#“this is when you stop being the rabbit” and all

[parfaitblogs]

sleeping with the lights on ❀ s. reid x reader

in which the first time you kill an unsub hits you like a truck, and spencer reid is there to pick up you back up. 

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: hurt/comfort tags: comfort very little hurt. ptsd. description of someone being shot. this is my thesis for my phd in yapology. spencer reid loves you sooo much like sooo much. word count: 2k a/n: i miss posting… i miss you guys… im deeply sorry for not posting for over a month. i have so much in the works i promise i promise!! anyways yesss i read dostoevsky before writing this im sure you can tell russian novelists take over your brainnn.

"thank you for loving me when i still tasted of heartache and war." (nikita gill)

There is a certain shade of fear behind a person's eyes when they know they are about to die. 

When there is a gun levelled at their heads, and the wrong thing spills past their mouth, even the most psychotic of God's men will see a second of fear before there is tranquility. Survival instincts kick in, and no narcissistic, smug facade can ever deny that specific human brain's worst fear is dying. 

Is it not most? 

Fear of what dying feels like. Does it hurt? When every organ in your body shuts down, is it slow, and the most agonising of feelings? Or is it quick; painless? Does your brain shut down first and therefore render you unable to actually register the agony you're in? What happens after is an entirely new rabbit hole to delve into. 

Where does our conscious actually go after life? A permanent state of nothingness sounds lonely. Heaven implies there is a celestial being behind everything. Reincarnation means you have to live through this doomed from the start world all over again, and you won't even know it is your second, third, hundredth time on Earth. 

Guilt. 

An annoyingly human emotion that will eat at you from the inside out, chewing its way through organ and bone, consuming you so wholly you stop believing you are worth anything to anyone. You can nurse your own brain back to a faux sense of health, rocking back and forth on the cold wooden planks of apartment flooring, but you can never erase the guilt that takes over your body. For when it is this strong, it is more than just a mere pit churning in your stomach.

It's cold on your side of the bed.

He's pretty sure it's what prompts him awake at the glaring hour of two forty seven in the morning. 

Rumpled sheets provide him the needed comfort that he didn't imagine you going to sleep with him only mere hours earlier, but the lack of warmth left on the fabric frightens him into thinking you've been awake for hours. He pats it down anyway, seeking any inkling of body warmth left within the fabric. Proof that you are still nearby, and haven't had enough time to run too far. 

You haven't. 

By the time his eyes adjust to the blackness of the room, he can see the shadowed outline of your body sitting at the end. Head just visible from your balled up position on the floor, rocking yourself as a desperate attempt to comfort whatever is going on inside your brain. 

He says your name quietly, voice a barely there whisper as he shuffles across the bed to lower next to you. It sounds crackly to your ears, and he's in dire need of water if he wants to fix the hoarseness of it. But you are also as quiet as you hum in response, wiping your eyes with the backs of your hands and turning your head to look at him. 

He doesn't say anything as he coaxes you into his welcoming arms, fingers brushing against your scalp, and accepting your heavy hearted emotions as they are. He lets your walls crumble, and holds on as you sob into his chest, dampening the fabric of his shirt in a way he doesn't particularly like, but he will ignore it for you. 

There's a layer of distaste for the position you are in that almost wills you to rip his arms off of you. Guilt coincides with self loathing more often than not, and he is holding you as if you are soft. 

You are not.

"Do you ever think about dying?" you whisper.

There is silence in his apartment that follows your question, and your eyes transfix on the glow of the moon through the sheer curtains on his windows. It blurs with the fabric, the illusion of a fuzzy circle. You wouldn't know it was the moon if you weren't holding onto its existence with a vicelike grip. 

"I do," he finally provides you, predictably so. "A lot."

"I didn't," you reply, clasping your fingers with his own hand, tracing circles over his knuckles to focus your mind. "Not intensely. Did you know being shot can sometimes feel like nothing?"

"For the first few moments, yes," he nods. Of course he did. "It's due to the nerve networks being our receptors for pain, as opposed to the tactile sensors. Signals move slower between the brain and the nociceptors, which are our pain receptors."

"Do you think he felt nothing when he died?"

A question weighing tonnes. He's silent for a few crucial moments, and you slowly come to your own conclusion of what the answer would be. Probably yes, for you had located where the bullet landed after you'd fired it, and you knew whatever pain receptors he had still functioning would never get those signals to his brain. He was brain dead before he'd even hit the floor. 

"I can't tell you what he felt for absolute certain," he replies, gently shaking your body out of its frozen position so he could lift your limbs atop of his own. He lets you finish the movement of climbing into his lap, face burying into his neck, his arms encircled tight around your waist. "You'll drive yourself crazy thinking about this."

"I feel crazy."

"Honey," he places his palms on either side of your head and pulls it back so he can look at you, thumbs collecting the tears that fall from the movement. "Why is this overwhelming you?"

"I killed someone, Spencer," your voice wavers as you speak, cutting in and out, and you were already so quiet. 

"You killed a man who killed a lot of people," he reasons. "Do you think he sat awake each night and pondered how they felt dying?"

"No, but—"

"—Then why are you?"

You stare at him in bewilderment for a few moments. You're aware there is a point within his accusatory words, but it does not communicate entirely, and you do not like the disdain for the man in front of you that wells in your chest. 

"Because I'm not a psychopath," you murmur, fingers beginning to fidget with the hem of his own shirt. 

He lets out a puff of air that hits your lips signalling his slight frustration, but he nods his head. 

You call him out on it anyways.

"You're angry with me."

He offers you a small smile. 

"I am not angry with you," his fingers poke your sides, and you squirm. "I'm watching you disappear in front of my eyes. I'm concerned."

Reasoning with him is futile. 

Reasoning with him had been futile. He had his forearm wrapped tightly around a nineteen year old girl's throat, and a gun indenting into her temple. Morgan still tried to, and you'd watched nearly helplessly as the bullet clicked into place in the chamber. 

Car crashes move time slowly, it's said. Watching a girl nearly die has the same effect, you suppose. Everything was so clear. You could map out every ridge on the gun, down to its tiniest, minute details. Every engraved line, the rest for his palm roughened from excessive use and sweat eroding at the metal. He was strong enough to manage both the sobbing and writhing girl in his arms and the less than light firearm, and you knew even if you had more than half a second to stop him, you could not without your gun. 

The gunshot reverberated off the concrete walls, and a loud ringing followed you weren't used to. You'd heard gunshots before. You were inured to the sound of them ricocheting around warehouses similar to this, or the safer environment of the academy's firing range. 

It's a different feeling when it's your own gun.

It's an all encompassing feeling when you catch the eyes of the person you are shooting at milliseconds before the bullet hits them. Fear in the eyes of a killer about to be killed. How stupidly poetic.

Perhaps there is a universe out there where humans are able to die in blissful ignorance.

"I used to think I'd be okay with killing an UnSub if I had to," you're staring at the threads fraying from his sweater's neckline, and he makes no move to return your eyes to his. "They're bad people, right? Killed a lot more than me for much less. But I'm—I'm not. I don't know if I ever will be. Where does that leave me? An agent who can't even stop a serial killer without having a breakdown."

"Do you think you're the only one?"

That catches your attention, and you can see the small specks of light in his otherwise dark eyes even in this shadowed room when you catch them.

"No. I know I'm not," you croak. Warmth covers your hands, and it's only then you recognise the movement of your own body. Gripping petulantly onto his sweater were your hands, his own providing a comforting blanket. "You never talk about it, though."

"I can. Do you want me to?" 

Hesitantly, you nod, and he settles his leaning body against the bed. 

"I killed a man named Phillip Dowd when I was twenty-four," he says. "He was an L.D.S.K. Long distance serial killer. How is unimportant, but it was a hostage situation. Like yours. I felt... nothing. For weeks I continued on as if I didn't have somebody's blood on my hands."

"Must be nice," you mumble. 

He chooses not to acknowledge your words. "Gideon told me on our way home from the case that this would all hit me eventually. It took longer than it's taken you, evidently, but by the time it did came around, I let it control my life. It took taping photos of his victims to my walls to let him go."

