob out her name at least once. “Please what?” She leans over you as she slams her fingers into you, pressing them against your wet, ridged, gummy walls.

“You’re— fuck, you’re pushing it,” you groan, and just like that, she slows down. But you’re weak, and you crumble. “Wait, wait, wait—please. Please, fuck me... Fuck me to sleep.” You ramble loosely, back to scratching at her wrists again. There’s that smile you were thinking about earlier, the one she gets after a big win. She broke you, and she lost the plot ages ago. 

—

It’s been an hour, and you’re already on the brink of your third orgasm. Sevika folded and ended up, verbatim, stripping and grinding her cunt into yours. You should be asleep right now, but Sevika said you have enough time to catch up on it before the meeting. You hope that’s true, but you don’t care. You can’t get enough of her or her abs flexing with every desperate hump. 

So intent on getting her rocks off, practically using you for her own pleasure at this point—you already came twice now; any more is a bonus, just like the one building up right now. Your eyes are pressed shut, trying to envision your release so it comes quicker. “Just like that. Keep fucking me, please, Sev.” You beg through your teeth and quiet sniffles. Sevika’s fingers squeeze the meat of your thigh.

She murmurs, “You,” her movements get sloppier; you can tell she’s close, “feel so fucking good.” Now you’re close—no, you come at her praise. 

You’re shaking, grabbing at the sheets that have since slid off the mattress. You forgot how to breathe; all you can feel is your orgasm coursing through you. Your mind is turning fuzzy, and even fuzzier with Sevika still grinding into you. Your moans are pitchy and pornographic; you’re making sounds you didn’t even think happened in real life. “Sevika...” You sob out from overstimulation, tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

She loves it. “Shit…” Sevika moans, followed by several more curses as she shudders out her orgasm. Her vision goes blurry for a second from how hard she came. She tries to control her labored breathing as she comes to, breathlessly calling your name. 

When she focuses in on you, you’re passed out, fucked out, and peaceful. Sevika’s pupils dilate at the markings she left on your neck, then to your lips, which she’s yet to have the chance to kiss. She lets the sleep weighing on her win and carefully collapses beside you. 

>

[pineconnie]

Fave martin blackwood things:

- lied about a MASTERS in PARAPSYCHOLOGY in his cv. why did he choose such a niche study like how many jobs could that even get you (EDIT I now know what a CV is and that he’s not telling every job he has a masters sorry guys I’m very jobless 🙏)

- writes the most terrible poetry you’ve ever heard (said with love) and plays background music while recording it onto a tape recorder for the vibes

- when encountering a terrifying worm lady that tries to add you to her flesh hive, he MAKES SURE to keep some of her worms just so he can stick it in his bosses face

-the rudest guy in the world (said boss) does one nice thing for him that he didn’t expect and he immediately falls in love (this is real to me ok let me have this)

-wears video game shirts to work

-goes on rants about spiders importance to the ecosystem to a guy with the worst arachnophobia ever

-hides CO2 cans so that ‘the worms don’t find it’

-forces his boss to go on lunch dates with him so he doesn’t completely lose it to paranoia

-walked into his bosses office, found a DEAD BODY THAT WAS DEFINITELY MURDERED, and all he says is “oh jon 😕😕”

-has practically the same reaction later on when someone tells him his boss compelled them to relive their worst trauma

-gets told the guy he’s been in love with for multiple years treats him horribly and goes “yeah and”

-outsmarted an avatar of the lonely despite being in a horrible depressive episode with no contact to anyone else

-manages to make peter fully believe he’s dedicated to the lonely even as his crush of many many years is practically confessing his love at every interaction

s5 martin is my favourite id need a whole extra post for him loml

[chuluoyi]

𝐍𝐎𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

- zayne x reader

he is your husband and you are his wife. but of course you know the bitter truth—you will never be able to replace her.

genre/warnings: 18+ suggestive content—minors do not interact!—angst, hurt/comfort, unrequited love, drunken sex, mentions of injury, blood, hunter!reader (not l&ds mc -> l&ds mc is zayne's late ex-girlfriend here), spoilers! from zayne’s bond story nostalgic sweetness

note: wc. 8k ! i've been having these bits and pieces scenarios for zayne in mind and then i thought what if i combined it all into one angst joyride? :)) tagging per request: @kissxcore @rjreins @i2s2m @tom-pls-fuck-me @yueyoonie @sanriosatoru

07.15 p.m

Zayne would be getting off work soon. He had just finished an emergency surgery, and it had been exhausting. Now it was quite late.

“Dr. Zayne! Great job today!” Greyson exclaimed, suddenly strolling into his consultation room with a grin. “Want to grab dinner with us?”

Honestly, he was starving too. “Where?”

“Oh, you know, that new place that just opened nearby! They have the tastiest tiramisu, or so I’ve heard. C’mon, we’re inviting the nurses too!”

He knew he needed to head home soon, but fatigue and hunger blurred his thoughts at the mention of dessert.

“Alright.”

. . .

08.25 p.m

Getting together with the hospital staff was always nice. They were rowdy, but it was definitely a great way to unwind after a hard day.

The tiramisu was as great as Greyson said. Speaking of his assistant, he and Yvonne were having a blast. Other doctors were getting drunk. Zayne could only shake his head, and it suddenly dawned on him that he had been here quite a while.

It was only when he turned on his phone and saw the time that he realized, with sinking heart that—

He was supposed to meet you at six.

If you were asked how you felt about your life now, you’d be hard-pressed to say you were completely content.

You were a stellar fighter in the Hunter Association, more than content with your job, and you had a good husband. To some, you had what they would call the perfect life.

The wife of the Dr. Zayne. True, it was a flattering title, yet unbeknownst to everyone, also a humbling one.

And the notion struck you once again when your husband of almost two years stood you up on your dinner date without so much as a notice.

“Miss... we’re about to close now...” The waitress approached your table for at least the third time, and you nodded sheepishly, finally finishing your meal.

