#apologies if any of these have been done before

[kayharrisons]

Will you go, lassie, go? [Remmick x fem!Reader] [18+] [1 of 11]

Remmick has been drifting for a decade now, aimlessly passing from one town to the next as he hunts and feeds and fucks and-

And. And. And.

One could go mad after a while with all those ands.

Loneliness threatens to consume him, to pull him right over the brink and into insanity.

Until, that is, he hears a voice sweeter than a nightingale's and with a haunting, melodic pain that buries itself deep in his chest and takes root there.

Until, that is, he meets you.

A/N: hey guys!! My first attempt at a Sinners fic o o p I LOVED the movie sm and Remmick was just 😩 😩 Jack O'Connell the man that you are fr!! Anyway, idk if I'll write a LOT for Sinners, my brain rot is still very much Romulus focused BUT HEY have this lil two shot for now! Scottish Reader x Remmick oh no oh DEAAAAAAR!!! I'm not a native Gaelic speaker by any means (I know a couple basic words lol), so any future Gaelic sentences will be in italics! This fic is set some time in the 20s before Sinners! Next chapter will be up soon hopefully!! Apologies if there's any mistakes we rock and roll buckaroo over here ✌️

Series warnings: younger woman (19-21) x older man (literal vampire), blood, biting, sexual acts, mentions of immigration and racist/xenophobic attitudes towards Scottish and Irish communities, colonisation mentions (Ireland in Remmick's past), manipulative Remmick, naive Reader, Remmick was at one point Jack the Ripper 💀

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Time.

It's a funny thing. Especially to someone like him, to someone with this affliction.

It both passes in the blink of an eye and goes by slower than those snails that used to infest his mother's garden when he was a boy. He can't remember her face much, but he remembers how she used to rant and rave over the little creatures as they ruined vegetables and plants she'd oh so painstakingly grown.

He's had many families over the centuries. Many mothers, many brothers, sisters.

The faces blend, sometimes, when you're as old as he.

His birth mother had eyes like his, he thinks. She had his laugh.

He recalls having been told, frequently, that he takes after his father.

He wonders if that was before or after his skull was cleaved in two. He can't recall his father's face before it was split in half like a log for the fire.

Fire. Warmth.

He misses that.

Misses sitting with his brothers and sisters around the hearth as their mother hummed lullabies in their native tongue. Síthmaith had been his favourite of the bunch, his precious sister only nine when her throat had been cut to the bone.

Remmick had been the oldest of the bunch.

He'd failed them, and this, he thinks, is retribution.

He's never done well without people to care for, could never cope knowing people were sad. His mother used to smile and call him her mo mhuirnin whenever she'd catch him being kind.

The last time in his human life that he'd been kind, he had invited a sobbing stranger inside of his home, a frail woman begging for shelter against Protestant brutes, could he please help her?

The children hadn't survived the turning. They never did, according to the woman.

His mother had taken one look at her dead children and screamed an almighty roar of agony before walking out into the sunlight.

Remmick can't remember his mother's voice anymore, but he remembers that scream.

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The centuries passed. He spent it learning, teaching himself.

He occupied himself with hobbies, with history, and eventually with song.

That was the one thing he'd never allowed himself to forget over the years. The act of putting pen to paper and letting pain spill out as ink, of taking the time to sit back and think of melodies, of chords and notes.

He loves to sing.

Sometimes, he can still hear his mother when he sings, can hear his siblings laughter around the fire.

There is rarely anyone around to hear him, however.

New families come and go; not everyone is suited to this way of life, a lot lack survival instinct he's found. Lovers are there for an hour or two or three, the ones that linger end up drained upon the bed, his songs still lingering in their dead ears.

Perhaps one time he'd been overzealous in Whitechapel, had earned himself a nasty moniker and had had to hastily retreat to the countryside for a few years all while the public pondered over the identity of this Ripper fellow.

Animal blood wasn't quite the same as a human's, it must be said.

It's rather like drinking tar, he's come to find. Unpleasant and thick down his throat. Only worth doing in a pinch.

He hasn't met anyone else who's even tried it.

The others he'd been with on the ship, the ones who had burnt brighter than the sun, had rolled their eyes at him for that admission.