"I don't want to do that," your knuckles wipe more falling tears, and you watch his lips turn up into a gentle smile. 

"You won't have to. Crying about it is actually much healthier than what I was doing."

You're not sure if he's lying to make you feel better, but you lean into it regardless. 

"Guilt is normal," he adds, quietly. "You're allowed to feel whatever you want to feel about this, but know that anger with yourself is displaced. You did what you had to do, and a lot of good people are alive because of what you did."

"Are you reciting a book to me?" you ask, and there is a warmth that blossoms in your chest when he huffs out a short laugh. 

"Regurgitating the very advice I got when this happened to me, actually," he tilts his head and brings it in closer to yours. "The third was, I'm proud of you."

"For killing a man?" you whisper. 

"For being brave enough to do the only move you had left."

"Is there really nothing else I could've done, though?"

There probably were a thousand things you could've done. You could've ran into him earlier in life and saved him from impotency. You could've been a childhood best friend that brought him out of a shell. You could've been his first kill that set the FBI after him immediately and stopped him from hurting anyone else. But his series of life events, and your own, ran parallel to each other until you were in that room with him pulling the trigger. A frustrating realisation that you can only let life run its course the way it's been meticulously threaded out for you, and the impacts you make on people's lives will be specific and forever preplanned by the fates. 

"No," Spencer tells you, anyways, and you accept his one worded answer as the summary of your own spiralling thoughts. "Let's get you back to bed, yeah?"

"Yeah," you mumble, absentmindedly. 

Your consciousness is outside your body as he helps you up, and you crawl inside the covers next to him. You can barely feel the cotton of sheets against your skin, nor the ghost of his hands on your hips as he pulls you close enough to him. 

Distantly, he says goodnight to you, and reminds you he loves you. He doesn't press for a response, and you don't remember to give him one.

your reblogs and replies are always appreciated ♡

[imnez-daydreams]

"(you’re a little different—he wants to make you believe in yourself more. he wants you to prove it to yourself. make yourself say it and mean it, not just because he’s telling you. that you are capable, that you were meant for this. that this is where you belong. that you have a safety net in the form of your attending—that he’ll be there with an outstretched arm, waiting incase you need him. you won’t, he knows. but you still need to feel him there. it’s working, he knows it is.)"

need me an older man who praises me and believes in me. but its so sweet how even though jack knows reader wont need him, that they are more than equipped to handle things and get it done, he still hovers near. just in case.

"that’s something he’d worked you out of, he thinks, a certain smugness seeping into his veins, satisfaction rolling through every muscle."

grr hes so sure of himself i mean hes right but grrr. i like the inclusion that reader was looking around for him, but that jack knows that reader is more than capable of doing this. and still watches after. and how reader is still watching too. these idiots in love.

"and jack swallows hard. it’s one thing to have a flirtation, to teach you, to mentor you. to make you cups of coffee and tea and buy a box of those protein bars that you like the best, because the other ones taste weird. to defend your yellow cup with his best glare, to stop in the aisle at costco and buy a duplicate pair just incase he ever needs to replace it. you love that yellow mug, and well, he loves—"

acta of service !! defending reader's cup is so sweet wadaheck. it really do be like that in the office but the fact that jack has thought about buying a duplicate in case anyth happens ?? :"(( and also that. that "he loves-" GIVE IT TO MEEE.

he is entirely unworthy of your love. he knows it, deep down. loving him would break you. trying to piece him back together would drain you dry. and he doesn’t want to do that to you, you deserve better. maybe he can take care of you at work, but outside of these four walls, if you saw what he was like with idle hands and an empty apartment, or if you saw him up on that roof-

crying. jack abbot listen to me you are not unworthy of love !! sunshine reader is gonna fill your heart with so much happiness and youre gonna take it >:( !! i that next line of how reader snaps back jack to reality. reader has become his lifeline that reels him back to the present. im soft.

"would you do that? would you tease him about the age difference? or would you prefer to ignore it, set it aside and try to forget about it? it’s a heavy question for breakfast after twelve hours on. "

its realistic to have jack think about the age gap i feel ! (not that id have any problems with it lololol) and i love these small peeks into his mindset, how he thinks he doesnt deserve reader's love, how he's scared of what reader thinks about their age gap. it helps to build more on his character !

"how could he have been so stupid? trying to fight what you did to him when it was like gravity, like the tide, like every other force in this world that he knows about and cannot control. you’re exactly where you’re meant to be, and so is he."

that is such a beautiful beautiful description omg. jack coming to realise that their love, him being loved was inevitable. that it was fate, destiny, bound to happen. how they fit together like 2 peas in a pod.

jack bought matching yellow cups !! the domesticity of it all im so :"((

op/shea this was sooo warm and fluffy to read :). im so soft now !! thank you for writing such a sweet story about jack being taken care of and loved (because he deserves it). i really enjoyed it !! day by day i fall deeper into the rabbit hole of shawn hatosy/the pitt/animal kingdom and the urge to watch gets stronger, i blame my moots haha (affectionate)

𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐰𝐨, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞

summary: jack abbot thinks he's too broken to fix. you just want to take care of him the way he takes care of you.

author's note: here it is! the first longer night shift reader and jack fic ♡ i hope everyone enjoys!

word count: 3.7k

tags: night shift reader x attending jack, comfort and angst, people are making bets (guess who wins!), patient death/loss, age gap relationship (implied but no ages specified!), idk i went a little crazy for two hours

it’s not an easy thing to take care of him. 

he knows that. there haven’t been that many people in his life who have been able to manage it. his wife was one, robby’s sort of another. jack has this thing—he has to at least try to take care of those around him before he can accept any of their help for himself. it’s almost a test of worth, to determine that it’s not a burden he’s placing unduly on anyone. it’s an exchange, he decides, a fair exchange. that way he’s not forcing anyone, because he knows how hard it is, how hard it can be. robby sees a side of it. his wife saw another.

and out of the black, heading into the blue, you are beginning to see it. he doesn’t know how it happened this way, just knows that the sweet resident who had come onto his night-shift because the day shift was beginning to be too much, was now the very reason he doesn’t head straight up to the roof after a very, very long night. 

he knows it’s not easy, that every time he loses a patient, he glances at the clock. the moment someone’s life was over, and the very moment that is going to ruin the lives of all the people who loved them. before he’d start the countdown—how many hours left on this shift? how many until he can go to the roof and breathe, scream and yell and sit in silence and watch the city wake up beneath him. 

it’s selfish. he momentarily checks out after time of death is called. robby does moments of reflections. maybe that’s how he’s able to manage it sometimes, break up the grief into little pieces throughout the day. 

jack isn’t like that. he’s always been the kind to bury, nestle it somewhere deep inside and keep adding, adding, adding. add until it’s about to burst, and then go to the roof and let some of it out. maybe if he tried robby’s way, he wouldn’t have felt like this for so long.

where can so much grief go? there’s no outlet for it, not the way jack does it. some of the things he buries are lost inside him forever, no escape, no exit.

and then you come along. 

jack’s prided himself in the fact that he’s good to the residents. they get more confident under his tutelage, make decisions more firmly, make them quickly and execute them correctly. that’s why robby had sent you over to him, hadn’t it? because you doubted yourself too much. because you felt like you weren’t making the right call.

from seven in the morning to seven at night, the place is crowded. it’s all hands on deck but there’s just a smidge too many hands, especially when there’s students. you were able to blend into the background for a couple months, but it’s just plainly wrong to let it hinder your education.

that’s why robby had sent you to him, right? for your education. to make you a better doctor, better than you already were, which was saying something. 

because jack abbot thinks that you’re incredibly gifted. gifted in the things that he can’t teach someone, in ways that he can’t explain. you have a special touch. patient-care is your forte. if he had to pick the nicest resident, it would be you. but you don’t believe in yourself. 

and he had sent himself to the task of fixing that. it’s what jack does, what he’s always done. patch it up and send it out.

