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abbotjack · 28 days ago

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This City Doesn’t Forget (part two · 6:00 AM)

read part one here

a/n : ok so this one’s a little unhinged. there’s sex (messy, desperate, not soft), jealousy, manipulation, and jack’s brother being genuinely the worst. it gets dark toward the end—coercion vibes, threats, and that feeling of something way bigger starting to spiral. also yes, the porch scene is that kind of porch scene.

word count : 5192

content warning: emotional manipulation, coercion, implied blackmail, explicit sexual content, stalking, sibling rivalry, obsessive behavior, explicit sexual content (consensual but emotionally intense), sex on a porch (public semi-exposure), vaginal penetration, dominant/submissive language, unprotected sex, mutual desperation, alcohol present but not impairing.

MONDAY – 6:00 A.M.

Hospitals don’t sleep. They hold their breath.

Allegheny General is already alive—buzzing, sterile, too bright. The fluorescents overhead cast no shadows, only a cold kind of clarity. You breathe in recycled air that smells like metal and memory—saline and bleach, the faintest echo of sweat, coffee and loss.

The elevator doors shudder open behind you with a mechanical sigh.

You step out alone.

Your new badge is clipped to the collar of your scrubs, stiff and unfamiliar. Dr. [Y/L/N], PGY-1. It hangs there like a dare. Like something you’re not sure you’ve earned.

You move inside the resident lounge, fingers curled tight around your phone like it might anchor you. The screen’s already gone dim, but you tap it back to life anyway. You scroll the assignment sheet again—like maybe the fifth time will hit softer than the fourth.

It doesn’t.

TRAUMA – Dr. Abbot, J. Residents: [Y/N], T. Santos, V. Javadi, D. Whitaker

Your name next to his. Not even bolded. Just… there.

The coffee in the lounge is burnt, the pot half-empty already. A few early risers shuffle in—Javadi muttering to herself, Santos nursing a Red Bull like it’s the last one she’ll ever have. You try to act like it’s just another Monday. Like it’s not your first shift. Like it’s not him.

You’re mid-sip when the door swings open.

Black scrubs. Jaw set. That gait you’d know blind—shoulders squared, spine rigid, right leg bearing a slight shift in weight. Not a limp. Not a stumble. Just deliberate. Just Jack. Every step measured like he doesn’t waste movement on things that don’t matter.

He walks in like he owns the place. Maybe he does. Not technically, but no one questions it.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Of course he isn't. He meets your eyes once. Just once. And then nods, calm as ever. Like this was always inevitable.

“Rounds in five,” he says to the room. His voice cuts through the low hum of morning chatter. “Get your shit together.”

And that’s it. He turns, and the others fall in line. No one questions him. They never do.

You move to follow, slower than the rest. Deliberate. Like maybe if you take your time, the ache in your ribs will fade, or your legs will remember how to be steady again. But they don’t. Your shoes squeak faintly against the tile as you trail after the others, staying back just enough to avoid the orbit.

You follow last. You always follow last now.

But you watch the way he walks ahead of you—how his hand occasionally brushes the side of his thigh, how he doesn’t glance back once.

HOUR ONE

Jack doesn’t look at you.

But he doesn’t ignore you either.

He does what he’s always done when he wants you to rise to the moment—what he used to do back when you were eighteen and stubborn and still figuring out how to be taken seriously. He doesn’t coddle, never did. He throws you into the deep end and watches to see if you’ll swim.

He asks you the hardest questions. The ones with weight. The ones where the line between right and wrong is thinner than breath—where the answer could be the difference between a pulse and a flatline.

“Y/L/N, what’s your plan?”

No warning. No setup. Not even eye contact.

The question slices clean through the noise of the trauma bay—sharp, surgical, and aimed squarely at you.

You straighten your posture, mask the jolt behind practiced composure. You've had years to perfect it. Your voice doesn’t shake when you answer. You don’t let it.

He nods. Just once. No praise. No correction.

Just keeps going.

Calls on you again ten minutes later. And again after that. Never when your hand is raised. Never when you’re ready. He cuts you open mid-thought, mid-breath, and waits to see if you can stitch yourself back together.

He wants you sharp, perfect, unshakable.

You are. You have to be.

Because if you crack now, it won’t stop at the surface. You’ll bleed through your scrubs, through the silence, and everyone will see just how deep it goes.

Each patient blends into the next—a teenager with a punctured lung, an elderly man whose arm won’t stop spasming, a woman who coded twice before sunrise. Jack moves between traumas with his usual focus: fast, efficient, exacting. He’s the kind of attending who doesn’t waste words unless they’re necessary. Or sharp.

He never corrects you in front of the others. But he never lets you coast either.

“Do better,” he mutters once after a missed detail on an intake report.

It’s not unkind. But, it’s also not soft.

By minute thirty-seven, Santos starts to notice—the way Jack’s questions keep hitting you, deliberate and precise, like stones dropped into still water. Like he’s less interested in your answers and more in watching the ripple.

Like he’s not testing your knowledge at all.

He’s testing how long you can hold your breath.

She quirks an eyebrow after a particularly brutal round of questioning and mouths: Damn.

By minute forty-two, Whitaker’s brows are knit, and he’s side-eyeing you both like he’s mentally building a conspiracy board with red string.

By minute fifty-eight, Robby leans against the trauma bay door, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and Jack like he’s piecing something together. He lets out a low whistle, more observation than surprise.

“Tense crowd this morning,” he murmurs, not really to anyone—but not not to you, either.

You pretend you don’t hear. Just double-check the patient chart and re-wrap a gauze bandage like your hands aren’t trembling just slightly.

You and Jack move like muscle memory—one step apart, never overlapping, never straying too far. It’s precise. Practiced. Like something that used to be intimate and has since calcified into distance.

The space between you hums with it. Not quite anger. Not quite nostalgia. Just the echo of something scorched down to the foundation, still radiating heat.

Once, you moved in sync for different reasons—quiet kitchens, shared secrets, summer nights nobody talks about now.

Now, it’s choreography by necessity.

Now, it’s survival.

After the patient is stabilized and you’re headed toward CT, Santos falls into step beside you, unwrapping a granola bar she has no intention of eating.

“You sure you and Abbot never crossed paths before?” she asks, casual as anything, but her tone says bullshit.

You glance at her. Offer a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“I’m sure,” you lie.

She raises an eyebrow, but you keep walking. No follow-up. No clarification.

Because the truth is messy—threaded through empty parking lots, old voicemail drafts, and all the nights you said too much without saying anything at all.

It lives in the way he used to steady your wrist when you were younger and unraveling, when you hadn’t learned how to hide the panic behind your badge.

In the way he doesn’t reach for you anymore.

No one here knows the girl who met Jack before the scrubs. Before you learned how to keep your voice even and your hands clean.

They don’t know the version of you that belonged to a different life.

And if you can help it, they never will.

FLASHBACK – THE PUNCH : The house smells like mildew, smoke, and something that used to be family.

The kitchen reeked of warm beer and something burned in the toaster two days ago. The linoleum was warped near the fridge. One of the ceiling lights buzzed loud enough to make Jack’s head hurt.

He stood near the sink, arms crossed over his chest, bottle of Yuengling sweating in his hand. The dog tags under his shirt clinked softly when he shifted.

The stereo in the living room crackled with static between tracks—Linkin Park’s Numb, warbled and low. The CD was scratched. Everything in this house was scratched.

His younger brother strolled in like he owned the place—barefoot, jeans half-zipped, red Motorola flip phone in one hand, confidence in the other. Hair sticking up. Eyes still bloodshot from the night before.

He tossed a greasy pizza box onto the counter without looking. “Cold as hell,” he muttered, cracking open a can of Coke. “Still better than whatever powdered crap they feed you in the desert.”

Jack didn’t answer. Just sipped the beer and kept his eyes on the clock.

The phone buzzed in his brother’s hand. He flipped it open. Read the screen. Snorted.

“Jesus,” he muttered, grinning to himself. “Daniella’s still sore from last night.”

Jack didn’t move.

“You’ve got a girlfriend,” he said flatly.

His brother looked up, unbothered. “And?”

Jack stared. “And you’re still sleeping with other people.”

A beat.

His brother shrugged, unapologetic. “It’s not like we’re married.”

Jack turned his head, finally looking at him. “You’re with her.”

His brother scoffed. “Jesus, relax. You act like she’s made of glass or something.”

Jack’s grip tightened around the bottle. His voice didn’t waver.

“She loves you.”

“Yeah? That’s her mistake.”

The stereo crackled in the corner. The room went still, heavy with it.

Jack didn’t blink. “You don’t even feel bad.”

His brother let out a dry laugh. “About cheating? Not really. You being jealous, though? Kinda figured.”

Jack said nothing.

But his silence said everything.

“I see the way you look at her,” his brother said. “Still do. But last summer? The cutoff shorts, her in my lap—you looked like you were about to fall apart.”

Jack’s jaw clenched.

“And she looked back,” his brother went on, like he was proud of it. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You were standing in the dark like a creep, and she couldn’t stop glancing over.”

“Shut up.”

“She bit her lip when you walked past, man. Like she knew she shouldn’t be looking, but did anyway.”

“I said—shut your goddamn mouth.”

His brother grinned wider. “What’s the matter? Pissed because you never got to find out what she sounds like when she—”

The bottle hit the floor before Jack’s fist hit bone.

The punch landed clean—jaw, hard enough to knock him sideways into the fridge. The Motorola flew out of his hand, battery clattering across the floor.

Blood hit the linoleum in sharp, red flecks. His brother let out a grunt, staggered back a step, and caught himself on the edge of the counter, knuckles white against the laminate.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, wiping his mouth and seeing red. “There’s the big brother I remember.”