Lions were not expected to eat plants and nothing more, so why should they?

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He hasn't eaten in weeks.

He could. Easily. Easy pickings don't even begin to describe half of the people he's come across as he wanders the earth.

New York had been ripe with bodies, and he'd indulged himself more than necessary during the ten years he had spent there.

But his legs were leading him south. And who was he to go against them? Taken him this far, hadn't they?

He is curious to see the rest of the continent, to meet people, hear stories, to rebuild that which he's lost time and time again.

He can help people, like he used to, he can give them a family, can take all their petty human squabbles and differences and turn it into something good, can't he?

He hums to himself, a melody he has hazy memories of his mother singing. The words are lost to him now, taken from him by time, but he recalls the melody, at least.

Over and over, he hums, his fingers brushing over brick and stone and cold hard suburbia, before eventually his fingers run over trees and leaves and life itself.

He never did like cities much.

Remmick hums into the dimming light of the night, with no expectations of a response, an answer, of divine intervention.

He gets one anyway.

A little miracle in its own right.

"-the blooming heather, will ye go, lassie, go?"

His blood ignites in his veins just as brightly and fiery as it had the day he'd been turned into this.

If he had a pulse, he is sure it would be racing in his cold dead chest. If he could blush, he's sure the tips of his ears would be a burning red.

Your voice creeps through the trees like that of a fine mist, and it settles over him like dew on grass during a summer's morning. Refreshing, soothing, anchoring.

When was the last time he had felt anchored?

Voices, he's found, have a way of carrying stories, of harbouring emotions in a way that sometimes merely speaking doesn't even begin to encompass.

Sadness, anger, love, lust, loss-

It all sounded beautiful, in song.

Your voice reaches out like that of a beautiful plant, wraps around his soul like vines in the forest, takes root upon his very being like that of the strongest of trees.

Nature personified.

His pace quickens, the damp grass and dirt cliging to his bare feet, his hair sticking to his forehead.

He only wishes he was more presentable for you. Remmick is far from vain, but he's certain he's about to waltz into the den of perfection, an alter of beauty that would put Aphrodite herself to shame.

And he finds it.

Your back is to him, your hair is down loose around your shoulders. Your blouse is a few sizes too big and clings to your shoulders, your waist cinched by your skirt. You sway softly, like that of a flower in the breeze. Your fingers move effortlessly over the strings of your guitar, your voice having lowered to that of an airy hum.

He damn near almost collapses at the sight before him. Of such beauty here before him, untouched by the world outside of this forest. He's not a religious man, hasn't been in centuries, but Remmick is struck by the urge to collapse by your feet and cling to your skirts as if you were a Saint of utmost divinity, one he would swear his life and soul to.

Such natural, effortless beauty, and he hasn't even seen your face yet. Persephone can weep for all he cares.

A branch snaps beneath his feet, and your hair whips your face as you whirl around to face him.

Oh.

Oh.

Remmick staggers back a step, unusual for someone with supernatural grace on their side.

You're more radiant than a sunrise on a winter's day, more beautiful than poetry itself.

He could weep in your presence.

"Can I help you, sir?" you ask, pausing your guitar strumming and setting the instrument aside, leaning it against the tree beside you.

Your accent isn't from here. Scottish, the highlands, he thinks. He smiles at the sound, at the knowledge that he won't have to use that goddamn ridiculous Yank accent that helps him blend in.

"Aye, lass'," he nods, hands in his pockets as he steps closer. You watch him with a furrowed brow, with complete and utter confusion across your radiant face.

He stops short of you, leaning back against a tree, crossing his legs at the ankles as he studies you.

His eyes...

You straighten a hairs breadth, the same way one does when they spy a wolf in the distance, when you know a predator is watching you.

Remmick merely hums, unbothered at your reaction, even as his eyes gleam unnaturally in the darkness of the night.

"You can help me somethin' fierce, darlin'."

You smile, a touch uncertainly, your head cocked as you patiently wait for him to explain whatever it is he needs help with.

Remmick can only smile.