(you’re a little different—he wants to make you believe in yourself more. he wants you to prove it to yourself. make yourself say it and mean it, not just because he’s telling you. that you are capable, that you were meant for this. that this is where you belong. that you have a safety net in the form of your attending—that he’ll be there with an outstretched arm, waiting incase you need him. you won’t, he knows. but you still need to feel him there. it’s working, he knows it is.)

it had been working perfectly fine so far. you build your routine, get yourself settled, start answering trauma calls with a run. 

one time he has you and ellis start the incoming together. tells parker to ask you questions, justify all of your decisions to her, but let you call the shots. when the charge nurse tells you the details, you head straight outside. you pull a yellow gown for yourself and the gloves in your size—those ones are baby blue. and then you pull another gown and the black gloves—the ones in his size. he watches from the nurse’s station, watches ellis take them and watches you look around, like you’re waiting for him to show up. he doesn’t, not this time.

you handle the case perfectly. oddly enough, he can’t seem to remember any of the specifics about it, even though he’s the one who signed off on your detailed note. 

jack watches from the door. you’ve got your back to him, and ellis looks up and sees him, but he shakes his head. he wants to see how you do without him, after so many with him. and you’re perfect—just like he knew you would be. the nurses move in tandem around you, listening closely to your orders. ellis asks questions and you answer, and you don’t sound like your answers are questions themselves—though you had at one point, not too long ago. 

that’s something he’d worked you out of, he thinks, a certain smugness seeping into his veins, satisfaction rolling through every muscle. 

you look out the other door, the opposite of where he’s standing. you stretch your neck like you’re trying to see what’s out there, and then you turn your attention back to your patient right away.

and once the patient is stable, that’s when he comes in. you’re doing it again, looking out the wrong door and as much as he wants to deny it, as wrong as it is, he knows you’re looking for him.

“good work, doctor,” he says, and you jump a little. you turn to look at him, but he’s looking at your senior resident for the assessment.

“dr. abbot, i-” 

“she did great,” parker comments, and you stop to beam at her.

“thank you.” ellis peels off her gloves and gown, black gloves that had been meant for him going into the bin. she gives you further instructions and you nod, and when it’s just the two of you, he finally turns to meet your eyes.

and the way you smile at him blows him away. it’s all over your face—from your gleaming eyes to the cheeks that must hurt, the lips that he can’t stop thinking about. there’s something else there too. neither of you want to say it, though you try.

“thank you, dr. abbot. i-” the words falter and die on your tongue. but in your joy, how pleased you are with yourself for once, you find the confidence he’s been wanting you to have all along. “i was looking for you.”

and jack swallows hard. it’s one thing to have a flirtation, to teach you, to mentor you. to make you cups of coffee and tea and buy a box of those protein bars that you like the best, because the other ones taste weird. to defend your yellow cup with his best glare, to stop in the aisle at costco and buy a duplicate pair just incase he ever needs to replace it. you love that yellow mug, and well, he loves—

“dr. abbot? you okay?” 

and it’s normally him asking you that.

“i’m fine, kid. you did great.” 

“so did you.” 

-

when jack walks by dana at around seven-ten, her and the other nurses go remarkably silent. 

“yes?” he asks, grabbing the black thermos from the counter where he’d been finishing his notes. it’s also from costco—chipped and bent all over the place, little flecks of silver making an appearance around the bottom. you’d made a joke about it once—even your cup is salt and pepper. and now he thinks about it every time he picks it up.

“what? i didn’t say anything,” dana replies, settling an ipad back in the charging port, moving around papers at the station. “but just so you know, the pool’s up to three hundred.”

jack sets his cup down a little harder than he means to, forearms resting on the sterile counter.

“what pool?” he demands, and dana shrugs. if he didn’t love her so much he would kill her.

“i’m just saying. if you’d like to help your favorite nurse contribute to her retirement fund, then you can—”

“oh? i can what?” 

it’s just not this easy for him anymore. you are full of all the good things that he so clearly lacks, made of so much sunshine it’s pouring out of you. you have love in stores, ready to be doled out at any time, to anyone. patients, coworkers, even the medical students you just met a couple minutes ago. he hears you—offering the flashcards you made for boards and the interview tips that got you to match at your top choice. 

he is entirely unworthy of your love. he knows it, deep down. loving him would break you. trying to piece him back together would drain you dry. and he doesn’t want to do that to you, you deserve better. maybe he can take care of you at work, but outside of these four walls, if you saw what he was like with idle hands and an empty apartment, or if you saw him up on that roof-

“dr. abbot?” 

your voice seems to always be enough to snap him out of it. 

“goodbye, dana,” he says, walking up next to you, thermos in hand. your eyes briefly glance down at it, smiling. “what’s going on, kid?” 

“remember what you had said? about breakfast?” and you smile at him like getting breakfast with jack abbot sounds like the great thing in the world right now. it’s almost seven-thirty and you probably haven’t slept in fifteen hours, and yet you keep smiling, big eyes blinking at him while you wait patiently for an answer.

“yeah.” he clears his throat, looking back at dana momentarily. she’s smiling at him, and then she turns to smack the side of robby’s arm, pointing him the direction of you two. “that sounds great. after you.” 

he shouldn’t have said yes. he knows what’ll happen if you start thinking that you can fix whatever is wrong with jack abbot, and he would like to avoid that entirely. but you beam at him again like you had earlier with ellis, and jack is a lot of things, but one thing is he is not, is a jerk. he won’t disappoint you about this, not when he’s secretly relieved you’re eating after shift. he’s seen you with sugary granola bars and pastries when you should be filling up on protein after a shift like this.

so he follows you out, ignoring the exchange of money behind him. 

breakfast is nice. you get chocolate-chip pancakes and he makes you get eggs too, and then hands you strips of bacon from his plate too. he hasn’t seen you like this before, and he tries to soak it into his memory. 

(something deep inside says that he should cut the tether before you get too attached. it’ll only hurt more to prolong it, to let it linger. the possibility of something between the two of you. and then you offer him a bite of a pancake drenched in syrup and everything in his head goes silent.)

breakfast becomes a weekly recurrence. there’s a twenty-four seven diner he loves just up the road from the hospital, and he’s been before with shen once, robby a couple times if their schedules lined up. it’s not particularly unusual to see him there with you, though he feels like he’s committing some sort of a crime.

you wear pullovers from your alma mater. the backpack you bring to work is the same one you used all four years of college and medical school, a fact you are very proud of. when he looks at it—his chest hurts. it’s hardly worn, looks like it’s in great condition—a couple of pins tacked on the side where your water bottle sits and a pocket for your badge and wallet in the front. he has to force himself to remember that you’re younger than any woman he’s seriously talked to before. his wife had been two months older than him, something he used to tease her about all the time. 

would you do that? would you tease him about the age difference? or would you prefer to ignore it, set it aside and try to forget about it? it’s a heavy question for breakfast after twelve hours on. 

you take him to another place that you like, too, closer to your apartment. you both eat bagels and sip on juice—orange for him, apple for you—and that’s where you learn more about his time as a medic. the breakfast burrito place near the park is where you tell him about how you’ve wanted to be a doctor since you were twelve, that you thought you’d had a calling for pediatrics and you’d even been the president of the peds club in medical school. and then you’d rotated through the emergency department third year and completely changed your plan.

you share a stack of waffles—chocolate chip with strawberries and whipped cream, at your insistence. he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to say no to you, not when you ask him so sweetly. he learns about your kitten and how you’ve always been scared that you’re going to do the wrong thing and until very recently, that you’ve just been playing pretend and you’ll get caught one day. 

and back at the diner is where he tells you about his wife. and you listen intently and nod and hold his hands when his voice breaks and run your fingers over his knuckles. you don’t let go of his hand the entire walk back to your apartment, and outside the door, you give him a hug. and the two of you stay like that for a while. that’s when you and jack kiss for the first time. slow, steady, a kiss that you’ve been dreaming of for months. it takes all the air out of your lungs and when you finally go inside, you realize your shoulder is a little wet and your lips are swollen. 

even hours later, jack can still taste apple juice on his tongue.

another week after that, you both answer the incoming trauma together. it’s six-thirty, so someone might come and take over, but it doesn’t work out that way. it’s a man who got t-boned at an intersection on the way to school drop-off. his wife and daughter are getting their cuts stitched, you think, and the patient had been slurring at you when he came in. thank god i put her behind her mom today. thank god, thank god- and jack does something he doesn’t always do. 