He looked up. Smirked.

“Thought the Army would’ve taught you how to hit harder.”

Jack moved again—this time fast, all weight and fury. He grabbed the front of his brother’s shirt, yanked him upright, slammed him into the cabinet.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” he said, voice low, rough, almost shaking. “You don’t get to say her name.”

His brother spit blood onto the floor, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why not?” he shot back. “Because she means something to you? Please. She is a break from the noise. Something nice to think about while you are cleaning sand out of your boots.”

Jack didn’t hesitate. His fist connected again—this time slicing open his own knuckles. His brother hit the fridge with a thud, a streak of blood blooming across the dented metal door.

“You cheated on her,” Jack growled. “And you meant to. You wanted to hurt her.”

“Yeah,” his brother coughed. “Maybe I did.”

Jack’s chest heaved.

“You don’t get to say you love her,” he snapped. “You don’t get to walk around like none of it matters. She is—” He caught himself. Jaw clenched. “She is the only good thing in your goddamn life.”

His brother laughed again, voice thin, bloody. “And she still picked me.”

Silence.

Jack didn’t swing again. His brother had found the spot that hit deeper than anything he could’ve thrown.

“She was never yours,” his brother said, eyes gleaming. “And you hate that. Hate watching her kiss me. Cling to me. Like you aren’t in the room.”

Jack’s voice dropped, flat and quiet.

“She trusted you.”

“And you want her,” his brother said, stepping forward, blood trailing down his chin. “Don’t act like you don’t. I see it. The way you look at her legs. The way you stop talking every time she walks in.”

Jack was shaking now. Not from fear. Not from adrenaline. From restraint.

“I’m gonna tell her,” he said. “About Daniella. About everything.”

His brother blinked. “You think that makes you a hero?”

“I don’t care what it makes me.”

“You gonna hold her while she cries? Pretend you weren’t waiting for this exact moment to slide into her bed?”

Jack stepped back, blood on his hands, heat crawling down his spine.

He didn’t speak again.

Just turned and walked out the door, into the heavy summer dark—knuckles burning, jaw clenched, heart pounding with everything he hadn’t said and everything he still could.

He was going to tell you. He was ready to tell you.

But by the time he found you—curled up on the porch in the clothes you’d been crying in, eyes already glassy and far away—it was too late.

You already knew.

Not because Jack told you.

But because his brother beat him to it—mumbled it like a joke, too sloppy to sound honest, too late to sound like regret.

And still—when your eyes met his in the dark, when you blinked and tried to swallow what you were feeling—

Jack knew.

Whatever this was between you… it wasn’t going anywhere.

Not really.

Not ever.

PRESENT – LUNCH HOUR

You’re in the lounge, halfway through your charting, trying to ignore how much your scrubs itch at the collar and how nothing feels like it fits—your body, this badge, this hospital.

The door opens, and you know it’s him before you look.

Black scrubs. Posture still rigid, but slightly more relaxed now that no one’s coding in front of him. The chaos of the shift has passed, but he hasn’t shed it—still wears it in the way his jaw ticks when he sees you.

He walks past the counter. Doesn’t grab coffee. Doesn’t speak.

Just stands across from you. Quiet. Present.

Too close to ignore. Too familiar to look at without unraveling.

You don’t look up. “If you came to say I fumbled the trauma workup, you’re a little late.”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “You didn’t fumble it.”

You glance at him, skeptical. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I needed to see where you were,” he says simply.

You blink. “And?”

His gaze holds yours, steady as always. “You’re exactly where I thought.”

That shouldn't sound like anything. But it does. It hits somewhere low, somewhere unguarded.

“Well, I hope that was satisfying.”

Jack crosses his arms, weight shifting slightly onto his left leg. You notice the way he favors the right knee less when he's off-shift. Small things. Things you shouldn’t still track.

“I told you I matched here,” you say. “At the wedding. And you still ran me like I was some clueless walk-in.”

“You told me where you matched,” Jack replies. “You didn’t tell me who you are now.”

That stops you. Briefly.

“I’m a resident,” you say.

Jack nods once. “Exactly.”

“This going to be how it is?” you ask. “You treating me like everyone else?”

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because you don’t know the answer. Not really.

Jack exhales through his nose. Not angry. Just tired. Heavy in a way that says he’s thought about this moment a hundred times and still doesn’t know how to hold it.

“You weren’t supposed to end up here,” he says. “Not this hospital. Not this city. Not with me.”

“Well,” you say, standing slowly, “here we are.”

He looks at you. The kind of look that saw straight through you once. The kind that hasn’t touched you in years—but still feels like it remembers.

“I wasn’t trying to punish you this morning,” he says.

“Maybe not,” you answer, voice steady, “but you weren’t trying to protect me either.”

“That’s not my job anymore.”

You almost flinch at that. Almost.

You take a breath. It doesn’t help.

“You were the one who said it couldn’t happen again,” you say quietly. “You made that call.”

Jack doesn’t blink. “And I meant it.”

“Then stop looking at me like you didn’t.”

That does something to him. A fracture you barely catch. Just in his eyes. Just in the space between the words.

“I wasn’t expecting to still feel it,” he admits.

And there it is.

You look at him like he’s a landmine you’ve already stepped on.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my first day, Jack.”

“I know.”

“Because you left.”

“I know.”

You pick up your chart. Your coffee. Whatever’s in reach.

You need to leave before something gives.

But he says one more thing—quiet, and almost too late:

“I didn’t think I deserved you. Especially not after what my brother did. After what my mother said. What she made you feel.”

You freeze in the doorway.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t fill the silence.

Just lets the truth hang there, stripped bare between you.

You don't turn around.

You don't give him the relief of softening.

You just say, steady and quiet:

“You didn’t.”

And then you’re gone. Leaving him standing there in the silence he made.

FLASHBACK – THE PORCH, POST BREAKUP

Summer. Late. The kind of air that tastes like rain and rage and everything falling apart. The porch is still damp from the storm earlier, your bare legs sticking to the wooden step. You’re sitting curled in on yourself, sundress wrinkled, damp at the hem, a phone slipping from your hand and landing face-down beside you.

His voice still echoes in your ears: "I fucked up, but come on, babe. It's not like I don’t love you. We can work through this."

You didn’t shout. You didn’t sob. You ended it like it was a business transaction—calm, efficient, like the weight of it hadn’t just cracked something open inside you.

Then you sat on the porch and sobbed until your throat burned.

Jack's truck pulls up less than twenty minutes later. Fast. Loud. No subtlety, no headlights. The door slams shut and heavy boots hit gravel. You hear the urgency in every step as he climbs the porch.

He doesn't speak. Just hands you a beer, cold and dripping. You take it with shaking fingers.

He sits beside you.

And waits.

No pressure. No questions. Just the steady presence of a man whose hands are still raw from hitting someone who deserved worse.

You sip the beer in silence. So does he.

When the tears finally stop clawing at your chest, you whisper, "He told me. Thought I'd forgive him."

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just mutters, low and sharp, "I broke his nose."

You let out something between a laugh and a sob. Then turn to him.

He’s already watching you. And for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel invisible.

Your hand finds his. You run your thumb over the split skin of his knuckles.

“Thank you,” you whisper—soft, but not fragile. Like the words are heavier than they look.

Jack doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard, throat working like he’s holding something back. Regret. Anger. Want. Maybe all three.

You turn toward him slowly. Your hand is still wrapped around his, your thumb tracing the bruised skin of his knuckles, and you feel it—how warm he is. How solid. How close.

And then you lean in.

You don’t hesitate. Don’t give yourself time to question it.

You kiss him.

It’s not soft. Not shy. Not the kind of kiss you give someone when you’re thinking clearly. It’s desperate. Messy. Like trying to fill a hunger that’s lived under your skin for too long.

You kiss him like you’ve imagined this moment in the dark—like you’ve pictured it while lying next to someone who didn’t deserve your body or your heart. You kiss him like he’s the answer to a question you were never supposed to ask.

And Jack—

Jack responds like he’s been waiting for this since the second he laid eyes on you. Like he’s spent years biting his tongue, burying his hands in his pockets, refusing to look at you for too long because he knew this was what would happen if he did.

He pulls you into his lap like it’s instinct—like his body was always meant to hold yours like this. No hesitation. No breath between cause and effect. One second you’re beside him, and the next you’re straddling him, sundress bunched around your hips, thighs sliding over denim, sticky with sweat and anticipation.

Your knees plant on either side of his hips, and you settle down slow, your core pressed right against the thick, unforgiving length straining behind his fly. He’s already hard. Painfully so. And you feel every inch of him through your soaked panties—thin, useless fabric that does nothing to dull the friction.

Jack groans, low and guttural, his hands flying to your ass, gripping it tight, like he can’t decide if he’s grounding himself or dragging you closer. Maybe both. His fingers dig in like he owns you—like he's been waiting for this moment longer than he’s willing to admit.

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate, and the sound that leaves his mouth borders on obscene.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he growls. “You always were.”

He grabs your face with one hand, fingers splayed across your cheek, his palm cradling you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. And then he kisses you—hard. No hesitation. No sweetness. It’s all teeth and breath and years of restraint crashing down in the space between you.

His other hand finds the hem of your dress and shoves it up roughly around your waist, exposing you to the humid night air. You gasp against his mouth, but he doesn’t slow down—just snakes his hand beneath the thin fabric of your panties, fingers slipping between your folds like they belong there.

He groans the moment he feels how wet you are—low and wrecked and filthy.

“Fuck,” he hisses, breath hot against your jaw. “You’re soaked.”

Your head falls back, hips canting forward, needing more—needing him.