[lauraneedstochill]

can’t pretend

pairing: Jack Abbot x resident!reader summary: He is puzzled with you first, then vexed, and he can’t understand his feelings. In an attempt to get to know you better (or maybe to get you out of his head), Abbot accidentally crosses the line. (or, alternatively: what if Jack met someone similar to him in many ways. traumatic past included)

warnings: <rivals> to friends to lovers, slow burn, mentions of blood and injuries / I’m hinting at the age gap but you can ignore it / some complicated feelings and a LOT of Jack’s thoughts (his poor therapist will need a raise); assault. ANGST. / words: 7K author’s note: this is my first fic for “The Pitt”. I binge-watched the show in 2 days and didn’t plan on writing anything but my inspiration decided otherwise. I’ve never had a beta reader in my life, please be kind. ♡

Early at dawn, the sky is just the right color — the darkness slowly dissipates, deep purple at the edges, black fading into blue. If he squints and looks above the roofs, he can pretend he’s looking at the ocean. He’s been toying with the idea for some time but it’s more of a dream, a comforting mirage: him getting a small house by the beach, waves crashing softly in the distance, clean blue water blending into the bright blue sky. He’d wake up to the sunrise, take lugs full of cooling salty air, walk in the sand that glistens under the foaming swash. He’d probably adopt a dog — someone to pass his days with, just so the silence doesn’t get too heavy, doesn’t weigh on him when he can’t sleep at night.

A passing car honks down the street, loud and sudden, and Jack flinches, opening his eyes. That’s when the perfect image always falls apart. He is afraid he will get lonely with just a dog and with nothing to do, he will be going up the walls, bored out of his mind. But he doesn’t know how not to be alone. And some days he wishes that he did.

The air in Pittsburgh doesn’t carry any scents at this morning hour, and Jack’s gaze wanders down to the tree leaves writhing in the wind. He absentmindedly rubs his wrists when he hears the door creaking behind him.

“You know, security is getting worried about you,” Robby chuckles, his steps slow. “I heard the guys making bets on how many times a week you’ll come here.”

“Says the man who likes to brood in my spot,” Jack huffs without looking at him.

“Me, brooding? No idea what you are talking about.”

Robby gets to the roof edge but stays behind the railing, leans on it and slowly stretches his arms. His tone lets empathy in when he speaks up:

“Tough night?”

The sky is overcast, a mush of white and grey clouds the blue barely peeks through, and Jack sighs as he turns away. “Remember you told me about the kid who OD’d on Xanax laced with fentanyl? The parents sat by his bed hoping he’d wake up by some miracle,” Robby only nods when Jack throws him a glance. “I’m dealing with one of those.”

They both lost patients before, and both know that it doesn’t get easier with time. You have to tuck your grief away to walk into the room with their loved ones, offer apologies that carry little meaning, take even more grief in because this isn’t about you and this loss is not for you to carry. But they do carry it — Robby memorizes lifeless faces, Jack never forgets the names of everyone he couldn’t save.

“Brain dead?”

“Yep,” Jack drawls, hands gripping the metal rails. “He’s got three sisters, and all three were begging me. And I stood there feeling absolutely useless.”

Robby watches as his friend’s knuckles turn white. “If you couldn’t do anything then there was nothing that could’ve been done. And I’m really sorry.”

If only words could bring people back from the dead, Jack thinks bitterly but doesn’t say it out loud. He doesn’t want to sour Robby’s mood. And he can’t help but notice — it used to bother him way more, it sometimes would eat him alive; now Jack is mostly numb.

“I’ll sleep it off,” he mumbles.

“Not staying for the welcoming party?”

It takes a few seconds for the reminder to pop up in Jack’s head: a new senior resident, today is her first day. After Collins took maternity leave, Robby spent hours on the phone, glasses pressed to the bridge of his nose as he flipped through the applications, always unsure, never satisfied. And then he got a call and drove across the city to another hospital to meet her in person — he came back beaming. Jack must’ve zoned out so he didn’t catch the details.

“Don’t think I have a very welcoming face.”

“Should’ve seen the guys she worked with. I thought her chief of surgery would literally fist-fight me after I offered her the job,” Robby cackles.

It stirs Jack’s curiosity a bit. “She’s that good?”

“I believe she is. Skilled, confident, haven’t heard a single bad thing about her,” and even though his voice is certain, Robby dithers, bringing a hand to the back of his neck.

“But... ? I sense a but coming.”