“get the mom, get the kid. let-let them talk.” 

and while you do the ultrasound and the e-fast and order for type and cross-match, you hear his daughter crying and a wife telling her husband how much she loves him. 

and you and jack try everything, everything you can think of, but sometimes, there’s just no coming back. he doesn’t even make it to surgery. jack walks out first, and then you, and you see his daughter turn away from the medical student that’s tending to her wound, standing up with hopeful eyes like you and jack have good news for her.

and you feel incredibly broken. your day hasn’t even started yet. and you lock eyes with jack for a second—just a second, and he stares back at you, hardened, in a way you haven’t seen before. you’ve both lost patients, lost patients together. sometimes it’s just different, in a way that you can’t explain. 

it must have been an hour, an hour and a half you spent in the trauma room. the entire day shift is there now. 

“head home, kid,” jack says. “i’ll talk to the family.” 

you bring your hand to his shoulder, pulling back until he turns to face you. 

“i’ll talk to the family.” 

it’s not an easy thing to take care of. he tries to tell you something but you shake your head at him, the hand on his shoulder lingering. people are looking, he thinks. but then again, he’s never cared that much. and in this moment, neither do you. 

you head over to the family, excuse the nurses and the student doing the stitches. you pull the curtains, and all he hears is sobbing. 

and when you come back out, he know you held it together in front of them, but your shoulders are shaking, your chin is wobbling. and in front of all those people, he brings you in for a hug. 

a real hug—like the one you had in front of your apartment. jack’s grip is tight on you, his arms caging you in, covering everything so you can’t see anything, can’t think about anything else but him. he rests his chin on your head, and closes his eyes, and then the two of you walk back to the lockers together. 

it’s not an easy thing to take care of him. and somehow, without ever telling you, you know all about how to do it. you know a lot of things about him. you know what this job does to him and that if he had gone to tell that family they lost their father and husband, that he would’ve ended up on the roof this morning. you know that jack abbot doesn’t halve any of his burdens, that he’s been afraid to rely on you like how you rely on him. to need you in the way that you need him. and you know that he won’t tell you what he needs, but you’ve gotten somewhat adept at figuring him out, just like how he has with you.

that day you leave holding hands. neither of you are in the right mood to go out for breakfast, so he elects to take you back to his apartment, an arm swung around your shoulder the entire walk there. you’re still a little teary-eyed, wiping them away at his front door while you head inside with him. 

you’ve never seen the inside of jack’s apartment, but he’s mentioned it in one of your many conversations. the record collection, his wife’s plants that he takes care of, the kitchen that’s too big for one person. 

the morning light hits the place beautifully. you stare out of his window while he heads to the kitchen, and you look around. first the records, then the plants, just like he’d described. there’s pothos and peace lily and little succulents along the windowsill. you look at the rest of it—incredibly fitting. a brown leather couch and a bookshelf with medical textbooks and a couple of mystery thrillers. you laugh to yourself, imagining jack curling up with one of those books at night.

when you turn back, he’s cracking eggs and laying out strips of bacon on the pan. you head over to the other side of the island, taking a seat on one of the stools. 

“no pancakes?”

“you’re gonna get cavities, y’know,” jack says, and you smile at him. 

“it’s worth it.”

“i love your smile the way it is right now. don’t go changing it on me.” and that does make you smile, staring at jack making breakfast for the two of you. it all feels so domestic. like you’re just walking into the life that was meant for you all along.

you’ve only been on the night shift for a couple of months. 

how could he have been so stupid? trying to fight what you did to him when it was like gravity, like the tide, like every other force in this world that he knows about and cannot control. you’re exactly where you’re meant to be, and so is he.

“mel texted me. she won the bet,” you say, setting your phone down. you lean against your hand, inhaling the smell of the first of many home-cooked meals you’ll eat, made by jack abbot.

“that so? i thought dana was a shoo-in.” 

“dana got the timing wrong. thought it’d happen during the night shift. but technically, you hugged me at eight-thirty, so..” 

“and what was the winning combo?” he stares at you, probably for the millionth time since you met him. and still, somehow, it’s enough that you feel it in your bones. you want to look away but you don’t. “you want toast, kid?” 

“yes please. she didn’t say, but i’ll ask. later.” 

you and jack settle at his wooden dining table ten minutes later, a plate full of protein and a promise that he’ll get you something sweet when you wake up later. jack lifts up his pant leg and takes off his prosthetic, setting it against the chair and relaxing a little bit more. you can see his shoulders loosen up. when he catches you staring, he smiles back.

“what?”

“nothing. do you have juice?”

“i think there’s some apple in there. i can-”

“no, i got it.” you get up, walking towards to the fridge. “i thought you didn’t like apple.” you know he doesn’t—he prefers orange. 

“i changed my mind.” you smile back at him, finding the apple juice and setting it on the counter. 

“cups?” 

“the cabinet on your right. no, your other right.”

you laugh and open it up, your laugh dying in your throat as you stare at two yellow mugs sitting front and center in the cupboard. you pick them up, bringing them over to the table with jack, and stare at him.

“oh,” he says. “i can explain. it’s incase-” but you don’t want to listen for another second, so you sit on his lap, pressing your lips together and forgetting all about breakfast and apple juice.

♡ thanks for reading!

[gay-dorito-dust]

how'd they react to being peppered in kisses or just being loved on in general.

dante

he's giddy and all warm inside as you pepper his face in kisses, this was how Dante wanted his life to be like, just you and him being happy, never having to worry that anything will tear you two apart as all the dangers would've dissapeared through unexplained means.

you brought him alot of joy and love in his life that he sometimes felt like he couldn't truly give back to you as meaningful as you could, and yet that didn't stop him from reciporcating your kisses with kisses of his own; with him holding your face within his hands and peppering kisses across your face as you tried to get away from his slightly sloppy affection with poorly concealed laughter.

he loves being given affection and giving affection also, it acted like a silent way to say i love you in a way, a way to reassure the other that they were there and that the love was still very much alive without ever having to use words to do so. being a demon hunter was one thing when he was on his own, but now he had you, dante couldn't help but be a bit more caucious during missions -despite being able to heal rather quickly in thanks to his demonic heritage- all in hopes of coming home back to you and living his dream in a somewhat domestic afternoon with you.

so dante wouldn't miss a moment of your kisses and affections for anything as it was everything he's ever lived for.

vergil

he's riggid at first, not having been use to given affection so freely, so without judgement since he was a little kid; needless to say Vergil was unsure of how to approach your affection. this isn't to say he didn't like your kisses and affection, he does but has a hard time saying so as his feelings towards his human side, having seen everything associated with it as weak and not worth his time indulging.

however this only made Vergil wish he did at least read something that would've better helped him to know what to do at the very least, after all he was inclined on his demonic heritage and all it entitled, so when you kissed his cheek all you'd get it is an awkard side eye from him as his mind raced on what is an apropriate reaction.

which was a soft, almost missable purr coming from the back of his throat.

now while he may suck with his words, his actions spoke otherwise as he would show that he wasn't as emotionally stiffled as he might physically appears to be. i'm talking poems that go into great depth on how your kisses and affection made him feel light on his feet, how it made him feel like he wasn't entierly capable of destruction, that he was safe and that he never had to look over his shoulder when he was with you; for you were his safe haven and while affection maybe something he has slow to warm up to, his actions told another story that said that the blue demon had a heart.

white rabbit

he's finding it all endearing and adorable as he pratically bathed in your kisses and affection that he once would've batted away without thinking twice. his life has been an harsh ans unforgiving one to say the least, so when you give him kisses or any form of affection was treated as though it was something saccred and rare.

for kindness and open mindedness wasn't something he was greeted with often unless it was your own, and even then rabbit never once took it for granted as he was uncomfortably aware of just how easily someone as good as you would be taken away wtihin a blink on an eye. unfair as life itself tended to often be.

he even indulges with affection of his own in some occasions, never wanting you to be without affection that you give so freely and without another word of complaint of going without. kissing your hand and forehead as often as you did with him, taking pleasure in how you'd smile afterwards and lean into his lips, equally as happy as he was with you.