“I’ve wanted you since the second I saw you,” you whisper, voice cracking like it’s been caged too long. “Used to stare at you when he wasn’t looking. I wanted it to be you—every fucking time.”

He freezes for half a second. Just half. Then lets out a broken sound, something between a moan and a growl, like the confession punched the air out of his lungs.

“Jesus,” he grits, his thumb dragging hard over your clit. “You have no fucking idea what that does to me.”

His voice is wrecked. His pupils blown. His jaw clenched like he’s hanging on by a thread. “You looked at me like that—walked around in those tiny shorts, laughing with your mouth wide open, and I couldn’t touch. Couldn’t even breathe.”

Your fingers tangle in the back of his hair, tugging him closer, needing to be devoured.

“You can touch now,” you whisper. “No one’s stopping you.”

He fumbles with the fly of his jeans, breath hitching, hands shaking—not from nerves, but from how badly he wants this. Wants you. When he finally frees himself, his cock springs forward—flushed, thick, leaking at the tip. Your eyes flick down, and your breath stutters. God, he’s big. And he’s hard in a way that makes your thighs clench around nothing.

Jack notices. Smirks. But it’s not cocky—it’s wrecked.

He drags his hands up your thighs, slow at first, then rougher as he grips the waistband of your panties. His eyes stay locked on yours as he tugs them down—wet and ruined, sticking slightly to your skin. He peels them off like they’ve kept him from you too long.

You lift your hips, bracing one palm against his shoulder while your other hand wraps around the base of his cock. He’s hot and pulsing in your hand. You guide him to your entrance, slow, teasing, your slick folds already parting for him.

Jack’s jaw clenches. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s anchoring himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he grits. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

And then you sink down.

Slow. Stretching. Devastating.

He groans—low and broken—as your body swallows him inch by inch. Your mouth drops open, eyes fluttering, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

He fills you like no one else ever has. Like he was made for it. Like this is the only place he’s ever belonged.

“That’s it,” Jack growls, voice dark and thick with hunger. “Take it. All of me.”

You drop your forehead to his shoulder, whimpering against his neck as he bottoms out. The pressure. The fullness. The way he doesn’t move—just lets you sit there, trembling around him.

But then he thrusts.

Hard.

Deep.

Brutal.

And all that control shatters.

You cry out, clawing at his back, nails dragging down muscle and cotton.

He grips your hips, guides your rhythm, makes you ride him right there on the porch like you’re the only two people in the world.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growls. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “Jack—I’m yours.”

Your dress is bunched at your waist, your bra yanked down, your breasts bouncing with every slap of skin. His mouth latches to one nipple, sucking hard while his hips slam up into you over and over and over.

“You look like sin like this,” he whispers. “Like everything I’ve ever wanted and never should’ve had.”

“Don’t stop,” you beg. “Please, don’t ever stop.”

He moves faster, snapping his hips up, and your world tilts sideways. You’re close. You’re shaking. The porch creaks beneath you.

“You gonna come for me?” he pants. “Gonna let me feel you lose it?”

You nod wildly, whimpering, and he brings his thumb to your clit.

One circle. Two. Three.

And you break.

You come with a gasp, clenching around him, sobbing into his mouth as he kisses you through it. Jack thrusts twice more, then buries himself to the hilt and comes with a guttural groan, holding you so tight you think you might shatter.

Neither of you speak.

Not for a while.

You stay wrapped around him, forehead to forehead, bodies slick and trembling, the air thick with everything that’s finally been said without words.

And Jack whispers it. Finally.

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

You believe him.

You want to.

PRESENT – NIGHTFALL / PARKING GARAGE

The lowest level of the hospital garage is silent—too silent. The kind of silence that hums, that stalks. Fluorescent lights flicker in the corners. Your footsteps echo against concrete, sharp and too loud, your keys clenched in your fist.

You’re not just tired. You’re unraveling—held together by caffeine and obligation, by the way Jack looked at you earlier like he still remembered the way your breath caught when he was inside you.

You reach your car. Unlock it. Open the door.

And freeze.

There’s a manila envelope sitting on the driver’s seat.

No name. No label. Just waiting.

You glance around the garage. Nothing. No movement. No sound.

Your pulse spikes.

You climb into the car, slam the door, lock it, and tear open the envelope with fingers that won’t stop shaking.

Inside: a photo.

Not just any photo.

You. Jack. That night. That porch.

Your sundress hitched above your hips. His hand gripping your thigh. His mouth on your chest. Your face slack with pleasure. His face buried in the place no one else ever got to see.

The photo is blurry, but not enough. Taken from a side angle. Someone had been outside. Watching.

Watching the moment everything changed. The moment you stopped pretending.

Taped beneath the photo: a line scrawled in thick, angry ink.

Doesn’t look like nothing to me.

You choke on air. Sit back. Your ears ring.

There’s a second note, folded once, paper already creased at the corners. You unfold it with dread curdling in your gut.

The handwriting is familiar. Sloppy. Aggressive.

You were mine first. Jack always takes what’s mine. The Army, med school, the fucking applause. You.

You think I didn’t notice how the whole goddamn room turned when you walked into my wedding? Everyone looking at you like you were the bride. Everyone looking at him like the fucking hero.

You stole the spotlight. He stole everything else.

But I saw it before anyone. The way you looked at him. The way he looked back. Like I didn’t exist.

You should've stayed gone.

The envelope slides off your lap.

Something moves in your periphery.

You snap your head toward the window.

He’s there.

Jack’s brother.

Leaning casually against the wall of the garage, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, like this is just another night and you’re just another conversation.

He steps forward slowly, shadows wrapping around him.

That smile—the one that used to pass for charming in daylight—is something uglier now. Tighter.

“Hell of a photo, huh?” he says. “Shame it wasn’t taken by someone more professional. But the message lands.”

You say nothing.

He laughs. A hollow sound.

“You think Jack protected you by keeping his distance? You think sleeping your way into a white coat gets you immunity?” He shakes his head, then takes another step closer. “No. That’s not how this works. Not anymore. I will make sure that photo ends up in every hospital inbox from here to the board.”

He steps into the light now. You can see the bitterness etched into his face. Not sadness. Not heartbreak.

Rage. Jealousy. Obsession.

“You were supposed to be mine. The one who stuck around. The one who smiled on command, played perfect even when I fucked it all up. But he—he gets to be the hero. The golden boy. The war vet. The guy who swoops in wearing black scrubs like he’s some goddamn knight.”

He sneers.

“You didn’t choose him because he was better. You chose him because I was real and messy and too fucking close to what you didn’t want to admit you were.”

You open the door. Slowly. Controlled.

He blocks it with one hand.

“We’re gonna play by my rules now,” he says. “You want to keep this residency? This clean-slate new-girl reputation? You want to walk through that ER tomorrow with everyone thinking you earned it? Then you’re gonna listen. And you’re gonna be nice. Real nice.”

He leans in closer, breath hot and sour.

“Because if you think I won’t blow it all up just to watch Jack crawl out of the ashes, you’re dead wrong. And you?”

He lifts the photo. Holds it up.

“You’ll be collateral."

You don’t flinch. Not yet. Not until he steps back.

Not until he drops the photo at your feet.

And disappears into the dark.

The only sound left is the flicker of the lights.

And your breath, sharp and shallow.

Because this?

This isn’t over.

It’s just beginning.

#I fear this is too obscure #but oh well #Jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot x you #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt #smut #angst #enemies to lovers #shawn hatosy

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anunkindncss · 17 days ago

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TRASH DAD PSA — GRAB YOUR JUICEBOX, THIS ONE’S GONNA STING AND ITS BEEN A MINUTE.

Alright, gather ‘round, gremlins and goblins, because Trash Dad’s pulling the minivan over and we’re gonna have a real loud talk about manners on the internet — specifically, your inability to read a damn blog description before flailing into someone’s inbox like a feral raccoon in a recycling bin.

Rule #1:

If someone puts content warnings, shipping preferences, fandom tags, or literal neon-lit disclaimers on their blog and you STILL come whining like, “ummm this makes me uncomfy,” then congratulations — you played yourself.

You were warned. You were guided. You had every signpost telling you “Hey, maybe don’t go poking around here if this ain’t your scene,” and you decided to march in anyway like you were entitled to rearrange someone else’s sandbox. Spoiler alert: you’re not.

Rule #2:

People can ship what they want. People can write what they want. It is not your business.

Don’t like it? That’s cool. Use the magical tools at your disposal:

Scroll. Mute. Block. Leave.

But don’t you dare vague, subtweet, or passive-aggressively try to guilt someone into censoring themselves on their space because you can’t handle seeing a tag you disagree with.

Rule #3:

This is a customizable, adult space. Not preschool. You don’t get gold stars for tone policing or moral grandstanding. We write here to explore, to create, to get unhinged and sometimes deeply messy. If that rattles your pearl-clutching sensibilities, then maybe go knit a Tumblr cozy and chill out somewhere quieter.

Look, Trash Dad gets it — some content just ain’t for you. That’s normal. That’s human. But how you react to it? That’s where your character shows. So either be an adult and curate your space, or go play in traffic on MySpace (not in real life we DON’T want that).

TL;DR:

Mind your damn business. Read the blog. Respect boundaries. And for the love of whatever gods are left, stop trying to make everyone write like they’re a character in a Disney channel original.

Now be good or I’m turning this car around.

— Trash Dad, patron saint of tags, tolerance, and respect for the craft.

#ooc;#psa;

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fourmoony · 2 years ago

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𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞

james potter x f!reader

fluff. 1.5k.

Summary: James brings home a baby. A baby that is not kidnapped.

part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - masterlist

...

James is standing in the doorway with a baby in his arms.