You paid for it and left the restaurant. The chilly night air hit your skin, giving you goosebumps as you walked home. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Granted, Zayne had a packed schedule, and you figured he might've had an urgent matter to attend to that he forgot to let you know.

Still... it hurts. Knowing you were not a priority in your husband’s eyes wasn’t a fun feeling.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket the moment you arrived at your shared home. Your husband’s name flashed on your screen. The time now was 08.40 p.m.

“Hello, Zayne?”

“Y/N?” Your husband’s voice sounded frantic. “Are you still at the restaurant? I’m going—”

“Ah, no need to. I’m going home.”

“I’ll pick you up then. Stay there—”

“I’ve already arrived.”

An awkward silence settled between you, and you could clearly hear the noise on the other end. Greyson’s laughter was unmistakable.

You forced a laugh, still trying to sound cheerful for him even when realizing that he had completely forgotten about you. “It’s totally fine, Zayne! Are you heading back?”

“Yeah...”

“Take care then. See you at home.”

You ended the call with a sigh, trying to shake off the sting in your heart. As you made your way upstairs to your bedroom, you passed by a large portrait on the wall, and a bittersweet sensation washed over you.

Your wedding photo. Both of you were smiling on what was the most wonderful day of your life. Zayne’s smile was reserved, but yours was radiant.

It is the most wonderful thing that has happened to you... but is it the same for him?

At that time, despite everything, you were convinced a lifetime of happiness awaited you, yet now... it got harder to fool yourself into believing it.

Your marriage has always been lukewarm.

Zayne wasn’t an overly excited person, and you were his opposite—but try as you might, some things between you just didn’t work out. As a result, both of you tended to keep certain things to yourselves.

Most days, this didn't bother him. He valued his privacy, so the way things were suited him just fine. However, several days later, when Greyson approached him with a worried expression and a news, even Zayne had to draw the line.

“Dr. Zayne? Uh, how do I say this? I think I saw your wife being wheeled in earlier with the injured from the hunt zones raid…”

. . .

“Your husband is a doctor here. Why aren’t you calling him?”

Xavier, your fellow Deepspace Hunter who was partnered with you in this mission, questioned you with a hint of annoyance as he observed your pathetic state on the stretcher and crossed his arms. “Why do you have to bleed out in ER when you can get him?”

You winced, pressing the bloodied cloth against your stinging abdomen as you felt yourself growing faint. “He’s... a surgeon,” you panted. “He’s busy.”

Above all, you didn’t want Zayne to see you like this. You could already imagine his angry face, and that mental image alone made you recoil.

“What sort of husband is busy when his wife is injured?” Xavier raised an eyebrow. “Did you at least notify him?”

You shut your eyes, feeling a migraine coming.

“I will then.”

“No.”

“Y/N, you—”

“Shut up, Xavier—”

The curtain was suddenly pulled back, and you braced yourself for whoever had come to check on you next. To your surprise, the cloth in your hand was snatched away, and you felt your uniform being torn open with urgency.

When you opened your eyes, you barely made out your husband’s figure through your hazy vision. “…Zayne?”

His expression was stern, unforgiving even, as he started to disinfect your wound. Despite the tension, you couldn't deny the relief that washed over you. You knew you were in good hands, even if you had to face his fury later on.

Your consciousness slipped away not long after that.

. . .

The next time you woke up, you found yourself in a private room, with a nagging itch where you had been injured.

You groaned, your limbs stiff and heavy, and the room slowly came into focus—along with your husband's face.

"Zayne?" Your voice came out barely above a whisper. He stood pristine in his white coat and glasses, assessing you with a scrutinizing gaze.

"Your wound is, thankfully, shallow," he said flatly, his tone lacking any real concern. "You'll be discharged tonight. I'll take you home as soon as my shift is over."

"Ah..." You blinked several times to clear your head. "Good then. Sorry for showing up out of nowhere. Xavier and I were on a rescue mission, and I accidentally—"

He walked away before you could finish, the abruptness snapping you fully awake. He was furious, that much was clear.

"Ha ha..." You forced a laugh, fiddling with your fingers, trying to ease the awkward tension between you. "It doesn't hurt much, actually. You're right—I'm fine..."

Zayne shot you a sharp glance. "You passed out due to blood loss."

"This isn't the first time it has happened and nor will it be—"

"And it didn't even occur to you to inform me at all. I found out that my own wife was wounded because Greyson passed by the ER and saw you."

His words left you silent, caught red-handed, but your annoyance was reaching its limit. You had imagined how nice it would be if he panicked about you, showering you with care when he found out. But instead, Zayne chose to rebuke you the moment you woke up.

“I’m not a child,” you reasoned, keeping yourself calm. “I’m a hunter. This is nothing new, and you should understand that.”

“The least you could’ve done is to tell me—“

“Do you know why I didn’t? It’s because I know how you’ll react!”

“—and it would do you better to prioritize your safety and not rush headfirst into danger.”

“Believe me, I do but—!”

Suddenly, Zayne spun around to face you, his eyes blazing with fury as he raised his voice. “I’ve told you so many times already, you have to stay back, or you’ll end up—!”

He stopped abruptly, leaving his sentence hanging in the air, but right at that moment, you knew all too well who he meant, and what the implication was.

His, without a doubt, greatest love. His childhood friend, a hunter like yourself, someone he had vowed to save but succumbed to her illness before he could do so, died on arrival.

The irony was sharp. You had become everything she once was. You knew her well, too. When she passed, the entire Hunter Association mourned her loss. And more than that, on the night she died, you had been with him.

Looking back, you should have seen it coming. Still, it hit you like a splash of cold water. Your husband was still preoccupied with thoughts of his ex-girlfriend, and worse yet, he saw pieces of her in you.

And you suspected he had for a while—perhaps even, from the very beginning.

For a second there, not for the first time, you felt your heart shatter.