[tryingtofindava]

── 𝐌𝐲 𝐃𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐉𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥

A Twitch streamer and a YouTube vlogger start interacting online, and the internet can’t look away.

a/n: this is modern day tlou au, these are just headcanons but I might make this a series :P

: ̗̀➛Back to source

{[Streamer!Ellie x Vlogger!Reader]}

╰┈➤ 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

You first take notice of Ellie when you come across one of her twitch clips while doomscrolling on TikTok.

It’s a clip of her absolutely raging after losing a game in the funniest, most unhinged way. You watch it three times because her reactions are hilarious and weirdly charming.

You don’t even realize she’s a big streamer. You just think, “Who is this angry little goblin and why is she so entertaining?”

So you fall down a mini rabbit hole, watching her highlights, and funny clip compilations, then finding her Twitch.

You start putting her own for background noise while you edit your vlog videos. Of course having to turn the volume down when you do voice overs, though you can always hear her tuned town voice yelling as she keyboard smashes.

One day you comment on her TikTok post,

Xx.y/n_l/n.xX: You’re the human version of a broken controller and I love it.

And Ellie is IMMEDIATELY interested in you, since she doesn’t really ever have verified accounts comment on her videos who aren’t her other streamer friends.

Ellie recognizes your username, vivid memory of your overly cutesy vlogs popping up on her YouTube feed as she searches for new games.

Ellie likes and replies,

RageSaurusRex: Takes one to know one

On stream, she casually mentions you, “Apparently some YouTube vlogger called me a broken controller… solid first impression.”

After that, you both lowkey stalk each other’s content. Ellie watches a few of your vlogs while pretending she isn’t invested. She especially likes your get ready with me posts. While you still watch her chaotic Twitch streams, trying not to laugh out loud when she accidentally says something stupid.

The mutual stalking goes wild.

In a random Twitch stream, you pop into her chat and she immediately notices. “Wait. No way. Xx.y/n_l/n.xX is in my chat? Mods, behave.” It’s playful, but her ears turn red.

Safe to say her chat went crazy as she perfectly pronounced your user with no thought at all, perfectly memorised.

Ellie slides into your DMs after the stream, casual at first… well, casual to Ellie’s standards anyways… sending you memes so unfunny they turn out hilarious and it quickly spirals into an ongoing conversation that never really stops.

╰┈➤ 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩

Ellie’s streams are mostly chaotic, she likes playing bloody and violent video games, with lots of graphic content. But if you ask her to play more relaxing games she hops on that shit so fast you have no idea.

Suddenly the games she plays on stream are more chilled out, but she somehow makes peaceful games rage inducing. Though she still likes to play her violent games… she likes to throw in some Animal Crossing and A little to the left, just for you.

And you start mentioning her in your vlogs, maybe you are filming a ‘find stuff at the thrift with me’ video, and come across a guitar, Savage Starlight comic, and dinosaur plush and casually mention your online friend liking that stuff.

And your viewers IMMEDIATELY know who you’re referring to. This is the moment where fanbases start to merge.

Everyone goes crazy when Ellie calls you on stream to invite you to play a co-op game, and who are you to say no?

The first few minutes of gameplay are filled with awkward jokes, Ellie trash talking her own gameplay as she mines, and both of you getting caught up in a whirlwind of laughter.

By the end of the stream, fans are already making jokes about you two being ‘that couple’ even though you’re just starting out as gaming buddies.

So now you and Ellie have a little series on her Twitch channel of your guys cute modded Minecraft world.

After the collab, Ellie occasionally drops little comments during her streams, like, “Oh, don’t worry, I’ll let Y/n win this round. I’m that nice.” Her fans eat it up. They tease her, ‘Are you just trying to impress them?’ and Ellie plays along, dramatically rolling her eyes. It’s all an inside joke, but the fans are certain something more is brewing.

You and Ellie have this natural, easy back and forth relationship. Teasing, bickering, laughing at anything and everything. Feels totally unforced too.

Viewers eat it up, clipping every little moment where you two banter like an old married couple and the editors go crazy editing your cutest and funniest movements.

You guys get close very quickly, though you are complete opposites, you guys get on so well. And your viewers notice this, clipping every moment you two mention each other on your channel or her streams. Making cute compilation videos.

Makes people question if you two could maybe be more?

After the first few collabs, you and Ellie start messaging off-stream more often than you did originally. Late-night Discord calls, sending each other dumb memes, casually complaining about trolls and the stress of your uploading schedule … until it starts feeling weirdly personal and real.

You and Ellie fall into a natural rhythm of playful teasing. If Ellie messes up, you’re quick to call her out, “I’m pretty sure I could’ve done that with my eyes closed.” And she comes right back with, “Maybe you should! It’d be an improvement!” There’s no real tension, it’s all fun and games.

But fans definitely start noticing how comfortable you two are with each other.

Off-camera, Ellie is way softer. She sends you voice notes with her raspy laugh, asks you for recommendations for songs she should cover with her guitar on live, and lowkey gets jealous if she sees you post content with someone else.

The line between online friends and something more gets messier every day. Little inside jokes turn into flirty comments. Your chats get longer. Your smiles get a little too genuine on camera.

You’re in the middle of an co-op, and Ellie jokes, “You know, I think we’d make a great team… in life.” Your response? “Right, as long as you promise not to scream my ears off.” Chat erupts. Clips start circulating of the back-and-forth, with comments like ‘Are they secretly dating or just the most iconic duo ever?’

Sometimes, mid stream, there’s this tiny pause after you say something sweet, Ellie wants to say something but doesn’t. And chat definitely notices how her freckles cheeks get a bit more rosy.

Also, even when you two aren’t playing together she always somehow manages to bring you up. She casually mentions your name in her streams, “I was playing with Y/n the other night, and you know, they almost didn’t completely suck. Almost.” Her chat immediately lights up with comments like ‘Aww, they’re cute’ and ‘is this wuh luh wuh?’.

Yeah, you guys definitely could be something more.

╰┈➤ 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞

And people ship you guys so hard, everyone in her chat always asks about when she’ll stream a Minecraft video with you again they practically demand it, and she always laughs it off saying something along the lines of: “She’s got her own channel to take care of, chat. Go watch her vlogs if you miss her.”

A few fan edits appear, showcasing moments when you and Ellie are too comfortable with each other. One fan edit has a side-by-side of you two laughing, with the text “When you realize you’re lowkey in love with your gaming partner.” The comments go wild, including one that reads, “They’re definitely dating, there’s no way they’re not.”

They start shipping you two so much that the hashtag #EllieAndY/n quickly trends on Twitter, even though you two are just friends… for now.

People go crazy when you guys comment on each others instagram posts, especially when she calls you pretty on your most recent post. Your fanbases start colliding faster than expected. The crossover is hilarious, with Ellie’s followers getting curious about your YouTube content, and your subscribers discovering her Twitch streams.

Fans put together compilation videos of the ‘cutest moments’ between you two, including Ellie pretending to be offended when you win a round, her leaning into the mic to yell your name in a faux-dramatic way, and both of you staying up past midnight to finish a game. The fans add text like ‘#CoupleGoals’ and ‘Best. Duo. Ever.’

A flood of fanfiction starts to appear in your comment sections, all based around you and Ellie being an unlikely couple. One fanfic is called ‘Unlikely Duet’ where you two play games and bicker, but end up falling for each other after a series of increasingly ridiculous gaming mishaps. Readers comment things like, ‘If they’re not together in real life, I’m going to riot.’

╰┈➤ 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐈𝐑𝐋

People start speculating on how you posted on Instagram a photo of you at the airport, theorising how you could potentially be letting each other??? Maybe???

Of course they were right.

Ellie starts one of her streams where she just talks to her viewers, and it’s only a few minutes in when she announces she has a special guest.

And pulls you into frame on an old spare gaming chair she has. Her chat goes CRAZY. Even some of your viewers joining her stream.

The stream lasted only half an hour before she ended it. And it mostly consisted of you two giggling and smiling at each other as you talk about random stuff.