“No-no, she’s great, really, and I made up my mind. It’s just that… She comes off as quite stubborn, and I feel like she is used to flying solo,” his eyes dart to Jack. “Reminds me of someone I know,” a smile grazes his lips, an unvoiced comparison he can’t help but draw.

Jack doesn’t see it, his gaze set somewhere on the horizon. “We all have to be team players here, that’s how it works,” he says dismissively. “I’m sure she’ll learn.”

The streets are getting busy, filling with people talking, rushing, making endless calls — and with more honking and more sounds that all merge into one unpleasant noise. And Jack is getting really tired.

“I should go back. Don’t want anyone to scare her off,” Robby puts a hand on Jack’s shoulder, a friendly but firm grip. “I’d also rather not waste my time on scraping your frail body off the pavement. Let me walk you out.”

“Frail body? You are three years older, you bag of bones,” Jack quips, and they share a laugh, and it warms up his heart a little.

But the warmth fades as they get inside, into the weave of corridors, into the crowd of nurses and other doctors pacing, the lighting bright and harsh, the smell of antiseptics clinging to the walls like mold. And it is not as overwhelming as it’s tiresome; once he is out on the street, Jack takes a few deep breaths. It’s hardly a relief.

As he passes by the park, exhaustion already on his heels, he suddenly picks up a sound, something between a whine and a small woof. Jack looks around to find the source peeping out from behind the bushes — brown eyes, wet nose, grey fluffy ears, one marked with a white spot. When Jack takes a step closer, the stray puppy immediately runs off.

On his way home he gets some dog treats and throws them in his bag. He tries thinking of pet names but nothing comes to mind. And when he falls into his cold bed, thick curtains not letting any light reach him, he dreams of standing on a long road framed with grass, a murmuring of waves heard through the mist. But he can’t see the ocean.

It keeps raining, and they have to close the roof — “Merely a precaution, sir, we don’t want anyone to slip. I heard the weather is supposed to clear up in a few days,” one of the guards assures Jack. His mood these days is just as gloomy as the sky. But he’s a man of habit, so every time Jack wants to get out to the roof, he instead gets more cases, drinks more coffee, barely a few words squeezed in between that aren’t work-related.

At first, he only catches glimpses of you.

On the days when your shifts overlap, he sees you tearing along the hallways, your hair up and your face focused, removing gowns to quickly put on fresh ones, your hands either in gloves or carrying the charts. You don’t speak much, and very few times Jack gets to walk past you, he is slightly puzzled by this combination of quiet and fast-paced.

Your first week is nearing its end when Dana prompts Jack to make a proper introduction. She calls him uncooperative and calls for you herself when she sees you leaving trauma#1. You swiftly come by the nurses' station and glance up at the board — and then you finally face Jack, your gaze so piercing, it catches him off guard. He clears his throat and manages a greeting, a bit coolly.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Abbot,” you tell him calmly, offering a hand. And you don’t look away, and your handshake is firmer than he would expect. The next thing you are holding is another chart, eyes following the lines of words and numbers as you step away, Whitaker barely keeping up.

“She is so fast, she’s almost flying. Beautiful,” Princess notes approvingly, and Perlah hums in agreement.

Their voices snap him back into reality, and Jack inhales sharply, only now realizing his gaze is still on you. He looks down, pretending he needs to fix his watch. “What is this, a fan club?”

“Aw, no need to be so jealous. You will always be our favorite old white doctor,” Princess teases.

Perlah gives her a side-eye. “I thought Dr. Robby was our favorite.”

“Well, yes. But I have a soft spot for men in existential crisis,” Princess winks at him.

Perlah rolls her eyes. “They are all in existential crisis.”

“And I wonder why,” Jack deadpans, then picks a case just so he’s got an excuse to leave. And maybe an excuse to pass by the room you’re in, your gloved hands already stained with crimson.

He starts watching you more often, an impulse he can’t necessarily explain.