“I don’t have Protocore syndrome,” you stated, steeling yourself against the heartbreak. “My heart won't suddenly fail because I get injured. I’m not that weak.”

You turned away as Zayne refused to respond, missing his look of disdain as he stormed out of the room.

That was when your first tear fell.

Right from the start, you knew you had to brace yourself for this. You knew that eventually, this tragedy would overshadow your marriage. Because while Zayne might be your husband by law, deep down, his heart still belonged to someone else.

To her.

You two are too much alike.

It wasn’t the first time he had noticed it. And it wouldn’t be the last.

On bad mornings, when his eyes were bleary and he hadn't had a good sleep, he would see her instead of you in your shared bed. And with that mistaken sight came a fleeting sense of relief... until his vision cleared and he remembered she was truly gone and it was you.

Zayne knew how wrong this was on so many levels. It was terribly unfair to you.

Still, his concern for you was genuine. Seeing you lying still on the stretcher brought back that very same nightmare, and really, he truly never wanted you to be hurt.

After his outburst and your clipped response, the two of you barely exchanged any words for the rest of the week. To make matters worse, he was sent on a business trip the following week, and all in all, you went two weeks hardly speaking to each other.

And before he knew it, her death anniversary was only a couple of days away.

. . .

"How much is this?"

"Ah, the bow is 50,000 Gold, sir!"

Inside the airport's souvenir shop, Zayne examined the intricate light blue and white bow clip. Made of tweed and adorned with small pearls, it looked nice.

He thought it'd suit you well.

"I'll get this then."

"Right away!"

As the clerk went to wrap the trinket, Zayne reflected on these past two weeks. A nagging feeling twisted in his gut as he thought about how curt he had been with you in text messages and how often you had left him on read.

Husband and wife shouldn't be this way. He wanted the unbearable air between you to end. Determined to resolve things, he planned to talk to you when he returned. He was on his way to the airport taxi when—

"Zayne!" He stopped in his tracks, recognizing the familiar voice, and turned around.

There you were, waiting by his car with a smile.

It was never in you to stay angry for long. It was a blessing and a curse, really, because while you no longer wished to give your husband silent treatment, a part of you still felt conflicted.

"How was your trip?" you asked as you started the engine, pushing the events of the past two weeks to the back of your mind.

Zayne didn't immediately answer, and you felt his gaze on you as you drove the car. "It was okay."

You hummed in acknowledgement, and he followed up with, "How is your wound? Do you dress it daily?"

"Mm-hm. It's getting better."

"I'll have a look at it later."

"Sure."

Silence. Usually you would ramble to distract him, but now, even you weren’t sure if you should.

Then, he said, "You really didn’t have to pick me up. I could have made my way home on my own."

To that, you pasted on a smile. “You always pick me up whenever I have to go on business trips. It’s only fair I do the same for you, husband.”

Ah. Was it the wrong move? The word had slipped out so easily that you didn’t realize it until after you said it.

But to your surprise, Zayne let out a chuckle and played along. "Well, thank you then, wife. It certainly felt quite off without a certain someone the past week."

So, he actually likes having you around...? The thought made you almost giddy. Despite his usual taciturn and sarcastic demeanor, you knew he was genuine in his own way.

"Bet you missed me," you teased, grinning.

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Are you sure it's not the other way around?"

"Nope. But I did miss getting new snowmen."

"...why do you like them so much? I've made plenty for you already."

"No particular reason. Snowman just kinda reminds me of you somehow."

The tension between you had melted away, and you felt a sense of relief. Beside you, even Zayne couldn’t hide his smile. For the rest of the drive home, you chatted like you used to.

When you arrived back at your shared home, he suddenly stopped and presented you with a little box. "I got you something."

"Huh?" you paused, bewildered, as he took your hand and placed the box in it.

"Open it."

With curiosity, you lifted the lid, and were surprised at the sight of a pretty bow clip inside. "Whoa, how cute..."

Zayne eyed you expectantly. "Do you like it?"

Your eyes lit up with delight, and a smile spread across your lips.

"Yes!" you beamed at him with zero hesitation, and in that moment, something struck a chord within him. Zayne had always thought you were easy on the eyes—

—but when you smiled like that, you were truly charming.

"It's healing nicely."

You felt somewhat self-conscious as your husband examined your bare abdomen, where your injury was, as you lied on your bed. His hands, cool and practiced, tenderly removed your stitches.

It wasn't as if Zayne had never touched you. You two had been married for almost two years, and of course you had been intimate several times, but it wasn't as if you were a passionate couple to begin with—so you often found yourself flustered.

"Mm." Despite yourself, you squirmed. Noticing this, he looked up at you, his unfazed eyes meeting yours with a frown.

"Does it still hurt?"

"No, not really... It just feels as if you're tickling me."

He was positively unamused. "I'm not trying to tickle you."

"I know!"

Zayne wrapped your midsection securely with the bandage. When he was done, he let out a sigh and you felt like you had to show him your gratitude somehow.

“Thank you, Zayne…” you mumbled, avoiding eye contact. But in the next second, your heart skipped a beat as his hand rested gently on your head.

"You can thank me by being more careful next time." Your husband looked at you with the smallest of smile. "Your safety comes first, always remember that."

Without either of you realizing it, you both had tried to bury that argument from two weeks ago, yet it was still gnawing at you all the same. The thought that he too was bothered with it made you warm.

"Noted," you cheekily grinned. "If I'm not safe and sound, a certain iceman will get angry at me."

Zayne shot you an unimpressed look. “If you come to me injured again, I’ll start charging you fees.”

You let out a dramatic gasp. "How stingy! I'm your wife, not just some stranger!"

"A very uncooperative wife, you are."

You huffed, and he chuckled. You really thought all was well between you two now, until Zayne suddenly stood up and grabbed the car keys. “Well then, rest. I have to go.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to stop by the florist—”

And it hit you. In two days. The day everything ended three years ago.