Not even two days later you list on your YouTube a vlog titled, ‘Travel with me to Seattle’.

And the blog consisted of you travelling the first few minutes, until you finally meet Ellie in person, giving each other a big hug. (imagine the cutesy edits).

The rest of the video is you and her meeting some of her friends while you film everything cool you could find in Seattle. Until you end it in her film room.

Now, after maybe half a year of just speaking online you guys do everything you can while you’re with each IRL.

Posting on instagram, taking photos together.

Getting on with her friends, Jesse and Dina, who when you aren’t around, tease her about you. Safe to say Ellie may have developed a little crush…

“You’re set up is way cleaner then I thought it would be.” You casually mention as you look at her fancy gaming set up. “You thought it’d be messy?” She laughs at you, nudging you as she lets you play some of her games. (She won’t tell you she cleaned her whole apartment for you staying over for a week.)

When she’s dropping you off at the airport to go home she gives you a big hug that lasted a little too long for friends..

“I can’t wait to do this again.” You whisper in her ear, arms around her neck, your suitcase and bag carelessly left on the ground as you say your goodbyes. She let out a chuckle, shaking her head. “Yeah, me too.” Her freckled cheeks heat up.

And after your year long online friendship, and a whole week of being together in person, you guys share your first kiss in the airport.

It was just a complete coincidence when one of her viewers recognises you two and takes a sneaky photo and post it on twitter.

WAIT STOP I LOVED WRITING THIS SM!!! SHOULD I DO MORE BUT ITS THE START OF THE RELATIONSHIP???

[spr1ngbunnypvrin]

William Afton with a reader who has sensory issues specifically surrounding touch, Usually, things are fine, they know what to do to be comfortable, and everything is great. However, sometimes late at night, being more tired makes the sensory things worse, which makes it hard to sleep, which…. You see the problem.

How does he handle it the first time, when their sobbing catches him completely off-guard, and what does he do to prepare in the future?

(I love your work sososo much)

At first, William isn’t… prepared for this. He’s an observant man, absolutely. But for someone whose own life has been ruled by control, precision, and shielding emotion behind charisma or intellect, raw sensory overload-induced distress feels like unfamiliar terrain.

The First Time:

It probably happens late—close to 1AM. The room is still. He’s focused on scribbling in a notebook or rechecking some prototype data while you’re curled up in bed nearby, and then… a sound.

It’s quiet at first. A shuddered breath. Maybe he thinks you’re just sighing from a dream—until it repeats. Shakier. Wetter. Sobbing.

His body stills like he’s been shot.

Not because he’s cold or unsure how to comfort—no, but because he wasn’t expecting this from you. You, the one who always tries so hard to seem in control. The one who manages your sensitivity so well.

He turns slowly, and there you are. Curled inward like you’re trying to hide from your own skin. Maybe you’re rocking a little, or your hands are twitching from having rubbed them too much, or you’ve tucked yourself under too many blankets that now feel too heavy—too loud.

He doesn't speak right away. He knows better than to crowd you with words.

Instead… he kneels beside the bed. Doesn’t touch. Just sets his hand, palm up, beside yours on the mattress. An offering. A bridge, not a demand.

When you whisper that everything feels too much, that you’re so tired but can’t sleep, that the air feels like static—he listens.

And he does not pity you.

He understands it like a system he will learn to decode, not because you owe him that, but because he wants to be better for you.

What He Does After:

William creates a small sensory-safe drawer beside your shared bed: noise-canceling headphones, soft-textured fabric swatches, a dim red light bulb, a note with soothing breathing patterns (handwritten, of course), and a small rabbit plush he modified to include a gentle white-noise hum when squeezed.

He adjusts the lab's lighting or room temperature before you even ask. He tracks how your body reacts better in dimmer lighting or specific fabrics and silently adapts—switching his shirt to something softer if he wants to be near you.

He never, ever gets frustrated if you flinch. If you need to roll away. If his hand is too much. If tonight just isn’t the night.

He simply stays close. He becomes a constant in your storm, even when the storm is silent, internal, and invisible. And he always, always, waits for you to initiate touch first.

🕯️ Bonus Scenario (First Time – a midnight moment):

You didn’t mean to wake him.

You thought you were quiet. Just a few trembling exhales, a press of your fingers to your temple, trying to press out the electric weight crawling beneath your skin. The sheets were too loud. The air was too sharp. And you couldn’t even cry properly—not without it stinging.

And then—

“...darling?”

William’s voice, sleep-rough, velvet and unsure, from just behind you. You hadn’t realized he’d turned toward you until his hand lifted from the blanket, hovering midair.

“I can’t sleep,” you croaked, “It feels wrong, all of it. My skin—my brain won’t—won’t stop—”

You didn’t mean to sob, but it broke through anyway.

William’s brows furrowed, not in irritation, but in something unreadable—concern veiled behind calculation.

He said nothing.

Instead, he sat up slowly. Switched off the bedside lamp with a quiet click. The room went to soft darkness.

Then came the gentlest thing you never expected:

A cool, neatly folded handkerchief brushed the space beside your pillow, followed by a small, clean-glass jar placed beside it. Inside: calming balm with a scent you once said grounded you.

You turned slightly, still teary, and found him sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed. Not touching. Just watching. Quiet. Still. Safe.

“I didn’t know,” he said, his voice as soft as you’d ever heard it. “But I do now. And I’ll remember.”

He doesn’t say “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t coo or overreact. He simply makes a promise with his presence:

He’s staying.

[teaxeee]

girl- i keep going back to read that fic that yn gives gunwook the chocolate and then proceed to fuk like rabbits it was so well written but i still cant stop thinking if it were to be hanbin or gyuvin how would it be like especially hanbin like this man would usually be all soft but what effect can this chocolate do to him

- 🧸

hehe I'm glad you liked it pookie, also I think I'll just write about Hanbin for this one cause MAN THE WAY HE'D REACT

So let's say he made reservations to a nice restaurant cause he wanted to take you out and spend more time with you. When he came to pick you up and you were still getting ready he waited for you, and while waitng he noticed an opened box of chocolates. He didn't even bother to check the packaging to actually see what kind of chocolate it was, he just assumed that it was one of those dark chocolates he'd get for you whenever you had your period, since they did look similar. Without even you noticing, he took a piece and ate it, loving the taste, and when you were finished you left for your date.

What he didn't know was how horny he'd get after a while and in the middle of your date he begged you to just let him fuck you. That only surprised you, since he never was this desperate before, until realization dawned in on you. The way he was sweating all over, sounding needy as he kept begging you, it was all the effect of the chocolate you left on your vanity while finishing your makeup earlier and completely forgetting about it.

That's how you ended up in the back of his car after finishing your meals, your panties pushed to the side as his cock slid in and out of your now soaking pussy, the way his hips moved against yours making your eyes roll back from how good it felt. You didn't care how loud you were being, the only thing that mattered to you was satisfying Hanbin <3

[chaoticbard]

Alaara cooly observed Soluna's response, noting a tinge of sourness to the elf's tone. She knew it all too well; dragonborn were a proud race, and some clans could be cruel in how they introduced or expulsed members. Thankfully, her clan was not so stuffy.

"I am sorry to hear that some of your people cast aside others at a whim. A pity, I think; new perspectives and ideas keep a culture thriving and growing, while tradition keeps it well-oiled. The two must work in tandem." She waved a dismissive hand. "But my adventures! You wish to know about some of them!"

"I have seen much of Faerûn, though to you I am hardly older than a sprig of springtime grass. I have traveled since just after hatching with my parents, and soon after, my sister. We have enjoyed many places... but one of my favorites was Athkatla. I was quite young when we went, so I'm certain my memories of it are rose-colored, but it was just as it's described in books. The buildings are gilded gold, and they sparkle in the sunlight."

Alaara snorted.

"Listen to me. I sound just like a dragon lusting after treasure! Ah, but the real treasure wasn't the glittering city, it was to be had in a quaint merchant's shop off the beaten pathway. Mother's violin had a string snap and she needed a new one. We stopped into an instrument shop only to be redirected right back out; they had no strings. But as if called to it, we went into the shop next door to that one. The shopkeep inside was as whimsical and magical as his wares; I remember he made a show of giving Mother a string from out of his sleeve after having dug around for what seemed like ages in his eclectic mess for one, and then he made appear a tiny rabbit doll for me for being good. I don't think mother or father had to pay for it either."