He’s careful, he’s not staring, but his hazel eyes always pick you out from the crowd. He’s taking mental notes: you lean on doors with your right shoulder when you rush in, you scan the injured head to toe in every case, hands moving quickly in tandem with your gaze. You never raise your voice but you keep eye contact — with the interns when you give instructions and with the patients to make sure they understand what’s going on. You are efficient with your work-ups, you’re the first one to come in and you stay late to turn your patients over to the night shift. You are meticulous and disciplined in a way he finds relatable; in three weeks' time there’s a foundation laid for him to grow respectful. But sometimes Jack can’t stop the thought: he is yet to see your smile. He is also yet to see you slip up, and that is bound to happen because no doctor is without fault.

A month in, he thinks you finally come close to failure.

A patient is wheeled in on a gurney, gesticulating, red in the face from how displeased or pained he is (probably both); still, as you talk to him, he makes pauses to listen. There’s blood on his chest and his speech is slurring, and Jack’s gaze follows you. From where he’s standing, he can see you clearly, so he can’t help but glance up a few times from his computer screen. It’s all the same routine and it seems to be working smoothly — but when he takes another peek, he sees you frozen.

Jack instantly draws near, alert and observing through the glass: the man is intubated, his shirt cut and chest bared — and with a nail sticking right out of where his heart should be. The monitors go off as the blood pressure drops. When Whitaker makes eye contact with him, Jack takes that as an invitation to come in.

“What do we got here?”

Whitaker looks half worried, half relieved. “Um-m, 41 years old male, nail to the chest, intracardiac. Prepped for the thoracotomy. Cardio is tied up with another surgery, and it’s at least 15 more minutes until we can get an O.R.”

Jack knows the patient doesn’t have that long. His gaze flickers to you but you do not meet it, and he can’t tell what you are looking at. There is no time to guess — if you’ve never cracked into someone’s chest, he’ll gladly guide you. And his guidance is assertive, if a little cocky.

“It’s not every day that you get to do a thoracotomy. And it can be daunting — also, pretty risky if you ask me—”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m not asking,” you retort abruptly without even sparing him a glance.

And then you pick the scalpel and make the first incision, your hands steady and never hesitating, the confidence of a tsunami sweeping rocks away.

Jack has to take a step back because it would be childish to argue when someone’s life is hanging by a thread. And all his doubts are crushed before his very eyes the way ribs are under the pressure of a steel retractor you are holding, the metal sinking into flesh and blood to give you access to the heart. After the nail is out — long but intact, you deal with excess fluid and with the bleeding — and you are more nimble than he is, than he’s ever seen the other doctors be.

“Well, call me impressed,” Jack says earnestly.

The silence is a little awkward — a couple of seconds before you give reply: “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He wonders if maybe his compliment might’ve come as patronizing. What he knows for sure is that you do not need his help. But when he backs away, he sees a glint out of the corner of his eye — dog tags left in the pile of the man’s belongings on the floor. Jack has the same tags hanging on a chain around his neck. He almost doesn’t feel the weight of them but the memories they bring are heavy — sometimes an image flashing through his mind, sometimes a nightmare stirring him awake. And mostly it’s the latter.

But today, as his shift goes on, he isn’t thinking of torn limbs and collapsing buildings and bombings that looked like firecrackers in the night. Those weren’t the reasons he kept going back — he never once craved violence, never really cared about the money. For him, it was the roar of the adrenaline and the belief that even amidst the death and ruins, he could make a change. He hasn’t felt that for a while: the rush, the determination, the power held in your hands when you are cutting into someone’s body, fixing the organs and sewing the skin together, bringing the life back in. He lacks that spark, he misses it, he wants to get it back. To prove to himself that he still can do that — or maybe not only to himself.

So now he isn’t watching you but studying, with a diligence of a man who once had to learn how to walk again.

He starts work earlier just so he can get more patients — but also to listen in on your case reports and trail your steps, peek into trauma rooms you run in and out of. He often finds himself holding back the questions: damn, how did you do that? How come you easily catch things others take so long to figure out? You take on complicated cases: a feeble woman who can’t hold her food down, her arms marked with a red rash; a young jogger who keeps fainting, short of breath; a man whose neck hurts, the pain radiating to his chest. And you examine them and pick the clues to solve the tangle of the symptoms — it’s Celiac disease, it’s kidney failure, it’s spondylodiscitis and you know exactly how to treat it. But Jack knows all these answers too. And even if they don’t click in his mind as quickly as they do in yours, it’s still a victory: he’s not as rusty as he thought he was, he is enjoying this. He can’t believe he almost let himself forget.