Zayne seemed to realize it too, but you quickly masked your falling smile with a faux one. "O-oh, right..."

No matter how, it's still going to be an important day to him. You had nothing against it, really. Your husband's late girlfriend had once been your colleague too, and you mourned her just like everyone else did.

Still, even with that understanding, in your heart of hearts, it remains just as bitter.

You didn't want to, but you needed to find closure. You hoped that by doing this, it would finally put an end to all your insecurities.

"Let's go together, Zayne. I want to pay her a visit too."

Two days later, you and Zayne, a bouquet of flowers in hand, stood before the grave bearing many colorful flowers and postcards.

You supposed you knew already, but seeing it firsthand, you realized just how deeply she was loved still. The outpouring of respect from the Hunter Association was evident in the tribute left behind.

"It's been a while," Zayne, dressed in his most formal black suit, said solemnly, his gaze fixed on the name etched into the pristine stone.

You watched as he knelt to place his flowers and then brought his hands together in prayer. You followed his lead, placing your own bouquet beside his.

What should you even say to her? Your mind raced with countless thoughts, but none felt right to voice before the woman who had so deeply captured your husband's heart.

In the end, when you sensed that Zayne had finished with his prayer, you decided to remain silent and rose with him.

. . .

“Does it get easier?” you asked out of curiosity afterwards. “Three years has passed already.”

Although Zayne wasn’t one for drinking, even the need won today. He didn’t meet your eyes as he sipped his wine, humming thoughtfully. “Somewhat. As they say, time heals.”

You two stopped by a fine restaurant after visiting the grave. The cemetery had been a two-hour drive from Linkon City, and now it was already evening.

“She loved jasmines,” you remarked, recalling the pot of them you once saw on her desk and the flowers overflowing at the grave earlier.

“She did.” The alcohol seemed to loosen his tongue as he continued, “She loved old popsicles and macarons too.”

“And you like them as well.”

“To be honest, I started liking them back when we were kids…” Zayne had this pained, faraway look in his eyes as he had another sip. “She cried over her melted popsicle and it got me to wonder if it was really that tasty...”

The idea that you had to compete with a dead woman for your husband’s affection left a bitter taste in your mouth. You felt like you had failed thoroughly as a wife.

Despite hating yourself for asking, you needed to know. “Do I help you… in any way at all?”

Zayne was clearly taken aback by the question. His sharp, gray eyes locked onto you, mind whirred as he tried to grasp your meaning.

“Y/N, you...”

It was foolish, you knew. But you waited with bated breath for his response, even when one wrong word could shatter your heart beyond repair. You were ready for any sort of unfavorable answer, but then—

“I... am glad it is you.”

His words made you look up, and you found yourself caught in his gaze. Zayne’s ashen eyes were steady, piercing into you.

“You were there on the hardest days. And ever since, you’ve always stayed by my side.” He held your gaze firmly, voice was thick with emotion you couldn’t quite name. “I’m grateful for that.”

And then, with a sincerity that pierced through every uncertainty, he added, “What I want to say is... I’m glad I married you, Y/N.”

You have loved him for so long. Since the days when you know he isn’t yours to love, until now.

Your heart swelled with so much warmth that tears brimmed in your eyes. His acknowledgment of your presence filled you with a profound sense of belonging you never knew you needed before.

Was it the alcohol?

You suspected it might be, because in nearly two years of marriage, Zayne had never lost his control like this. As soon as the bedroom door was shut, he pushed you against the wall and devoured your lips hungrily.

“Mmph!” His hands gripped your arms while his lips and tongue pried yours open. The kiss was searing, almost forceful, with the faint bitterness of wine still lingering.

“Zay…ne…” you gasped between his kisses—teary, breathless, your voice trembling.

But your breathy grunts only seemed to spur him on. His dark eyes, clouded with lust, fixed on you as his hands slipped beneath your blouse, deftly unclasping your bra with a flick.

He is hot. Your husband was everything a woman desired in a man. Cool, handsome, blessed with hands that could do wonders—

In no time, he had you naked and wet before him, and with alarming speed, he too discarded his own suit and pants, throwing them away in flurry. And you could hardly believe what you were seeing next.

He spitted on his hand, ran it along his member—stroking himself with a practiced ease, never breaking eye contact with you. The next thing you knew, he yanked you into another burning kiss and made you topple on top of him—

“Ah!” his hands guided your hips with precision, positioning you and entering you. The instant he did, you whimpered at the sudden, sharp sting of pain.

“Does it hurt?” he asked almost in a growl when you clung to his shoulder with uneven breaths.

It was too sudden, and you hoped the discomfort would pass, so you timidly shook your head.

“If you don’t want this, tell me to stop.” Zayne tangled his fingers in your hair, turning your face to his. “Understand?”

There was always a distinct, almost commanding aura about him whenever the two of you were in your marital bed. Perhaps the way his voice sound lower, but it just hit different.

And you are a willing prey... whenever he becomes that beast.

He inched inside you slowly, making you moan with each instance. He was thick, warm, and taking him in was a challenge in itself. And when he finally sheathed himself fully, your nails had made its first scratch on his skin.

You felt full, and the way your womanhood stretched and clenched around him with each breathe you took made you dizzy. Panting, you finally met his gaze. Zayne’s gray-hazel eyes were still clouded with desire as he placed his hands firmly on your hips. Unable to resist, you reached out to caress his face.

"Hmm..." he subconsciously leaned into your touch, pressing his eyes shut together. "You smell nice," he huskily muttered.

Right this moment, all negative thoughts eluded you. It felt gratifying that your husband sought your touch like this as you towered over him.

And yet, despite that...

“Do you... finally see me now?” you asked, trailing your other hand down his toned chest and starting to grind against him. Zayne drew in a sharp breath and groaned, his fingers gripping your bum tighter.

Depending on his response, you would either find peace or face another heartbreak. You had placed your happiness on this pedestal more times than you could count, and it was a cross you had to bear.