You’re so grateful he’s even there, that he’s made it back alive – albeit a little bloody and battered, glasses askew and his face covered in dirt – but alive nonetheless, that you don’t even notice the baby, bundled in a warm, fluffy blanket, wrapped safely in his arms. He’s bouncing his arms gently, probably trying to soothe the baby who’s making soft noises, and it’s really a sight to behold. It’s not until he steps through the doorway and gives you a nervous, lopsided smile that you fully register your boyfriend is holding a baby.

You blink. Once, twice. A third time.

James grows progressively more antsy. He chews his busted lip, winces, and then shifts back and forth on his feet. You have no idea where he could even have procured a baby. He’s been on an order mission for the past four days, scouting possible allies with the vampires whilst simultaneously moving important potions ingredients from one safe house to another, making sure the Death Eaters are always two steps behind order movements. Realistically, there’s been zero opportunity for James to come across a baby that he could just – take home.

“You’re home,” You breathe, because truly, that’s the most important part of the whole ordeal. James is here. He’s safe. He’s alive. Another mission down, and James has returned home. So, you’re glad. Grateful, unbelievably so. But also confused. Deeply confused.

“You have questions,” James is arguably calm about the situation, like he’d expected you to be eyeing him with hesitation – he was right – and he’s already rehearsed this in his head. “That’s normal.”

“Normal,” You repeat, the word tasting foreign on your tongue because nothing about this is normal. “Jamie, you’re holding a baby. Tell me we’re just like, babysitting, or something and you haven’t kidnapped someone’s child!”

James winces at your – albeit, quiet – yelling. The baby whimpers in his arms and immediately James shushes it, bouncing slightly on the spot with a desperate look in his eyes. He’s out of his depth, it’s obvious by the panicked way he’s looking between you and the baby, something pleading in his eyes.

“I didn’t kidnap her,” James argues childishly.

Okay, so, the baby is a girl. And James didn’t kidnap her. You turn and walk towards the kitchen, James follows, hot on your heels. The kitchen is a bit of a mess. There are your dishes from dinner, the bin is full, and there’s a couple of empty cartons for the recycling dotted on the counter closest to the back garden door. But James doesn’t flinch, he surveys his surroundings, but ultimately ignores the mess you’ve allowed to take over the small space in the days he’s been away.

“We were flying over Surrey when Marls spotted the dark mark over a muggle area,” James launches into explanation while you busy yourself with leaning over the sink and running the warm water. “We stopped to assess damage, but the Aurors were already there. Her family was killed, baby. The muggle government won’t touch the scene with a ten-foot pole – not that the baby had any other family, anyway, Alice already checked – and the Ministry won’t do anything except send her to an orphanage.”

The suds around your hands suddenly feel too much. The soup crusted around the side of your dinner bowl won’t come off and you scrub aggressively at it, focussing on that instead of the fact that your boyfriend has essentially just told you he’s informally adopted a child at random, without discussing it with you first.

Well, you know there was no time for him to discuss it. You can’t be mad at him for that. And, really, you can’t be angry at him, either, for bringing her to your home. She’s safe here. She’s already suffered an incredible amount of trauma, and she barely looks more than three months old. Your heart softens with your resolve, and you lift your head to look out of the window above the sink. The cottage you and James live in was a gift from his parents – a gift that had made you incredibly overwhelmed until you found out it had been under their ownership since before James was born, anyway – and has enough room for a swing set and a slide, maybe a trampoline. There’s a spare room, upstairs. Sirius will grumble about giving up his room for when he visits, but you’re sure he’ll get over it with some encouragement from Remus. The cottage is pretty much baby proof for James and Sirius’ sake, anyway. You have enough expendable income to completely kit out an emergency nursery necessary.

The argument isn’t really that you can’t afford to have a baby, or that you don’t have space for a baby. It’s that you’re nineteen, a year out of Hogwarts and in the middle of a war. Things are bad, times are scary, James is gone at least a week out of every month, you spend most of your days confined to the inside of a potions lab with Lily, making key potions that the Order need to work efficiently. You’re still kids yourselves, fighting a war that is taking everything from you.

But the way James is holding her like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen, rocking her, and cooing at her, you melt when you turn to face them, and it just feels – right, you suppose.

James looks up, smiles tentatively. You’ve always known he’ll be a great dad. He’s so full of light and love. When he loves, he loves with his entire heart. He loves dotingly and loyally. He’s so sure, standing there. Even though you can tell he’s trying to respect you, waiting to show his excitement until he knows how you feel, you can also see how much love he already has for this little girl, how sure he is that here, with him and with you, is the best place for her.

You take a step towards him, around the kitchen island, and hold your arms out wordlessly. He places her in your arms so gently and then watches as your eyes meet hers. They’re big and round and so blue you feel the breath hitch in your throat. She’s gorgeous. Big puffy cheeks and tufts of dark hair on her small little head. Her tiny lips are curved into a tired pout. You can’t help the smile that overcomes you. When your eyes lift – reluctantly – James is staring at you both. There’s something sickly sweet about the look in his eyes, warm like coffee, sweet like honey.

“We’re at war, Jamie,” You tell him, “Having a baby is a bad idea.”

James nods, “I know.”

A beat of silence passes. An understanding, maybe. It’s a bad time to be two nineteen-year-olds having a baby. But it’s there, in the way James looks at you. He’s never been one to have perfect timing. He asked you to be his girlfriend in the middle of an argument. He asked you to move in with him after school when the first Daily Prophet announcement about the war being confirmed happened. He’s brought a baby home out of nowhere, in the middle of said war. But it feels right. Holding her in your arms, James standing so close you can feel his warmth.

“What’s her name?” You ask, smiling sweetly at James.

He beams. He just – he beams. You know that he knows, then. You’re in. For better or worse.

“No idea. Alice had the muggle police contact the muggle social workers, who had no idea of anything about her. Bit of a mystery, really. But we get to keep her. Keep her safe, love her, raise her. So, I think it worked out. Is that bad?" James whips his head up, like his words surprised himself.

You chuckle lightly, "A little."

"What do you think we should name her?" You ask, eyes flitting back down to her. She's fallen over into sleep, blue irises gone from the world and you feel a tinge of sadness. You miss the bright blue of them, already. She's huffing softly, lips parted cutely. There's something magical about the way she's captured your heart in ten minutes flat. She might have magical powers, after all.

"Not sure. We can think on it. Our meeting with the ministry to officially adopt isn't until Monday." James speaks softly, in awe of the sight of you both.

You nod, "We better ring for Sirius and Remus, send them off for a cot, and then coax them into helping us build it."

You hand her over to James, he takes her, and then make for the phone. James stops you when he speaks, voice an amused whisper, lips pressed to her head, "They're already on their way."

"You knew I'd say yes."

"I knew you'd say yes. How could you not? Look at her." James is all honey voiced as he coos and holds the baby up for you to see and you melt.

She's the cutest thing you've ever seen. You're in awe. She's got your heart, well and truly. It's a strange feeling, to have such adoration for a human so small, who you've only just met. But you know you'll lay your life down to protect her. You'd do anything to make sure she's safe. She promises love, in the darkest time. You can already see the difference in James since returning home. He's lighter, full of smiles, gentle, happy. Usually, after missions, James is dark and brooding. He's filled with a darkness that only being a soldier can bring about.

James is looking at her so lovingly it makes you want to cry. She's happiness, and love. She's-

"Hope." You say, the ghost of a smile on your lips.

James looks up, brows furrowed, a question.

"Hope Potter." You affirm, tears in your eyes.

Your heart fills when James leans forward, presses a kiss to your lips, careful not to jostle Hope, "I love it. I love you."

"I love you. Both."

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gayeddieagenda · 8 months ago

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scene prompt game - 41: sitting close and knees touching + 😈🍻🎇

for @eddiesgaymustache <3

“Whoa,” Buck said. “Someone’s late.”

He tilted his head back to take in the burst of light as the firework exploded overhead. Midnight had come and gone a while ago. The bar wasn’t empty yet, but it had been clearing out slowly, since the countdown and the cheering and the champagne an hour and change ago.

Hen and Karen left minutes after midnight, barely giving Buck enough time to kiss them both on the cheek. Bobby and Athena didn’t even wait for midnight; Athena announced they were celebrating on central time, kissed her husband, and said good-bye. Chimney and Maddie lasted slightly longer, but only because Buck kept trying to buy Maddie drinks and whining when she tried to remind him she had a kid to pick up from the Lees’ in the morning.

Buck and Eddie hadn’t made a move to leave.

“The year’s still new, I guess,” Eddie said.

Buck looked at him. Another firework soared through the sky and Buck watched it burst in the reflection in Eddie’s eyes.

They were the first two to the bar. After their shift let out in the afternoon, Buck drove himself home, then to Eddie’s after a shower and changing into his outfit for tonight. Eddie wasn’t dressed when Buck showed up, so Buck followed him around the house, helping him tidy and making sure Chris was actually packing his backpack for his sleepover, Buck in his dress pants and silky green button-up shirt and Eddie in his socks and t-shirt.

Buck didn’t remember the last time they had a New Year’s Eve off. The bar was Maddie’s idea, a cute rooftop bar she and Chimney found for a date night. Buck and Eddie showed up early, Eddie grabbing them a couple beers and Buck laying claim to the big booth in the corner. Eddie slid in to sit next to him, tilting one of the beers at Buck.

As the rest of the 118 and partners arrived, Buck and Eddie found themselves scooting closer and closer together to squeeze everyone in. By the time the countdown started, they were pressed together, shoulder to hip to thigh. Eddie bumped Buck’s knee with his when Buck made him laugh.