When he decides to try a day shift for a change, he’s met with Dana’s worried face, her wondering out loud if he feels okay. She then proceeds to ask the same question two more times, just to make sure.

“You on day shifts may be the thing that saves Robby from a heart attack, you know,” her face softens.

“Are you saying you guys get way more action than us night owls?”

Dana grins. “What, you are already reconsidering your choices?”

“Like hell I am,” one corner of his mouth hints at a smirk.

The day is busy, and he can barely catch a break, but it isn’t a chore: he’s equally enthusiastic about a road accident that left a guy with a skull fracture, an appendectomy, a stoned teenage with a knife stuck in his thigh, a street worker with a leg broken in two places. An hour before his shift ends, they get a lacrosse team of middle schoolers, and the staff shares an exasperated sigh; but not Jack. He fixes broken noses and split eyebrows and some nasty shoulder dislocations, then goes to talk to their coach — a woman in her fifties, robust and perhaps too loud with her scolding. But her blaring voice cracks as soon as the kids are out of her sight. At some point, Jack finds himself holding her hand in reassurance, and she jokes that she’d gladly marry him if only she didn’t have a wife. She also promises that all the kids' parents will give the hospital the highest ranking. And they do.

Jack clocks out when the sky is colored orange, the shadows bleeding on the pavement, and his limbs hum but this weariness is pleasant. He is content, he’s almost joyous — the almost comes from you having a day off. He got to work with so many people, why would your presence make a difference? Jack persuades himself it’s not the reason he takes a few more mornings.

But when he comes back the next time, and you’re already there, there is this weird feeling in his ribcage — a spill of heat, a flutter of his heart. He blames it on the caffeine. You stand with your eyes glued to the chart while Princess lets out a big yawn.

“If another lacrosse team comes in today, I might actually quit,” she laments.

“Send them my way,” you say with ease, without missing a beat.

“That’s ten people,” she punctuates, incredulous. “We got lucky they were just kids. Grown-up men who slam into each other while voluntarily chasing a ball scare me.”

“I’m not easily scared,” you carefully tap on the screen, scrolling through some case report, someone’s illnesses broken into signs and terms; but you do pay attention to what she’s saying. You glance up at the nurse, your voice kind: “If you ever need help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

And then you look over your shoulder as if you can feel him watching — and it’s the same as the first time: your gaze startles him, like would a fire eruption or a ball lightning. But Jack’s greeting stays rooted in his mouth because Mateo sprints in:

“Hey, there’s something wrong with my patient’s veins, can someone take a look?”

And you are by his side and following him out of the hall in what feels like barely a second.

“I’m so grateful for you!” Princess calls after you. Then she spots Jack too, her face expression turning smug. “Oh, hello there, boss,” and she grins like she knows a secret Jack wasn’t let in on.

Turns out, Robby showed his gratitude by taking a sick leave, the first in three years (Jack would’ve sent him home himself if he heard Robby’s muffled coughing one more time). And it left Jack with way more shifts to cover. He readily gulps coffee from his to-go mug as he skims through the list of patients. The others join him soon: Mel smiles at everyone, the ever-optimistic one, Whitaker looks like hasn’t slept in months, and Santos teases him about something Jack doesn’t care to listen to. McKay is running late. Langton walks briskly to the nurses' station, taps on the tabletop right next to Jack.

“Ready to get back in the game?”

“I’ve been in the game for more years than you can count on your fingers,” Jack gives him a cold stare.

Frank sighs, his fingers drumming on the wooden surface, although he sounds barely concerned. “Love the positive attitude. Dr Robby surely won’t be missed.”

“As if you are such a pleasure to work with,” Dana cuts in, hands on her hips. “You guys should redirect that buzzing testosterone into your work. No one is getting paid for whining.”

“Preach,” Jack huffs as he steps away.