But you never received your answer.

Your husband merely gazed up at you with a dangerous gleam. And oh, you could've sworn, this sight of Zayne eyeing you as if he were about to ruin you right then and there, would live-free in your mind for many days to come.

He then buried his face in your bosom, sucking on you with such fervor that your hands instinctively reached for his head to massage his scalp. The room was soon filled with your erotic groans and the squelching sounds from where your flesh were joined together— as he thrusted inside you over and over.

Right in this moment, you felt truly desired and wanted.

You are so happy. Incomparably so.

At the crack of dawn, Zayne woke with a start.

The first thing he noticed was how spent he felt, his limbs stiff and a throbbing headache pulsing at the back of his head.

Then he turned to his side, and the sight that met him twisted his gut in such a way that snapped him fully awake—

You were beside him, barely dressed and still deeply asleep. Your hair was a mess, and love bites were scattered across your skin, some on your chest looking almost like bruises.

It dawned on him that he, too, wasn’t decent. A sudden coldness gripped him, though it wasn’t just the morning air.

Him and you... last night...

Yesterday marked the third year. He meant everything he said to you, but the fact that he did this, with you, on the day of her death...

There was... nothing wrong with what he had done. You were his wife, no one could condone him for what he instigated. Yet, it still made him shiver.

And to make it worse, his thoughts from last night echoed back with vengeance, and—

He suddenly feels so immensely guilty.

. . .

It was the best sleep you’d had all week.

When you woke, sunlight had seeped through the window, and you discovered yourself already in pajamas, tucked snugly under a blanket. Still groggy with a dull ache in your lower belly, you relished the lingering afterglow, sighing in pure contentment, until you noticed Zayne wasn’t beside you.

Where did he go? You wondered amidst your haze. Sluggish, you stumbled out of the bed, flinching when your foot met the cold floor.

You eventually found him downstairs, sipping coffee at the dining table still with messy hair. "Zayne?"

He glanced up at you and nodded. There was something different about him, a subtle shift you couldn’t quite place. As you took a seat across from him, you hesitated, unsure of what to say.

Before you could find the right words though, he spoke first.

"I'm... sorry," he said, his tone laced with regret, causing a sharp pang of unease inside you.

"What?" you stared at him, feeling small and unsettled. "What are you sorry for?" you questioned as you gripped the hem of your shirt.

And then came the killing blow—

"Last night," Zayne muttered, avoiding your gaze. "I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. It was a mistake."

Mistake. The word echoed in your mind, but it was still hard to grasp its full weight.

"How was that—" you faltered, trembling, as the realization hit you like a truck and you gasped in disbelief. "Oh..."

Her. Again, and again, and again! Even when he was married to you, even when you were the one next to him each and everyday— even so!

Your husband considers that a night spent with you—his wife—a mistake!

The last of your patience snapped, as you broke down in sobs before him. "You're the worst!" you screamed at him amidst your mournful tears.

Zayne seemed taken aback at your outburst, his eyes wide. "Y/N, wait, you don't—"

"Screw you!" But you were beyond explanations at this point. You fled back to your bedroom. Zayne followed you suit, but you slammed the door in his face and locked it. As you collapsed onto the floor, the realization hit you with full force.

No matter what you did, you would always come second—or not at all.

The fracture in your marriage was undeniable.

Things had changed. Your home felt colder, and the tension was so stifling that you sometimes spent the night at the Hunter Association’s dorm just to escape it.

Zayne initially tried to reach out, but you were unwilling to listen, and eventually, he gave up. Before long, nearly a month had passed with this strain in the air.

You threw yourself into more rescue operations, using work as a distraction from the turmoil that lingered in your mind. Despite your best efforts to distract yourself, the unresolved thoughts and feelings clung to you.

"Xavier, am I lacking as a woman?"

Your frequent partner these days cracked open an eye despite his attempt to nap before today’s rescue mission. "What...?"

"No, forget it."

Things couldn't go like this forever. It was obvious by now—as long as he couldn’t let go of his past and you couldn’t accept him as he was, this marriage couldn't be saved.

Just as you headed towards the printer in the room, Xavier responded. "You talk a lot, eat a lot, and always bothering me when I'm about to sleep..."

You shot him an irked glance, disbelief evident on your face. "Hey!"

"But—" his clear voice cut through the air as he turned to you with half-lidded eyes. "You're exceptionally kind. If anyone can't appreciate that, then it's their loss."

At that moment, the ice inside your chest melted. To know that your own co-worker thought that kindly of you gave you a little boost of confidence.

But then Xavier added, "Sometimes you're stupid too. It's funny to watch."

"—?! You're so mean!"

A subtle smile curved on his lips as he turned to his side, ready to resume his nap. "Anyway, what are you printing?"

You feigned a huff as you gathered the papers and brought them to your desk. "Just something I need to submit when necessary."

A part of you wasn’t fully committed to it, of course—it was just that your emotions had no proper outlet even until now. As you pushed the drawer shut, a wave of bitterness washed over you as you reread the title on the blank form:

Petition for Divorce.

Zayne genuinely wanted to treat you well.

You were a nice girl. Too nice even. From the moment he laid his eyes on you some years ago, as a friend of a friend, he knew you were nothing but kind and cheery.

He still remembered that morning vividly: the hurt on your face, the tears welling up in your eyes, and then you breaking into inconsolable sobs. That sight inflicted something in him—it felt as though his own heart had been split in two.

Believe it or not, he cherished you too.

That night, even though he didn’t show it, he was still mourning her. When alcohol took over his mind and he saw you, you seemed like a perfect escape. He thought that even if he forced himself on you, there would be no consequences.

He hated that he had thought that way. He hated that how, in the end, you had become a means of relief for him.

Now you couldn't even look him in the eye, and Zayne didn't want to risk trying to coax you further. You were angry with him and rightly so, but when you ignored him and went home late more often, he was worried.