It was a fun, loud night. It was too hard for Buck or Eddie to get out of the booth once they were in it, so everyone kept bringing them drinks, more beer and complicated cocktails with fruit and umbrellas sticking out of them that Chimney insisted they try. They were a pair: Buck and Eddie, stuck together shoulder to toe, served the same drinks and answering questions for each other, Buck explaining the fight with Eddie’s neighbors about the recycling bins and Eddie answering when Karen asked why Buck texted her asking what the deal was with some article about the Webb telescope (Chris was looking for a science project).

And when everyone started to filter out, Buck and Eddie didn’t make a move to separate from each other.

Eddie knocked his knee into Buck’s. It wasn’t a particularly cool night, but Buck leaned into the warm line of Eddie’s body against his anyway.

Buck bumped his knee back. “Are you tired?”

“Nah,” Eddie said. “Not really.”

“Me neither,” Buck said.

It was a late night, but they had a lot of late nights together. Sitting in the loft at the station and waiting for something, anything to happen. Driving to a night call, when it was late enough for the traffic to finally take a break for the day. Sitting on Eddie’s couch, credits rolling across the screen, playing chicken with who would admit they needed to go to sleep first.

“I can’t believe they all went home,” Eddie said. He nodded at the empty chairs around the table without taking his eyes off Buck.

“They’re all old,” Buck said. He pressed his knee into Eddie’s again. “Not like us, right?”

Eddie laughed, low and quiet in his throat. “Not like us,” he repeated.

His smile was small, a private thing between them. His eyes were lit up with something bright and amused. Buck couldn’t stop looking at them.

The only funny moment of the evening was when the New Year’s countdown finished and the (replay) of the ball dropping played on the bar TVs and the fireworks started exploding over the heads. It was only then that Buck remembered, with sudden, startling clarity, that he and Eddie were the only single ones at this little party. Everyone yelled zero and screamed and cheered and the couples at the table all turned to kiss each other—all except Buck and Eddie.

It was fine. It was minute, not even, and then Buck was smacking a kiss on Hen’s cheek and trying to get Chimney lean close enough for him to kiss him on the forehead. It was nothing, except, for a second, everyone was kissing and Buck and Eddie were looking at each other. For a second, it was just the two of them.

Kind of like now.

“It freaks me out sometimes,” Buck said quietly. “New Year’s. I get this feeling like, I don’t know. Like I’m waiting for something.”

“Waiting for wait?”

Buck shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Eddie was so warm against him. They were both in short sleeves. Their elbows were touching, bare skin on bare skin.

“The future?” Eddie offered.

“I guess,” Buck said. “Sometimes it’s like, I know it’s all right around the corner. But I don’t know what it is, or where the corner is, or how I’m going to get there.”

Eddie hums. “I get that,” he said. “Sometimes—sometimes, there’s things I want, but they feel so far away. I want them, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to get to them.”

“Things like what?” Buck said.

“Lots of things,” Eddie said quietly.

"Name one," Buck insisted.

Buck looked at him. Eddie looked back. Somewhere out in the bar, someone was calling for their friend over the music. Buck didn’t hear it at all.

"Buck," Eddie said quietly.

"Eddie," Buck parroted.

Eddie pressed his knee into Buck’s. He had a look in his eyes that Buck couldn’t read at all—unless he just meant what it looked like. Unless he just meant, this.

“What kind of things, Eddie?” Buck asked.

Overhead, a firework burst into sparkling blues and golds. Buck felt the boom in his chest. Eddie’s eyes flicked up to the sky, then back to Buck’s.

“Happy New Year, Buck,” he said, and leaned in.

Eddie kissed him. Under the dark sky of the new year, at an empty table an hour and change after midnight—Eddie set one hand on the back of Buck’s neck, gentle.

Buck kissed him back. He got lost in it in a second, in all the places Eddie was touching him, the press of his fingertips on Buck’s neck and his mouth on Buck’s mouth and their knees, knocking close under the table. He’d chosen Eddie’s cologne for him tonight, a task Eddie set to keep him busy while he second-guessed his outfit, picking through the options on the top of his dresser until he found one he liked. Buck could smell it now.

Buck blinked his eyes open when they separated. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the bar had closed around them, or the sun had come up. They could have been kissing for an hour, two hours, a day. Instead, he just saw Eddie, looking back at him with something bright in his eyes.

Eddie took a slow breath in. Quietly, he asked, "Am I too late?"

“No,” Buck said. He didn’t know when this started—a week ago, six months, seven years, longer. He couldn’t remember when he’d started hoping for this, and he couldn’t imagine ever stopping wanting it. “Never.”

#buddie #buddie fic #my fic tag #happy new years LMAO #emoji prompt fic

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astrobei · 1 year ago

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update just scrapped a 3k scene and i’m so sad abt it but at least i like the fic again 🥳

almost done w this lokius scene when it hits me that this is maybe the most stupid scene i have ever written in my entire life and i just have to sit here staring at the screen like Whereeeeeeeee did this idea even come from. how did we get here.

#to be clear by scrapping i mean i’m putting it in another doc and recycling it #using a bit in the new scene concept bc i really liked it #i would never Delete so many words ever omg. plus i did rly like the idea so i might make it into a separate oneshot one day #it was just from my og fic concept and the fic has Evolved and i was attached to it and didn’t want to not include it #but then i labored over 3k just to end up not using it anyway so. 🤷🏽‍♀️#n e ways .

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weirdero · 3 months ago

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I’ve seen a lot of people online saying that Piper is either going to be Quinn 2.0 from Season 1 or Olivia 2.0, and honestly, I get it. I understand where those assumptions are coming from and it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world especially if she ended up as another Quinn. She seems like a nice girl stuck in a fucked up family. But my god that would just be so boringgggg. We’re only on Season 3 it’s way too early for the show to start recycling character archetypes. I also think with the added dynamic of her brothers she’ll be her own evil freaky bitch yk. Anyways the siblings got me fucked up.

Her brothers are themselves. Saxon is the most outrageous out of three I don't think he's ever been proper humbled in his life and has a very very very disgusting black and white outlook on the world.

He's like those men who believe life revolves around sex and sex is just a game. The type of man that excuses his abhorrent terrible behavior on his “natural human instinct”.

Lochlan is definitely chiller, but still a freak. He seems to crave attention from both of his siblings in a very odd way. He enjoys Saxon’s “life advice” and gossip. I think he’s very aware of his brother’s unhinged nature and recognizes that it’s ridiculous but I genuinely don’t believe he sees it as anything more than that. He’s the kind of guy that just brushes Saxon’s behavior off because “he’s just a silly guy,” YK?

And with Piper, I think he definitely knows she’s the more normal one compared to Saxon. Even though we haven’t seen them interact much yet I think they’re able to have more honest conversations with each other. He tells her that he attempted to pray and even though he didn’t really feel any sort of divine intervention or anything he still chooses to share this with Piper.

He also gives off gossipy vibes. When Saxon tells him he thinks piper has never had sex before he decided to tell piper about it but not in a concerning “our brother is a freak” way but in a playful way, kinda like it’s just some casual chitchat, rather than something deeply weird. Like I mentioned earlier he also excuses his brother behavior by down playing it and explaining the original context of the statement as a “compliment”????

And after piper is clearly disturbed and uncomfortable with this conversation he decides to double down and ask her if she had had sex before.

This gossipy nature comes out during their lunch scene with that whole Kate and Victoria interaction. I already talked about how I interpreted both Kate’s and Victorias feelings in this scene and why the both specifically acted that way in this post but the way Lochlan acts is also very telling of who he is he's the only person at that table to question his mothers odd behavior telling her straight up was was kinda rude. But just like with Saxon I don't he actually cares or takes an issue with how his mom handled that interaction he's not actively trying to call her out but more curious than anything. Get kinda messy with it. YK? Anyways like I said he doesn’t actually care about how she acted based off how he reacts to her prostitution joke laughing along with Saxon and his father. Actually scratch that he looks at Saxon first to check if HES LAUGHING. also he was 100% ready to watch his brother jack off. Weirdo!

Then there’s piper. Like fucking pipe. She does seem to be the most sane out of all of them in the instances that I brought up she’s like literally the only person with an appropriate response. but I still can't properly pin point her. I want to believe she's sane and normal I really do and hell she might be and I might just be too fucking suspicious but there is just something about her. When lochlan tells her about saxsons comment about her sex life her first reaction to me seems defensive. Not even a "why would he say that" type of reaction which she settles for later but a "he doesn't know what I do".

And again, I might be reading into things, but it just feels so specific. I’ve been watching this season with my friends one of them specifically loves Piper’s character and another thinks she’s just a performative white girl Olivia 2.0 But neither of them think she’s a freak.

In defense of my friend who thinks she’s just another privileged white girl she did point out another moment during the family’s lunch conversation

She tells her dad that she didn’t choose this hotel and that it’s not her vibe and its like “Disneyland for rich bohemians from Malibu and their Lululemon leggings”

Then later she’s seen in yoga in what honestly I wouldn’t be surprised if they were Lululemon leggings.

Anyway, it’s almost 8pm where I am now and I need this new episode to drop now.

#the white lotus #piper ratliff #saxon ratliff #lochlan ratliff #victoria ratliff #the Ratliffs #the ratliffs white lotus #timothy ratliff #white lotus season 3

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goldfades · 3 months ago

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Could you write something where booker and reader meet for the first time at a random party?

yesss babe!!! here you go, i hope you enjoy! i wanted to make this a little more entertaining so i added some drama lol

The party wasn’t supposed to be anything special. Just another night, another house packed with people who smelled like expensive cologne, tequila, and bad decisions. You hadn’t even planned on going. But your best friend swore up and down that you needed to "get out" more, and somehow, after minimal convincing, you found yourself stepping into the chaos of a mansion you’d never been to, surrounded by faces you didn’t recognize.