He stops himself from immediately going to check up on you. And twenty minutes later, he is glad that he did — you walk back, unruffled as you always are, Matteo tagging after you. His patient is an old lady with thrombocytopenia she probably ignored until it got too bad: there are bruises sprinkled on her arms and legs, a splotch of dried blood under her nose from how often it’s been bleeding. You gave her a platelet transfusion but you suspect it’s cancer; you order more blood tests and bring her a blanket before she even asks for it. Her eyes well up, voice shaking with heartfelt gratitude. And Jack has to remind himself that he can’t pick any favorites, he isn’t in it for the long run; but if he was to pick, it would’ve been an easy choice. And no one lags behind today — he’s got a well-coordinated team, like gears interlocking in a clock, the harmony built out of weeks of practice. They make jokes, share work stories and snacks; but every time Jack’s eyes get back to you, he can’t catch even a ghost of a smile.

He finds that you are very hard to read. And it unnerves him, maybe just a little.

He tries for his attempts to look brief and nonchalant — a kind word here and there, a quick approving look, a dry joke — and you offer nothing in return. As thorough as you are with diagnosing, you take no part in other conversations, you rarely take breaks or stand around. By the time the noon rolls in, Jack is fighting the urge to grab you by the shoulders: hey, take a seat and have something to eat. And tell me how can I cadge a laugh out of you, just one will be enough.

Dana waves a hand before his face, the phone up to her ear. “There’s been some gang fight at the North Side. Four victims coming in, two critical — one shot in the stomach, the other has his head smashed in. Don’t think they both will make it.”

Jack’s bet is on the first guy but it’s the head injury that’s fatal — the victim is pronounced dead, face so disfigured they’ll need a DNA test. Mel looks away in shock, and Santos frowns. Your stare is blank and unimpressed. You volunteer to take the third guy with a pelvic wound — he’s rambling incoherently, the tight bandage over his hip already soaked; you press your hand to it on the way to trauma. Jack leaves the worst case to himself.

“Who’s down for an ex-lap?”

“Can I run the bowel? I’ve never done it,” Santos asks, hopeful.

“Sure. Once we open the abdomen and remove the bullet, you can have your fun,” he offers, and she runs along with joy.

Although Jack can’t imagine a procedure less joyful. Yet, he is fueled by his new-found appreciation for his job so he walks her through the steps: identify the entry wound and cut in, look for the bleeding and what the bullet might’ve hit. It missed the liver by an inch; but to confirm the damage they need to evaluate the area by hand.

Perlah peeks into the room. “Is he stable?”

“Well, unless Dr. Santos gets too excited and makes a bow out of his intestines,” her hands stop, and Jack breathes out a chuckle. “I’m just joking, keep going. I’d say, his vitals do look promising.”

“Then you can keep him down here for a bit. We have a guy with a balloon in his aorta, he’s gotta go up first.”

Jack blinks at her once, twice, the meaning of her words settling in. “Did someone do a REBOA?”

“You bet she did. And it was awesome,” the nurse then scrunches her nose. “Apart from the amount of blood. And by the way, the fourth one only has a broken rib, so no miraculous procedures needed.”

He doesn’t find it funny and he can’t find the word for it: it’s something in between confusion and offence. As soon as Santos’s done with stitches, he strides out to find you.

His turmoil momentarily recedes when he sees one of the cubicle curtains stained, the deep red lurking through. Jack pulls at the material and barges in — and then he’s silenced at the sight. The area looks horrifying: bright streaks of blood left on the floor, the anesthesia trolley, the table with the instruments that you are now collecting, a few droplets smudged over your cheek. Before he’s even angry, there is another feeling — a thought, a pull: if only he could brush that splatter off your face, a few brief seconds for one briefest touch. Of course, he doesn’t.

Jack keeps his hands behind his back. “You didn’t think you should consult with anyone first before doing a damn REBOA?”

“Why would I?” your eyes are on the tools.

“Because it’s dangerous as hell and since I am the attending—”

“I do know protocol. But I also know how fast a human can bleed out. It was a truncal hemorrhage, and you were hands deep in someone’s abdomen. Was I supposed to wait?”

He wishes you were meaner, rougher, anything that would give him an excuse to snap. But you aren’t doing this to show off — your tone is measured and your reasoning is simple: a man was dying and you knew how to save him. Jack realizes it is the same logic he often uses. And he can’t tell what is it that bothers him so much. If Whitaker pulled off something like that, Jack would’ve chosen to commend him. The same goes for Santos, Javadi or King, for any other intern or resident that he can think of... Except, they would’ve asked for his opinion or his help. You didn’t even think to.