It was what drove him to volunteer for the rescue mission. When he saw your name on the hunter list, he felt compelled to make sure you were okay.

. . .

It was strange to see you on duty.

With your hunter uniform and your hair tied up, you were the picture of a very capable hunter. Zayne found himself unexpectedly following your movements as you came and went.

"Dr. Zayne, are you checking your wife out?" the EMT next to him teased with a grin. "Well, when you have a pretty wife such as Y/N, of course..."

He cleared his throat and the EMT giggled as he sauntered away.

So, you were also considered attractive here. Of course you were. Zayne knew it, but he just didn't expect that anyone here would blurt it out so openly.

But that wasn't the most surprising of all—

"Xavier, shush!" you playfully punched the blonde man next to you in the chest, your broad smile lighting up the moment. The two of you whispered closely, and Zayne found himself feeling uncomfortable, like being prickled by several needles.

He has never made you laugh so openly like that. The nagging feeling inside him grew stronger as he watched you—even if it was just in a platonic sense—with another man. It stirred something within him, making him want to pull that blonde aside, give him a word or two, and overthrow him altogether.

Amidst the growing storm inside him, you suddenly turned sideways and caught his eye, and Zayne could've sworn... he felt time stopped at that moment.

It was so candid that it took his breath away. The way your earnest, unclouded eyes met his. How natural you were while loading your gun...

Ah, they were right. His wife was exceptionally pretty.

But before he could fully appreciate it, you broke the eye contact and turned away, pretending as if you hadn’t seen him at all.

Zayne wondered then, why did he feel so hurt all of a sudden?

Battlefields were always a place of chaos, and Zayne was no stranger to it.

He was on standby at the makeshift hospital as patients surged in, continuously aiding first-aid. Some were hunters on duty, and his heart was in his throat the entire time, anxiously hoping you wouldn’t be among them.

"Doc... it still hurts," a little girl sniffled right after Zayne wrapped her injured arm with the gauze. Despite the anxiety, seeing this tearful girl softened his frown.

"It's just going to take a while, hmm?" he patted the kid in the head. "It's going to be better soon enough."

"My mom is still inside..." she said, her eyes welling up with tears. "Doc, will they get her out?"

Zayne hesitated, his thoughts briefly drifting to you. He managed a reassuring smile. "Don’t worry, they’ll—"

Crash! —all of a sudden, a loud explosion shook the hospital, the sound echoing through the chaos. The little girl clung to his coat in fear.

"Call for retreat!" someone suddenly shouted from outside. "Alert all personnel immediately!"

Retreat. The thought that you might be safe soon brought him a sense of relief. He turned to the girl, trying to keep his composure.

"Look, the hunters are retreating, it means most are already evacuated." Zayne managed a reassuring smile. "Stay here. I'll help you find her later, okay?"

He went to the survivors' camp outside, attending to the wounded and keeping a vigilant eye on each returning hunter. Even until 30 minutes later, he still hadn't seen you. Thinking to contact you, he reached out for his phone.

"Who hasn't gotten out?" Jenna, your team leader, demanded the receiver with a stern voice, standing tall several feet away from the camp, and Zayne overheard the snippets of her conversation.

A frantic voice responded, "Xavier is still inside! Y/N too!"

"Those two! They are always—!"

What?

Zayne almost dropped his phone when he heard your name. Terror gripped him instantly, and then suddenly, again, it was his greatest nightmare realized.

You are still inside. You could be hurt. It was possible you had no means to get out of there.

He didn’t register letting go of his coat or crossing the police line—all that mattered was getting to you. He sprinted away, ignoring the shouts of those trying to stop him.

No. Not again!

Debris flew everywhere, and the roars of Wanderers grew louder as he neared the building wreckage. As a splinter was about to hit him, ice shot through his palms, creating a barrier that shattered it.

"Y/N!" he shouted your name, his voice cracking with panic. "Where are you?!"

All he could think about was the memory of you bleeding out in the ER. Zayne never wanted to see that again. Should anything happen to you now...

He didn't want you to be hurt. He hated seeing you cry. For the past weeks, it had torn him apart to see you so unhappy. He wanted to be the one who made you smile, the one you looked at with love.

The realization washed over him like a tidal wave. Yet it wasn’t an epiphany but a simple truth he had always known but never fully grasped until now.

If he lost you now, it'd destroy him.

He continued screaming your name over and over. And then, after turning several turns, he finally saw you, standing alone in the middle of the wreckage—

You turned to him in surprise when you heard your name in his shout, and were rooted to the spot, in disbelief that your husband was right before you.

Zayne felt a wave of relief wash over him, until a hollow croak from above caught his attention. He squinted—

A glass panel had crumbled and was falling directly towards you.

A sense of dread so great overwhelmed him, a lump formed in his throat, and the smoke made it hard to breathe. He sprinted forward, and with everything he had, he pushed you out the way.

The next thing he knew, everything went pitch black.

"Zayne? Zayne!"

A memory flashed in his mind's eye. The one memory he wished he didn't have to relive ever again.

Sitting on the deserted hospital bench, his eyes were vacant. Utter hollowness choked him, leaving him motionless. It was over. There was no blood on his hands, yet it felt as if there were.

Your grip on his shoulder was tight, shaking him. "Zayne, snap out of it!" and only then he brought himself to meet your eyes.

"She died." That was the only thing he could mutter, pain woven in each word. "She really died."

Your eyes widened in horror, an inaudible gasp left your lips. "Oh..."

He didn't really know what happened next, but he remembered the warmth from when you pulled him to your arms, when sobs wracked his body as he thought the world was ending.

Since then, you have always been there.

And subconsciously, he may have regarded you as his lifeline.

. . .

Another memory.

"Are you awake...?"

His mind was hazy, but he recognized your voice. He blearily opened his eyes to find you placing a cool compress on his forehead.