Alaara's eyes went soft as she remembered the day. She still had that little rabbit doll, tucked safely on top of her dresser in her bedroom. It had gone through many outfits and had acquired pretty fabric scrap patches to fix holes too big for new stitches to fix, but it was very much still a beloved family member.

Alaara wondered if the man was still living. Perhaps he was; she couldn't remember if he'd been human, half-elven or fully elven. He also could have been relatively young when she'd seen him; her perception of adults had been back then, as all children's perspectives were at a young age, quite skewed.

"As for what I'd do differently..." Her expression hardened again, and became a frown. Would she change what had happened in Suzail? It had been a formative experience, and changing it would change her entire life. "Nothing. I would change nothing, even though there are things in my past that I regret having happened. Like the time my performance led to a fight breaking out, a tavern burning, and a few people dying... But I learned many, many years later I was merely the scapegoat for majority of that incident."

She averted her gaze to the countertop.

"I regret having had to fight a man or two to the death, but... they were likely part of the same gang that initiated the squabble and who burned the tavern down. Lightning breath is quite dangerous in enclosed spaces, but the fire it can create against fabric and wood can't make a massive building go up in mere minutes."

"A clan," Soluna mused. "I can't say the people back home share that idea. We take our family names very seriously, sure. But it's not unheard of for some elves to be ostracized from their family for doing something that's deemed 'ridiculous'."

She tried to hide the bitterness in her words, knowing first hand how serious such a situation was. A fair amount of family lines died out due to such an action. Another was on the verge.

"I bet you've seen some amazing things," She grinned, changing the subject. "What was your favorite place you've been to so far? Anything you'd do differently if you went again?"

[okjii]

there is something so special about using a rabbit to symbolize the main character as being helpless and meek, as being a runner, as being prey and then getting to watch as that rabbit finally learns to use its nails.

[sysig]

Two skeletons in a trench lab coat (Patreon)

Bonus:

He’s very careful! Everything was fine before you interrupted!

[velvetjune]

the chapter songs in Alan Wake 2,, flawless

[downtherabbitholewithlucy]

[topnotchquark]

Uhhhh you guys want some Bezz x Cele fluff? Because I wrote 1800+ words of Bezz x Cele fluff. Yes it's Boarding School au man wtf we live in a society of course I wrote the Boarding school au.

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

Bezz pokes at the scab just above his knee. It's freshly formed, he had absorbed impact from Pecco running into him on the field during practice yesterday. His kneepads had mostly protected him but caused the skin to rub off at that particular spot.

Bezz had always had the habit of picking at his wounds, more out of boredom than anything else. When Cele was around, he would simply ask him to stop torturing his own body like a little moth in the hands of a rambunctious toddler, but Cele had been away for three days from school for a family thing. The wedding of some distant cousin combined with some medical check that Cele needed in the city. His dad had come to pick him up and Bezz had walked with him to drop him off and to say hello to Cele's dad.

3 days shouldn't feel like a lot and Bezz had a thousand different things to do, what with the upcoming national level games season and schoolwork dictating his every minute, but he still thought about Cele. He missed sitting next to him for all meals, he missed Cele coming upstairs to see him after lights out, he missed how he would agree without much resistance when Bezz wanted to sneak out at night, he missed Cele foraging for fruits in the woods and bringing them back for everyone to eat, he missed running into him in the corridors during classes, and of course he missed him on the field because Jaume was too young to be a good practice session replacement for the team. 

Bezz is about to wreck carnage absent mindedly on his wound when Luca comes out of the phone room and pats Bezz on the shoulder.

The boys get to call home twice a week from a room divided into little booths, the attendant in the room sat there to note your name down and tell you to put the phone down when your time was up.

Bezz makes his way to the booth in the far left corner that Luca just left, he nods to Pecco in the other corner who is on call and dials his dad's number that he knows by heart. They talk about his preparation for the upcoming season and his dad tells him about things in the garage, next he calls his mum and she asks him about school and classes and practice and his little sister screams a quick hello to him and when he keeps the phone down with quick exchanges of "work hard" and "miss you" and "I love you" his heart feels a bit wonky. It's been years away from home but he still hasn't fully learnt how to squash that feeling.

Before keeping the phone down he makes a split second decision and calls Cele's mom, another number he knows by heart for some reason.

"Oi Bezzechi, you've been hogging that phone forever, put it down!!" The attendant shouts at him, his brows furrowed.

"Yes sorry please please please just one moment" Bezz quickly pleads as he waits for the line to connect. The attendant tells him to make it quick as Cele's mom answers. She sweetly asks Bezz how he's been doing as she calls Cele over to hand him the phone.

"Marco, is everything okay?" Cele's newly matured voice implores. 

"Uhh yes why wouldn't it be?"

"You're calling from school."

"Ah. Yes yes. Just wanted to tell you to, uhhh, yeah come back soon cele practice isn't great"

"Is Jaume not good"

"No no he's fine. Just. You know......"

"Hmmm. I get it. Listen Bezz, I need you to help me okay I have some stuff with me when I get back okay"

"Yeah sure. Listen I gotta go okay this man will cancel all my calls for the next month okay. I miss you, bye."

"I, uhh, I miss you too Marco, bye"

Bezz doesn't spend too much time thinking about Cele's request. He's probably sneaking some food into the dormitory which isn't allowed and the weird luggage checking procedure makes it so that you just have to be extra careful with the contraband.

The next day when Bezz comes down to dinner after practice and evening study he finds Cele already in the dining hall. He hurries over to him and immediately wraps him into a hug, slapping his back and ruffling his curls.

"I thought you wouldn't be here till tomorrow! Who dropped you off?"

"My cousin, he was on his way back to University so I came back early. Listen, Marco......"

Whatever it is that Cele wanted to tell Bezz is cut off by Pecco, Luca, and Franco gathering around him and asking him how was home and he better be up to speed for the morning practice tomorrow and what did the doctor say and if he found any cute girls at the wedding.

All throughout dinner Bezz notices Cele fidgeting nervously, pushing his food around as Luca talks about the rival regional teams they will be facing and the specific characteristics of every player he can recall.

Post dinner, the boys walk back to their house building in a group, Cele quickly dipping into the dormitory on the first floor as the rest make their way up to the rooms.

Before Bezz can go back downstairs to ask Cele what's up, Pecco reminds him to finish his trig homework lest he be skinned alive by the teacher and Bezz enlists the help of both Luca and Pecco to get through the exercises.

It's an hour past lights out when Bezz is finally done and before he has a moment to lie down Cele comes into the room. His eyes look a bit crazy and the pockets of his jacket are puffed up weirdly but before Bezz can ask any questions Cele starts yanking at his arm to get up.

"hurry up Marco!!!" Cele hisses, straining to keep his voice low

"Okay okay damn let me put on my shoes"

"Take the torch please" cele whines.

Bezz raises his brows but doesn't protest much. Torches are reserved for the big expedition sneak outs, the ones you have to plan for, the ones away from their usual haunts, torches are a liability, they draw the attention of the school guards. Bezz still takes his and hides it in his pocket.

They silently get out through the windows on the ground floor, holding their breath and watching their step so as not to alert the guards. Bezz has been sneaking out since pretty much his first year in school, so much so that he can navigate most paths in pitch black darkness. When Cele and Bezz became friends he started bringing him along, gently teaching him to be mindful of his arms and head and stepping around in a way that makes less noise. Cele wasn't the most graceful when it came to slinking around, but Bezz was okay with that as long as they were together.

The moon was shining above their heads, almost fluorescent in its brightness.  Bezz glances over at Cele's determined face, his lashes casting spider leg shadows on his cheeks. Cele's pale skin and dark hair seem almost ghostly and Bezz's heart feels so funny. He swallows to keep his wits intact and focus on the path.

"Wait Cele are we walking towards the lake?" Bezz realises that he's been straining a bit to keep up with Cele.