The place was ridiculous. High ceilings, a chandelier that probably cost more than your rent for the year, and a backyard that stretched out to a view of the city lights, the infinity pool glowing a deep blue under the night sky.

You weren’t sure who owned the house, but it didn’t really matter. You were here now, moving through the crowd, your drink cold against your palm as you took in the scene. The usual. Girls laughing too loud, guys acting like they owned the place, music shaking the walls. You leaned against the marble counter of the kitchen, half-listening to your friend rant about something that, frankly, you weren’t paying attention to.

And then—him.

Devin Booker wasn’t someone you just ran into at a party. He was the type of guy you saw in commercials, on courtside highlight reels, in photos with models on yachts. He wasn’t supposed to be real, standing a few feet away, talking to someone like he wasn’t the most recognizable person in the room. But there he was, in a plain black tee and a watch that caught the light every time he moved his wrist. Effortlessly cool, relaxed in the way that only people who have nothing to prove could be.

You weren’t staring. Not really. But your gaze must’ve lingered just long enough because, suddenly, he was looking right back at you.

And he smirked. Like he knew something you didn’t.

It was the kind of smirk that made your fingers tighten around your drink. The kind that made you want to look away but also made it impossible to.

“Okay,” your friend whispered, grabbing your wrist. “Why is Devin Booker looking at you like that?”

“Like what?” you asked, too casually.

“Like he’s already decided how this night is gonna go.”

Devin hadn’t planned on being here either.

It was one of those nights—one where he let his boy talk him into stepping out, even though he wasn’t in the mood for a scene. It was always the same anyway. The same recycled conversations, the same desperate energy from people who wanted something from him—clout, a name drop, a story to tell later. He could already predict how the night would go: a few drinks, some forced small talk, and leaving before anything got too fun.

But then there was you.

He hadn’t noticed you right away. Not until you shifted against the counter, the dim lighting catching the soft sheen of your skin, the shape of your lips as you sipped your drink. Something about the way you carried yourself—like you weren’t trying too hard, like you weren’t there for them—caught his attention.

And then you looked at him.

It wasn’t the usual look he got. It wasn’t the kind of stare that came with recognition or expectation, like you were already piecing together an Instagram caption in your head. No, this was different.

This was intrigue.

And that smirk? That was instinct.

Because suddenly, the night felt less predictable.

He wasn’t sure what he expected from you, but he knew one thing—he wanted to find out why you looked at him like that. Like you weren’t impressed, but you weren’t indifferent either. Like you were still deciding if he was worth your time.

He shifted his weight, absently swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a slow sip, eyes still on you. The noise around him faded a little, the energy of the party dulling in comparison to whatever was happening between the two of you from across the room.

His boy, J, caught on. “You see something you like?”

Devin didn’t respond right away, just let out a breath of amusement, setting his drink down on the counter beside him.

“Nah,” he murmured, but the way he was still watching you told a different story.

J chuckled. “Sure. That’s why you haven’t blinked in, like, a minute.”

Devin exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, but he couldn’t even lie to himself. Something about you had his attention in a way that nothing else in this house did.

Then, just as quickly as you’d looked at him, you turned away, back to your friend, back to your conversation—like he was just another guy in the room.

And that? That was new.

People noticed him. They watched him, they angled themselves toward him, they tried to create opportunities to be seen by him. But you? You had looked, and then you had looked away. Like you weren’t waiting for him to do something about it.

And now, suddenly, he wanted to do something about it.

So he moved.

Not right away. Not obviously. But he casually stepped away from where he was posted, taking his time as he made his way through the crowd. People stopped him here and there—someone dapping him up, a girl reaching for his arm with a too-sweet, “Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

He nodded, threw a small smile, but he wasn’t stopping. His focus was on you, on closing that space between you without it being too obvious.

He could hear the tail end of your conversation as he got closer. Something about how your friend had been hyping up this party all week, and now you were wondering why. He almost smirked again at that.

“Bad time?” he asked, finally inserting himself into your orbit.

The way you turned to look at him, your expression unreadable for a beat, made something tug at the corner of his mouth.

“That depends,” you said, tilting your head slightly. “You here to make it better or worse?”

Oh, you were good.

J was right—he did see something he liked.

But before he could respond, before he could make some smooth comment to match your energy, someone else joined the mix.

And suddenly, the moment shifted.

“Seriously?”

The new voice was sharp, familiar. And when Devin turned, he realized why.

It was her.

An ex. One of the situations he hadn’t tied up as neatly as he thought. The kind of ex who had taken his silence as a “maybe,” rather than the firm “we’re done” he had meant it to be.

And judging by the way she was glaring at you, then back at him, it was clear she had some thoughts about what was happening right now.

Your brows lifted slightly, amused, but you didn’t say anything. You just took another sip of your drink, waiting to see how this was going to play out.

Devin sighed, dragging a hand down his face.

Yeah.

This night just got a whole lot more interesting.

You barely had time to process the look Devin gave you before he was moving—suddenly, smoothly, like he’d done this before.

And maybe he had, because before you could react, his arm was snaking around your waist, his body pulling you into his chest with a kind of easy confidence that made it seem like this wasn’t your first time wrapped up in him.

It was an automatic thing, the way you braced a hand against his chest, your drink sloshing slightly in the other. He was solid, warm, and despite the chaos of the moment, you could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath your palm.

His ex was still staring, her eyes narrowing, mouth parting slightly like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

And Devin? Oh, he was really selling it now.

His other hand landed on your hip, his fingers spreading slightly as he looked down at you with a smirk so casual, so convincing, that for a second, you almost forgot this was for show.

“Damn,” he murmured just loud enough for her to hear, eyes locked on yours. “You really tryna start something tonight?”

You blinked up at him, pulse ticking faster than you wanted to admit. You could feel the weight of his ex’s stare burning into the side of your face. Devin had thrown the ball into your court, waiting to see if you’d play along.

So you did.

“Me?” You let your fingers drag down slightly against his shirt, eyes playful. “You’re the one who pulled me in.”

Devin chuckled, tilting his head. “Did I?”

“You did,” you said, pressing your lips together like you were trying not to smile.

You could feel the ex getting more annoyed by the second, and that was really what made you commit.

You relaxed into him, settling against his chest like you belonged there, like this wasn’t completely unhinged. His hand on your waist tightened slightly—just for a second, like he hadn’t expected you to really lean in—but he recovered fast.

“Unbelievable,” his ex finally snapped, her arms crossing tight.

“What?” Devin asked, deadpan. “You good?”

“I’m great,” she bit out. “Just didn’t think you’d move on so quickly.”

At that, Devin let out a short, amused breath and turned back to you, like he was checking in, like he was making sure you were still on board.

So, naturally, you doubled down.

You let your fingers toy with the chain around his neck, a gesture so natural that it surprised even you. “You really have exes still checking in on you like this?” you mused, shaking your head slightly. “I thought you were the cool type.”

Devin laughed at that—actually laughed, head tilting slightly back for a second before he looked down at you again, eyes glinting with something new. “Guess I got a few ghosts,” he admitted, tapping his fingers against your side absentmindedly.

Your skin burned where he touched, but you didn’t move.

His ex huffed, clearly done with whatever this was.

“You’re an asshole,” she said, voice cutting, before turning on her heel and stomping off, her friends trailing behind her.

And just like that, she was gone.

A pause settled between you and Devin. You were still close, his hand still resting on your hip, your fingers still curled around the chain at his collarbone.

Then, at the same time, you both broke.

A laugh bubbled out of you, and Devin shook his head, his deep chuckle vibrating through his chest. He let his hand drop, finally giving you some space, though his body was still angled toward yours.

“Well, that was—”

“Completely unnecessary,” you finished, pressing a hand to your forehead, still laughing.

Devin grinned, licking his lips as he glanced over his shoulder, making sure the ex was actually gone. “Hey, you played along.”

“You started it.”

“Yeah, but you took it to the next level.”

You tilted your head at him. “Oh, so you weren’t about to fake-kiss me if she stuck around another second?”

Devin’s smirk deepened. “You don’t know that.”

You rolled your eyes, still amused, still feeling the heat of his hands even though he wasn’t touching you anymore. “Well, congrats. You officially have one less ex to deal with.”

“And you officially have people thinking you’re my new girl.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, because that’s what I need in my life.”

He gave you a look. “You say that like I’m bad for your health.”

You smirked, raising a brow. “Aren’t you?”

Devin huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. You really don’t hold back.”

“Nope.”

He studied you for a second, like he was trying to figure you out. Like he was trying to decide if this was something he should let go or hold onto.

Then he pulled out his phone and held it out to you.

You blinked. “What?”

“Put your number in,” he said simply.

You stared at him, searching his expression for any sign of hesitation. But there was none.

“I just fake-dated you for all of thirty seconds, and now you think you deserve my number?”

Devin shrugged. “I think I at least earned a conversation outside of this loud-ass party.”

You hesitated for just a second, but then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you plucked the phone from his hand, tapped your number in, and passed it back.

He glanced down at the screen, lips pressing together like he was satisfied with himself. “Good choice.”

You rolled your eyes. “Just don’t start another fake relationship with me via text.”

Devin smirked, stepping back slightly, finally putting some space between you two. “No promises.”

And with that, he walked off, disappearing into the party, leaving you standing there—still buzzing, still processing, and maybe, just maybe—already kind of looking forward to what came next.

#devin booker #devin booker x reader #nba x reader #devin booker imagine #devin booker fanfic

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uniquethingtastemaker · 2 months ago

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I give sporadic updates so here’s one for you, and as always I clump all my latest stuff together.