"Who would have thought the great Dr. Zayne can get a fever?" you said with a soft laugh, patting his hair. "Don’t worry about me. Go back to sleep."

You came to see him. He remembered telling you not to. But you still did, and the fact thawed the ice in his heart.

Just as you were about to leave, his hand reached out and pulled you closer. "Don’t go."

"Are you trying to make me catch your cold too?" you teased with a soft laugh.

"Hmph. Who told you to come here...?"

"Ah, so you're whiny when you're not feeling well," you observed with a smile. "Okay, I'll stay! But only if you agree to nurse me if I catch your cold!"

You were noisy, but endearingly so.

. . .

"Don't pay her any mind," you fidgeted on your seat, a frown on your face. "My mom always does that."

There was never any talk about the nature your relationship between the two of you, but it was clear to everyone nevertheless. You were always around him, and he seemed to enjoy your company just as much.

And not for the first time, your mother pushed him towards marriage with you.

"People are always getting the wrong idea," you grumbled. "Sorry, Zayne..." you lowered your head, seemingly in regret.

He was puzzled, because to him, it wasn't necessarily false. All things you did together lead to this.

"What if it isn't a wrong idea at all?"

You looked at him with slight surprise. "Huh...?"

Your presence was a gift. That tragedy was devastating, but having you constantly by his side made it bearable. He was fond of you, and the thought that if it's you, then surely...

In this memory, he was more sure than ever. What he said then, it came from the truest place in his heart.

"What if I told you... as of right now, I can't imagine being with anyone but you?"

The side of his head was throbbing with pain. Everything hurt, the hard asphalt was bruising his face as the headache set in. He could smell the scent of blood and sweat, but more than that—

"Zayne! Ah, hah— Please, please! No!"

Your voice, choked with tears, blared in his ears as you desperately shook him. You sounded so heartbroken, so utterly panicked, and your voice gradually pulled him back to consciousness.

Opening his eyes took tremendous effort. At first, everything was a blur, but then it came into focus—the sight of you disheveled, smeared with soot, with tears streaming down your face. But still you— the woman he had married two years ago.

Yet his heart lurched. You're crying again... why is it that whenever with me, you're always crying?

"Are you... alright?" he rasped, lifting his hand to touch your face.

"Why did you—" You were startled by his question, your gaze fixed on the blood pooling on the side of his face. "Your head is bleeding!"

Ah, so you're fine. The sheer knowledge brought him relief, a faint smile forming at his lips. "I'm glad..."

"I'll help you get back! Hold onto me—" you said after brushing away your tears, lifting him up and draping his arm around your shoulder. "Can you walk?"

"I'm... fine..."

"You're not!" you refuted harshly, voice trembling. "You have to go back!"

You made him lean on you as you made your way back to the makeshift hospital, each step accompanied by your sniffles as you supported his waist.

Zayne glanced at you, feeling a warmth in his chest despite the migraine. "D-Don't cry... I'll be fine."

"You're an idiot!" you choked out, struggling to hold back your tears. "Why did you even come out here?"

"I... have to find you. They said you haven't returned."

"There are still civilians inside! I'll return eventually!"

"I can’t wait for that. I... have to know you're safe."

His response only fueled your frustration. "You don't have to—!"

"You are my wife—" he snapped, turning to you sharply, his eyes flashing with anger. "How can I not worry— for you?"

The forceful tone in his voice went straight to the most tender part of your heart. It really struck you at that moment that he had come out here for you, that his concern for you was that profound.

And that after all these weeks, he still keeps you in his thoughts.

He had pushed you out of the way, even at the cost of himself, barely missing the fallen billboard in that violent crash. If he was in the wrong position, he could've lost his life.

You stared at him, tears glossing your eyes.

"That's enough... Don't cry again." Zayne reached out to wipe your cheeks. His hands, however, were smeared with his own blood, leaving streaks on your face. "Ah... I got blood on you..."

But in that moment, you couldn’t care less. There was this indescribable sting of grief, but also paired with a sense of relief so great in your chest the very second you realize that now, he sees you.

You threw yourself into his arms, hugging him tightly as you sobbed, calling out to him in broken voice. “Z-Zayne...!”

“Why are you crying again...?” he let out a resigned sigh, but still embraced you regardless. “What a crybaby...”

You buried your face deeper into him, shaking uncontrollably. “You... saved me...” you managed to say amidst torrent of tears. “Y-You... got hurt...”

“I’ll be fine,” he retorted in your ear albeit in a hoarse voice, holding you close, even as blood trickled down the side of his face. “And I’d do it again. I refuse to see you hurt.”

You cried harder, and he pulled you tighter, his chest aching at the sight of you so inconsolable. And in that moment, he made the decision right then and there.

He will protect you so long as time will allow him to.

It was as if the invisible wall between you had crumbled to dust after that incident. You stayed by Zayne's side night and day, monitoring his condition.

And one night, several days later...

"Here, don't move..."

You carefully dressed the wound on Zayne's temple, sitting close beside him. He quietly observed your worried eyes and trembling fingers without a word.

"You even need stitches..." you lamented, biting your lip as you wrapped the bandage around his head. Tears pricked your eyes, overwhelmed by the concern you were pouring into the task.

"I'm telling you, I'm fine," he gruffly insisted in an attempt to erase your mournful expression. He felt the delicate, almost hesitant touch of your fingers on his face. "It'll heal with time."

Even as he said that, a part of you was still troubled at the sight of the wound on his head and cheekbone. No matter what he said, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow your fault.

"I'm done. Now go rest," you said softly, your voice tinged with bitterness after tying the gauze. You rose to put the kit away, but even after you finished, Zayne remained upright on the bed, so you leveled a frown at him.

"What, why aren't you— Ah!"

Before you knew it, he pulled you by the arm, and you tumbled into his chest in surprise. "What are you doing?!" you yelled at him, clinging to his shoulder and looking up at him with ire. "You could've hit your head!"