"Mhmmm"

"Wait wait wait no you have to tell me what's up you've been acting too weird."

"No Marco we can't talk here we will get caught please we have to go" Cele pleads with him and suddenly takes Bezz's hand in his to rush him along. Bezz feels too shocked at Cele's sudden gesture and simply can't find the words to protest. They walk for a few minutes where all Bezz can think about is the warmth of Cele's soft hand in his. Bezz thinks self consciously about the calluses on his palm and whether they feel weird for Cele to touch. Cele's plam, soft and smooth and warm and alive and real to the touch and somehow Bezz feels that whatever is real in him is emanating from that part of his body that is holding on to Cele.

"Here. Come." Cele lets go of Bezz's hand Bezz feels a little deflated. Cele walks near a tree and picks up a cardboard box and brings it to Bezz.

"I have rabbits."

"......you...what" Bezz thinks he hasn't heard him right. 

"There were rabbits at the wedding venue but I don't think they were being treated right so I picked them up"

"Cele what even.... how did you even steal them and oh my god is this area even safe"

"I didn't steal them Marco!!!!! They are young, kind of, I think they are almost babies, it was just three of them"

"Diobono three is a lot! Have they eaten?"

"I had left some lettuce, and I have more, I need your help feeding them"

"Okay okay fine, let's find a place to sit"

Bezz finds that inside the cardboard box there is a little pet carrier covered with a blanket. Cele pushes in some food through the metal gate grills but the bunnies seem to be asleep for now. 

"What's the plan cele?"

"There archery lawns have a place for rabbits. I will leave them there. I trust the school gardener, we used to have rabbits in my first year at school, he's good with them."

"You think nobody will notice three rabbits appearing out of nowhere."

"They will but they won't know it's us"

Bezz can't help smiling at the response. Cele trusts it will all be good so intently that Bezz can't help be infected by the same disposition.

"Do you want to hold them?" Cele offers.

"Uhh yeah okay yeah."

"Just be relaxed, okay"

Cele opens the metal grate a little and ushers Bezz to put his hand inside.

A warm delight runs through Bezz when he touches the soft fur. He feels them moving with their breath and gently gently strokes the fur. A smile breaks out on his face, wide and luminous under the moonlight.

"It's nice, no" Cele says as he watches Bezz's face.

"Yes, I didn't expect them to be this soft"

They sit a bit longer, trying to feed the bunnies, talking, trying to come up with stories about these rabbits that will convince people to keep them. 

Bezz asks Cele to hold on to the box and make no noise as he navigates a path to the Archery Lawns. Cele takes a minute to leave them in the enclosure, worrying about them. Bezz's reassurance a little ineffective as he says his goodbyes, leaving more lettuce and some broccoli in the carrier.

When they finally start walking back towards the Dorms, Bezz takes Cele's hand in his, his confident decisive gesture in sharp contrast with the nerves he feels inside. Cele offers no protest and holds on. Bezz feels breathless thinking about how similar Cele's beautiful hand feels to the soft rabbits he just held a while ago. 

[phagodyke]

dating an art student was so crazy I'm just thinking abt that one birthday I had where my ex got me stickers from the etsy of the person they were cheating on me with....

[secondpersonpoetry]

ellen bass, “marriage”

[sirfrogsworth]

How do you take a photo of time?

I've been watching the track events at the Olympics since I was a wee lad. It was a tradition in our family. We'd gather around our ancient low-definition 19 inch CRT television and watch tiny blobs compete against other tiny blobs and root for our country.

It was a bit like watching YouTube on your phone in 144p.

Several heroes emerged.

Jackie Joyner-Kersee was amazing.

You can't forget about Flo-Jo.

And then the Olympics decided NBA players were allowed in the competition.

Which formed... The Dream Team.

Was this fair?

Well... they won each game by an average of 44 points.

So... no. It was not fair.

Though it became more fair as time went on.

But, umm... yeah. The other teams looked like the Washington Generals and the US looked like the Harlem Globetrotters if they stopped screwing around half of the game.

But my absolute favorite Olympian was a runner named Michael Johnson.

He was cool as heck.

For one thing... gold shoes.

But he also had this crazy, upright, Tom Cruise-ish sprinting style that just made him look like a running robot on the track.

And in the 1996 Atlanta games he just trounced EVERYONE. I mean, it wasn't even close.

Yikes. Those losing blobs are probably really embarrassed.

Last night I decided to invigorate my nostalgia and watch the track events again. And I got to see one of the wildest races in history.

It didn't even last 10 seconds but it was one of the most exciting sporting events I've ever witnessed. Almost every runner won the race.

After I saw that initially, I was like... who the heck won???

Even in slow motion I wasn't sure.

This was one of the closest finishes in history. There has never been a race where all 8 runners were within this margin.

The arena was silent as the winner was being confirmed. The runners just kind of paced around waiting for official word. My best guess was the Jamaican runner, Kishane Thompson. But then the loudspeaker announced Noah Lyles.

The last tiny morsel of American pride burst out of me with a big "Wooooo!"

I forgot what it was like to be proud of my country. I wish it happened more often. But this young man, despite being last place in the first 3rd of the race, turned on the afterburners and won in a photo finish.

And that's when my inner nerd took over.

Because when they showed the photo finish image, it looked super weird.

Why is the track white?

Why do all of the runners look all warpy like that QWOP game?

So I went down a research rabbit hole to figure this out.

Photo finishes are actually fascinating. The first photo finish captured the end of a horse race in 1890. But that was mostly luck and timing. The actual photo finish mechanisms weren't used until 1937.

Originally they would film the finish line through a physical slit.

And the first horsie head that appeared in that slit would be the winner. This technology ended a huge aspect of corruption in horse race fixing almost overnight.

But we have come a long way since then. And I'd like to introduce you to the Omega Scan 'O' Vision Ultimate.

This slow motion camera sits fixed on the finish line of every race. The concept of the photo finish has remained remarkably similar to the 1930s approach. The camera sensor is specially designed to only record a vertical slit.

Only the finish line itself is actually captured.

And because it limits what it records to only that slit, it can capture 40,000 frames per second to get amazing temporal resolution.

So why don't the photo finishes just look like, well... this?

That is because the camera takes a picture of time more-so than dimensional space. I guess it would be more accurate to say it *assembles* a picture of time.

As the runners cross the finish line, the camera combines all of the little strips of pictures into a single image.

It's almost like if you tried to reassemble a piece of paper after it had been shredded.

Imagine each strip of paper is a picture of ONLY the finish line, just at a slightly different point in time.

What if someone stopped on the finish line and didn't move... what would that look like?

Once they got there, the same part of their body would just be repeated.

So the right side of the photo finish picture represents earlier in time and it just assembles the image strip by strip as time passes and you literally get a picture of time itself.

NEAT!

Okay, but how do they determine the winner from the photo finish?

I mean, that shoe looks like it is ahead of Noah Lyles!

Clavicles!

The IAFF rules state the foremost part of the torso must cross the finish line first. And the endpoint of the torso is the outer end of the clavicle.

So if you get this bone across the finish line first, you win the race.

Two more fun facts!

The start of the race is actually just as carefully timed as the end of the race. There are sensors in the starting blocks of each runner.

The starting gun also has an electronic sensor.

They have determined the fastest a human can react to the sound of a gun is roughly 100 milliseconds. So if you start running before 100 milliseconds they know you didn't actually hear the gun, you just got antsy and started running too early.

And the final fun fact...

Did you notice the Omega logo at the top of the photo finish?

That isn't superimposed or added after the fact. That is captured by the camera.

But if this image is composed only of tiny little slivers, how did they get the Omega logo to show up?

That is a little display. And it is synchronized with the Scan 'O' Vision Ultimate to show a little sliver of the Omega logo for each frame captured.

So when the final image is stitched together, it looks like a cohesive logo at the top of the photo.

Pretty clever, Omega!

[bonestrouslingbones]

is there anything more satisfying than having a character that you see at the very beginning of a series and immediately think "oh it'll be fun to see them get beat up and have a mental breakdown later" and then a full year passes and you start seeing other people say the exact same thing