The Rook x Reader fanfic is already 17k words and I’m not even fully to Chapter 6 now. There’s a lot of question marks on how far and detailed I should go for a few scenes, specifically Vil’s speech and subsequent introduction of the VDC crew to the audience. It’s important to the plot, but idk how much I should add. I have to add a questionable Vil moment in the part that has “Mira Mira” too. Now I have to move on to Chapter 6 which hopefully this section isn’t too too long. It’s hard to keep up the motivation but I’m spurred by my desire to give this fic to u guys. It’s amazing so far!! I have a fun time reading it lol and some of my friends too!

It will be fantastic when it’s out. It’s my baby.

I had another idea Rook x Reader fic! I can also make a Vil x Reader using the same concept and take it a different direction. I’m referring to it as “Role Reversal”

I’m recycling something that I created for the Rook x Observant Reader. I had to make a whole ass outline for a movie plot that Vil would star in. I thought it would be fun if there’s a director who comes to NRC and wants to use the students to film a movie or whatever. As always, Vil gets cast as the villain. However, he accepts it because he cares about the director, production, and storyline or whatever. No one else can play the villain as well as he can, so he’ll do it.

The director sees Reader and goes “you! Let me see how you fair in this character.” The character is the protagonist and you nail it multiple times. You become the director’s favorite low key. However, you read the script and go “bro, the villain is way cooler. I wanna play the villain.” You glance up at Vil, who doesn’t want to play that role and go, “I think I can make this work.”

Then you proceed to absolutely obliterate everyone’s expectations by being the perfect villain. Like, it’s better than Vil’s, which is saying something. However, you insist that Vil should be in the protagonist instead.

He’s confused but doesn’t questions it. You help him be the main character and help him as a person along the way.

Regardless of if it’s Vil or Rook, it works. I’ll adjust the romance as needed lol.

I’ve also been working on Silver’s “Dreaming of You” fanfic, which is fun. I definitely have to cut some of the original dialogue down and alter it. Usually when I do this, it isn’t as straightforward as it has been with this. The Reader is just very encouraging and empathetic. They’re strong in an emotional sense and always stand up for themselves or others, including Silver. There’s a lot of compliments that our knight has to get used to.

There’s also a great moment where you show and tell Malleus you’re scared of him which is so good and low key angsty, but in the best way. I like telling people off when they’re hurting people lol.

Also I’ve had an idea for Rook’s “Dreaming of You.” Can you tell who my favorite character is? Anyway, I have an idea for him that I’m working on. However, it’s not fully fleshed out. I’m trying to decide how Rook acts in this. I won’t spoil anything though lol

I just started tampering and working on Azul’s “Dreaming of You,” which is great so far. I really like it. However, I want to make sure that it’s longer since I like longer fanfics. It’ll probably have to continue into the Savanaclaw section, fleshing out their relationship. I love Azul so I want to make sure he has more screen time lol.

I have to go back and watch some moments toward the end of his dream. I remember how to tweel’s act really callous, but I don’t remember what happens before then. I’ll have to do that.

That’s all for the update now. I’ll probably post the segment I have for the Rook x Reader — Role Reversal just because I like it lol. I’ll probably post it in the next few minutes lol

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lucydixon · 12 days ago

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Euronymous x Pink Girly Metal Headcanons

Are we rocking with the moodboards, or should I go back to potentially recycling photos? Anyway, here are some headcanons for Euro x Girly Pink Reader, who is also a metalhead.

I think that if you walked into Helvete, dressed in all pink, Øystein would immediately be a huge dick to you and try to get you out of his store. He’d shake his head right away and point at the door. It might go a little like this,

“You’re lost, sweetheart.” He scoffed, eying you with clear distaste, “Candy store’s down the street.”

“I’m actually looking for an album.” You held your hands up in surrender, very much used to this kind of treatment whenever you crossed paths with other people from the scene. “I can’t find it anywhere else, and everyone I talked to told me that if anyone had it, it’d be you.”

“I don’t have anything you’d be looking for.”

“I dunno,” you shrugged, looking the slightest bit amused, “I’d think you sell anything released by your label, no?”

“You’re looking for something that came out on my label?” He looked unconvinced. “You?”

“Death like silence, right?”

He nodded, looking skeptical.

“It’s the Abruptum album.” You explained, watching as he raised his brows, “You do have it, don’t you?”

“Tell whoever it’s for to come get it themselves.”

“It’s for me.” You frowned. “Is that a problem?”

“I don’t sell label stuff to posers.” He snapped, unable to believe that someone dressed the way that you were could possibly be into metal enough to know of his obscure label.

“What do I have to do to prove I’m not a poser?”

“I can tell just by looking at you.”

“Quiz me.” You shrugged, eyes locked onto his in a challenging stare.

“You’re that confident?” He crossed his arms over his chest, sizing you up as you nodded.

“Alright. We’ll start off easy. What’s the tracklist for the album you’re looking for? Name every song.”

“Gonna call a trick question easy?” You raised a brow and smirked slightly when you saw the clearly taken aback look on his face. “It’s just the two tracks. Part one and Part two.”

“Okay, so you did your research.” Øystein brushed you off dismissively, “Black metal, who started it?”

“Venom or Sarcofago, depends who you ask.”

“Rise of the mutants, Who’s album is-”

“Impaler.”

The two of you stared at eachother for a full minute.

“So you know your stuff.” He nodded, finally conceding, although it looked like it pained him a little, “I’ve never seen a metalhead dressed like that.”

“That’s why I don’t go around calling myself one.” You tried not to look too smug.

He’d be impressed and would hand the album over. Your hands might brush against eachother while you paid, and he’d jerk back like he’d been burned, completely caught off guard by the current flowing between you.

I think he’d call out to you while you were on your way out the door, a little confused as to why he already felt like he wanted to see you again.

“You can come back if you want.”

“I will.”

You’d be stuck in his head. He’d run through your interaction over and over again, trying to figure out if he was just still completely shocked by your metal knowledge despite your clothes, or if he wanted to fuck you.

You’d come back a few days later after having listened to the album, looking for another. This time, he wouldn’t try to kick you out. He’d find himself asking if you’d liked it while he helped you look for your next vinyl. He’d be friendlier. Still standoffish, but a little less so than before, as he looked you over discreetly.

When you leave, he’d conclude that it wasn’t just shock. He would want to fuck you, but more than anything he’d found you interesting and wanted to know more about you. This would unsettle him a little.

He’d find himself looking at the door every time the bell above it chimed, slightly disappointed every time that it wasn’t you.

You’d come by every few days and give him a review of whichever album you’d bought the time before, looking for a new one. I think that the two of you would become friendly, making small talk at first, then getting to know eachother a bit. Eventually, it would blossom into full-on flirty banter and casual touches. A hand on the arm here, fingers purposely brushing against eachother when an item changed hands.

He’d invite you to a show at some point, trying to be casual about it while watching a grin stretch across your face. Your excitement would give him a little bit of reassurance, especially if you immediately said yes.

You’d be so easy to spot in the crowd. He’d look for you the second he stepped on stage and find you already staring back at him. It would be hard for him not to smile, but he’d have to bite it back, unwilling to look soft while they were on stage.

After the show, you’d be waiting for him by the bar. You’d gush over how good the show was, and he’d immediately go backstage to blow off his friends to go get a drink with you, dead set on using his post-performance confidence to make a move. And he would.

Before you’d even made it to the bar two blocks away, you’d find yourself pinned to a brick wall, kissing him. It would be a little unexpected, but immediately reciprocated. You’d melt right into him, and the two of you would spend most of the night making out like teenagers.

You’d start dating not long after that, but he wouldn’t want his friends to see him with you. Your feelings would be hurt. How could they not be? Your boyfriend didn’t want to be seen with you.

Finally, you’d walk into Helvete one afternoon, all sad because his friends are there, which means you aren’t allowed to talk to him. He’d feel so bad that it made his chest hurt, so he’d hop down from the counter, march over there, and kiss you in front of everyone while they watched, slack-jawed.

Everyone would get used to it after a short adjustment period, especially after you open your mouth in front of them for the first time and jump right into whatever conversation they’re having about obscure metal things, shocking them all with your extensive knowledge.

Anytime anyone makes a comment about your clothes, Øystein would slap them upside the head and shoot them a threatening look. He’d be fiercely protective of you and would make sure that you were always in reach, especially at gigs.

You’d always be touching in some way, an arm draped over your shoulders, a hand on the small of your back or resting on your ass posessively. I don’t see him as much of a handholder, but he’ll always be holding something.

If you’re sitting anywhere, it’s in his lap. Always.

If he ever sees anyone making eyes at you, he’d pull you in for a sloppy makeout, grabbing your ass in plain view of whoever it is, all while maintaining eye contact.

Øystein would love seeing you in his leather jacket. Anytime you’re even a little bit cold, he’d be shrugging it off and draping it over your shoulders.

This man would absolutely try and get you to dress more metal, even if you try to shut down every attempt he makes. He’d constantly be buying you leather cuffs and little black accessories, and of course, you’d wear them, only because he went out and bought them for you. He’d learn pretty quick that you never said no if he bought something for you and would take full advantage.

I don’t think he’d completely try and change your style. I think he’d slowly start to love the pink and the intensity of the contrast between the two of you when you’re out in public. It would draw people’s attention, and if anything, having a super girly, pink girlfriend would make him look a bit tougher.

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics

#Euronymous #Euronymous x reader #Lords of Chaos #Mayhem #oystein x reader #oystein aarseth #Headcanons #Euronymous headcanons #Rory Culkin

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atamascolily · 8 months ago

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A few more observations on the second Walpurgis no Kaiten trailer, building on my earlier post. This trailer is so detailed and so intricate, I can really only watch it shot by shot in slow motion, otherwise I miss too much, otherwise it all goes by too fast.