He looked down at you with a flat expression, or is that a hint of amusement glinting in his eyes? “Can't a husband cuddle his wife?”

You blinked dumbly, caught off-guard. “Yes, you can, but...”

His arms then enveloped you, fitting you on his chest and he sighed against your hair. “Then there’s nothing wrong with it. Let’s just stay like this for now.”

And so, that was how he decided to sleep throughout the night—with you on top of him, held close. You felt self-conscious as Zayne had never initiated this closeness with you since that night.

"Are you sure you want to sleep this way?" you wriggled a bit in his grasp.

He draped an arm around your waist, pressing his eyes shut. "Mm-hm."

"You..." A part of you recoiled at the vulnerability but decided to ask anyway. "Won't this be… a mistake...?"

That caught his attention, as Zayne's eyes fluttered open. He looked down at you, who avoided his gaze with a pout and a torn expression, making yourself small in his embrace.

It dawned on him then that this persisting issue in your marriage was thoroughly his fault. His past was something he could never—and would never—trade for anything, but right now, you were that sense of peace that grounded him.

At one point, he has to let it go. These feelings inside him… they drive him to.

He softened, his gaze full of understanding as he gently brushed your hair back. "No," he said quietly, his voice tender. "We’ve come too far for it to be one."

Your clear, innocent eyes reluctantly met his, and at that moment something akin to clarity resonated within him.

He once thought nothing could ever mend the hollowness in his heart. And once, he indeed hoped that being with you would provide some form of relief or replace what he had lost.

But right now, feeling how vulnerable you were in his arms like this, he understood that you were not, and could never be, a replacement for anything else. Even before he realized it himself, what he felt for you was something entirely different— something dear that had grown and evolved into a genuine affection different from what he had felt for anyone else before.

Those times spent with you, wanting to protect you... Now that he reflected on it, it was never about filling a void, after all.

“I... want to treasure you better.”

Oh. Your heart thumped loudly as those words left his lips, warmth spreading through your entire being. Overwhelmed by the sincerity in his voice, you clung to his chest, feeling a surge of love and a profound sense of being freed from the chains of insecurity that had taken you hostage all these years.

Most precious. Zayne smiled at you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head.

“This time for sure... I will.”

And at last... he could say it without any lingering guilt.

[valeriehalla]

actual writing advice

1. Use the passive voice.

What? What are you talking about, “don’t use the passive voice”? Are you feeling okay? Who told you that? Come on, let’s you and me go to their house and beat them with golf clubs. It’s just grammar. English is full of grammar: you should go ahead and use all of it whenever you want, on account of English is the language you’re writing in.

2. Use adverbs.

Now hang on. What are you even saying to me? Don’t use adverbs? My guy, that is an entire part of speech. That’s, like—that’s gotta be at least 20% of the dictionary. I don’t know who told you not to use adverbs, but you should definitely throw them into the Columbia river.

3. There’s no such thing as “filler”.

Buddy, “filler” is what we called the episodes of Dragon Ball Z where Goku wasn’t blasting Frieza because the anime was in production before Akira Toriyama had written the part where Goku blasts Frieza. Outside of this extremely specific context, “filler” does not exist. Just because a scene wouldn’t make it into the Wikipedia synopsis of your story’s plot doesn’t mean it isn’t important to your story. This is why “plot” and “story” are different words!

4. okay, now that I’ve snared you in my trap—and I know you don’t want to hear this—but orthography actually does kind of matter

First of all, a lot of what you think of as “grammar” is actually orthography. Should I put a comma here? How do I spell this word in this context? These are questions of orthography (which is a fancy Greek word meaning “correct-writing”). In fact, most of the “grammar questions” you’ll see posted online pertain to orthography; this number probably doubles in spaces for writers specifically.

If you’re a native speaker of English, your grammar is probably flawless and unremarkable for the purposes of writing prose. Instead, orthography refers to the set rules governing spelling, punctuation, and whitespace. There are a few things you should know about orthography:

English has no single orthography. You already know spelling and punctuation differ from country to country, but did you know it can even differ from publisher to publisher? Some newspapers will set parenthetical statements apart with em dashes—like this, with no spaces—while others will use slightly shorter dashes – like this, with spaces – to name just one example.

Orthography is boring, and nobody cares about it or knows what it is. For most readers, orthography is “invisible”. Readers pay attention to the words on a page, not the paper itself; in much the same way, readers pay attention to the meaning of a text and not the orthography, which exists only to convey that meaning.

That doesn’t mean it’s not important. Actually, that means it’s of the utmost importance. Because orthography can only be invisible if it meets the reader’s expectations.

You need to learn how to format dialogue into paragraphs. You need to learn when to end a quote with a comma versus a period. You need to learn how to use apostrophes, colons and semicolons. You need to learn these things not so you can win meaningless brownie points from your English teacher for having “Good Grammar”, but so that your prose looks like other prose the reader has consumed.

If you printed a novel on purple paper, you’d have the reader wondering: why purple? Then they’d be focusing on the paper and not the words on it. And you probably don’t want that! So it goes with orthography: whenever you deviate from standard practices, you force the reader to work out in their head whether that deviation was intentional or a mistake. Too much of that can destroy the flow of reading and prevent the reader from getting immersed.

You may chafe at this idea. You may think these “rules” are confusing and arbitrary. You’re correct to think that. They’re made the fuck up! What matters is that they were made the fuck up collaboratively, by thousands of writers over hundreds of years. Whether you like it or not, you are part of that collaboration: you’re not the first person to write prose, and you can’t expect yours to be the first prose your readers have ever read.

That doesn’t mean “never break the rules”, mind you. Once you’ve gotten comfortable with English orthography, then you are free to break it as you please. Knowing what’s expected gives you the power to do unexpected things on purpose. And that’s the really cool shit.

5. You’re allowed to say the boobs were big if the story is about how big the boobs were

Nobody is saying this. Only I am brave enough to say it.

Well, bye!