The scallop shells on the handbag look similar to the scallop shell hand mirror that Homura is holding.

I can't decide if teapot on the table has the same pattern/design as the cup in this other shot. There are at least 2 tea parties in this trailer, and possibly more that we haven't seen yet.

Speaking of which, the angle on the stabbing shot suggests that the person is stabbing themselves in the arm--it looks like the salamander, representing Devil Homura's power, is trying to get to them, only to get stabbed by what appears to be a box cutter blade (??) and then it morphs into a cuff to try and control the person anyway. So I think perhaps Devil Homura will have a tea party of her own, though it's not clear to me yet if she's meeting with the green-haired girl in the glass dome or not. Or maybe someone else is meeting for tea and the salamander tries to sneak up on them when Devil Homura is not present. TBD.

Before the salamander becomes a cuff, though, it forms this lattice network first:

Oh, and you know where else the box cutter turns up? The box fan shot, of course. There is something sticking out of the middle left side of the box that looks suspiciously like a handle. And given that the box is all cut up enough to be taped together... well, that certainly seems like some kind of sabotage, doesn't it?

(SHAFT, are you giving us a magical girl whose weapon is a box cutter?? Or is this the Doppelganger Homura's answer to the salamander/dark orb? Either way, I'm here for it.)

The "fragile, handle with care logo" looks an awful lot like the cracked glass in this shot, too. Things are holding together, what is damaged is being repaired, but for how long??

Sayaka in the theater is literally experiencing a flash of insight, likely heralding a return of the memories Homura took from her at the end of Rebellion.

It seems like Sayaka is going to be in a unique position in this movie, since she is both magical girl and witch, and it sure looks like the witches are coming back (along with Walpurgisnacht!) It begs the question of whose side is she going to be on, and I suspect she'll be conflicted about that.

This other shot also suggests some kind of soul-searching, given that mirrors/portraits/stained glass on the walls were used to symbolize Homura regaining her memory in Rebellion. However, the books that are frozen specifically appear to be associated with the "book of witches" in another shot and the books piled up in the background behind Kyubey:

You can see one of the Anthonies (Gertrud's puffballs) in this shot along with other witches. Each page looks like an illuminated manuscript and/or possibly a card (?). You can tell Inu Curry had a lot of fun with this one!

There are madeleines in one of the jars behind Mami, which are associated with memory (cf. Proust's A la recherche du temps perdu) but the jar is closed and they are out of reach.

I'm really leaning towards this girl being an alternate Nagisa given the similarities between this shot and an early character design from Rebellion. (Either that or they just recycled the design, lol.) I can see the resemblance to the bear girl from episode 12, but somehow I think SHAFT is gonna stick to established characters/witches, especially given the witch book shot.

I think the exploding white feathers are from the same scene as Madoka-Doppelganger Homura waltz, and either represent Madoka regaining her memories or something going out of control and/or an interruption. TBD.

Anyway, that's all I got for the moment.

#puella magi madoka magica #walpurgis no kaiten #pmmm analysis

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izalith-witch · 6 months ago

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I think it would be so boring and one note of Sauron was just manipulate all the time and couldn’t form a connection and he was just manipulating Galadriel from the beginning.

Even if people don’t see Galadriel/Sauron as romantic, they still have the “cosmic connection” and are two halves of the same coin.

Sauron is not the incarnation of evil, he started out good and believes he’s doing good and that’s what makes him fascinating.

He needs a person to center on with a push and pull dynamic through out the show (Galadriel) or we’ll just keep seeing the same thing recycled with Celebrimbor 2.0. While that was great to see him actually girlboss, gatekeep, gaslight someone, I don’t want see him stuck in a room with a new victim repeating the same thing again. Yes, that’s what he does but as a viewer, it’s not what I want to watch.

Thus Galadriel, who knows his mind and he knows hers and whom he can have an evolving deeper dynamic with (as long as the writers aren’t cowards and don’t go the boring safe route) over the course of the show and allow us to see more than the Great Deceiver.

And personal interpretation is up in the air about the raft scene in the last episode of season 1 but the Forge Scene and Binding Scene after the battle in the Southlands are Sauron being honest and not manipulating cause otherwise how utterly tedious and makes a fascinating character so monotonous.

My two cents anyways.

#rings of power #sauron #galadriel #sauron x galadriel #saurondriel #haladriel #lotr #galadriel x halbrand #trop #lord of the rings

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arrrion · 4 days ago

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A Face I Remember II

Senku x GN Reader

This is a continuation (more like an explanation) of my first writing. So I recommend you read that one first!

This is actually what happened before the scene in the first part.

I don't know at what time this is published for you but actually it's like 2 to 3 in the morning for me. Why am I doing this?

I keep publishing at those crazy hours since the beginning...

Anyway, Enjoy!

It all started when your dad got an email.

He was fussing in front of his computer. Your dad was a sweet guy that couldn't say no even if he wasn't of help at all. His school had recently gotten an email from a little boy, or what was supposed to be one, they weren't sure. And because it was a really difficult question for someone this age, they decided not to respond. But your dad felt so bad leaving that boy without nothing. He wasn't the best at this subject but wanted to help.

He typed his answer on the keyboard and erased it, then typed it again and erased it. It could've been like this for hours but you decided to 'help'. You waited for your dad to leave and sat on his comfy chair. You typed a short answer and sent it. Now this boy won't be bothering your dad. He wasn't that happy when he saw what you did.

Neither was Senku when his hopes were crashed by a small text.

→ '_Stop bothering my father, you idiot.'

He wasn't going to respond to that but Taiju wasn't happy with it. He immediately responded to you with another text.

→ '_DON'T SAY MY BEST FRIEND IS AN IDIOT, IT'S MEAN!'

You actually didn't understand what he said because Taiju didn't know a single word of English. Your dad translated for you and you started to talk with the boys, your poor dad typing for you.

You don't know when, but you three started to be friends. You would pester your dad to type for you. Your dad was happy that you made friends, even if they weren't in America.

You didn't go to school. Your mother took care of your education, even though she wasn't a teacher. Your father was responsible for explaining the more difficult subjects to you. And even though you never went to school, you were pretty smart. You picked things up quickly. But because you stayed at home all day, you felt really lonely, without realizing. Ever since you could walk, you always built things. Starting with Lego. And now at ten you were building mini robots that did simple action. You loved to repair or recycle the electronics. Your mom was delighted when you repaired her vacuum. And your dad never had to buy a new coffee machine.

And of course you started to share your creations with Senku and Taiju. The boys were amazed, asking you to build things they made up. Taiju asked you if you could show him an automatic robot, and you did. It was just walking by itself and shooting but damn was it cool!

For his part, Senku sent you the results and his progress on his rocket. You were amazed too.

And as you grew up with them, you learned Japanese. It was starting to be awkward to ask your dad.

But then, something unexpected happened. Your mom passed away and you had to move with your grandma while your dad was trying his best at work. It wasn't something you hadn't anticipated as your mom was sicker than the day before everyday. You hadn't anticipated to have no internet though. Your grandma was a strong woman who still lived back in the old days. You didn't mind, you were always crafting things and had never really spent a lot of time on social media. The problem was that you had no way to communicate with your best friends anymore.

When you never replied to his messages, Senku guessed what happened. You had told him already about your mom and the fact you will live with your granny when she's gone.

He was sad, of course, but he believed you would meet one day.

And then petrification happened.

You woke up by yourself and started crafting again. You encountered Chelsea while randomly searching for a tree where your new home would be.

You actually could've read the panel that told you which way to go but, actually you were always looking up so you just missed it. Chelsea told you where to go and you just followed.

Then what happened was in part 1.

Bonus :

After joining the kingdom of science, you immediately started to craft again. It was really useful to have you around.

Then, one night, while everyone was asleep. You were looking at the sky when two figures joined you.

"Whatcha looking at, crazy mechanic?" Senku Ishigami, the boy you started hating but finally the one closest to you.

"Hey! Don't call them that! It's mean!" Taiju Oki, the 'It's mean' guy. Actually the sweetest man on earth.

You stayed silent. You knew if you looked at them, you would cry. Actually you were already crying. Now that you had processed all the situations everyone was in, you finally could think of the fact you just met your best friends for years in person. Your shoulders started trembling.

"I can't believe we spent all those years talking through a screen and now, after being stuck in stone, we are finally together, fleeing from a crazy military." You adjust your posture, now leaning over the front of the boat.

"Yeah skip the part where a crazy military is chasing us and it's quite poetic." Both his hands on his hips, tears at the crick of his eyes. While Taiju is already crying, loudly. You exhale and turn to look at them.

"I know you are not a hugger, Senku, but could we do those big hugs, the three of us?" Senku sighed with a smile. And he did one step, Taiju didn't wait to take the both of you in his arms. Your hands reached for both their backs while Senku just didn't move.

You felt all your childhood memories with them fill in front of your eyes.

Bonus 2:

In the back, Kohaku looks at the three of you, a soft smile on her lips. And Gen was manipulating the others, trying his best to keep the curious eyes out of the way, quickly helped by a Tsukasa with tearful eyes.

And then they all freeze when the sweet moment is broken by the yell of Senku.

"TAIJU YOUR BREAKING MY BONES, YOU MEATHEAD!"

With all the ideas I have written, I think this reader is the closest to the oc I could've made.

Anyways, I feel nostalgic too when I think of the fact 'A Face I Remember' is the first idea I wrote and actually published :')

See you soon !

#dr stone x reader #gn reader #ishigami senku #dr stone #gen asagiri #taiju oki #dr stone kohaku

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