Well, Robby warned him you’d be stubborn.

“I want to be informed about any life-altering decisions. At least give me a heads-up so I am not blindsided when a nurse gushes over it in passing,” Jack insists, head tilted slightly so he can catch your gaze.

What he really wants is for you to look at him. You grant him that one wish.

“Will do,” you tell him simply.

But your eyes are still unreadable, a book written in a foreign language, a manuscript he doesn’t know how to decrypt.

And either out of incomprehension or rejection, his brain makes an assumption: maybe you believe that you are better, maybe you think the rules weren’t made for you. You never really gave him cause for rivalry — you are in your final year of residency, and Jack is put in charge. But you are so bluntly independent and reserved, his every try to understand you feels like leaping in the dark. Later that day he can’t help but glimpse into your file — there’s hardly anything of interest: you previously trained in a small clinic, in a nice neighborhood, your letters of recommendation all consist of praises.

What adds to his moroseness is that you fit really well with literally everybody else. Langdon tones down his sarcasm, listens to you like he only does to Robby. Santos discreetly brings you cases she needs advice on, McKay and Mel enjoy your company when you get a free minute. Whitaker seems to be your favorite although Jack isn’t sure why — he deems him soft and insecure; but Dennis does a better job under your guidance. On rare occasions when he’s got a day off, Javadi always takes his place.

Jack figures out everyone’s relationships by his fourth morning shift; he hasn’t gotten any closer to figuring you out. He’s fighting the grimace at how bitter his coffee is when Javadi pops out in the hall and you follow suit. He catches scraps of your conversation: something about a teen with a gashed forehead. Javadi rambles — until you ask her nonchalantly, unprompted. “You don’t like the sight of blood?”

“What? Oh no, it’s fine! I’m totally fine,” Victoria stumbles over the words, but her denial is too meek.

From how nervous she is, Jack guesses that she’s lying. He almost wants to laugh — before a thought comes to his mind: how come he never noticed her fear of blood?

“It’s just a little disturbing sometimes... But I only passed out, like, once or twice.”

“I used to be like that. Fainted many times during blood tests,” you tell her quietly while entering some data.

Jack is so caught in disbelief, he can’t help a glance in your direction. But your sincerity doesn’t seem feigned. Javadi gapes at you.

“And how did you... what did you do to overcome it?”

“I found myself in a situation where someone needed help and there was no one else around to help him,” you shrug. And Jack discerns the subtle reticence behind your tone.

It only spurs Javadi’s interest. “Was there a lot of blood? Like, a heavy bleeding, a deep wound?”

Your fingers freeze over the tablet screen, your facial profile not betraying your true feelings. But Jack swears he can see the tension crawling down your body. You don’t give the answer right away, you weigh the words carefully before you say them.

“A drug overdose, he still had a needle in his arm and I must’ve missed it. Took barely a minute of chest compressions for the needle to fly out across the room. It was a lot of blood to me.”

Javadi’s hopefulness grows dim. “Yeah, I don’t like needles too. I tried drawing blood a few times but the process kinda makes me nauseous, and I can’t force myself to —”

“It’s different when it’s someone you care about.”

Your comment slips out involuntarily — and immediately you look like you want to take it back. But you get it together and meet her eyes, your voice carrying just the right amount of firmness.

“Listen, I’m not suggesting you should torture your family members. But you may not always have attendings by your side or someone else to take your place in case you feel like fainting. If you fall, you can hurt your head, you can hurt a patient, you can disrupt a surgery when every minute counts. I think you have a good head on your shoulders, and I don’t want to downplay your efforts. But please, figure it out. Otherwise, you won’t make for a good surgeon.”

You reassure her you won’t tell anyone her secret. Javadi manages a small smile, a hushed “thank you”. It is a sweet moment, a heart-to-heart chat you bond over; it’s also three times more words than you’ve spoken to Jack in weeks.

But he accepts your silence — as a challenge.

Jack keeps an eye on you, now critical, resisting the gravitation that’s been attracting him to you. Although it’s hard to find the reasons to be hard on you. Whenever he has questions — or more so when he can come up with some, you give detailed replies, and he’s left with nothing to complain about. Your patient satisfaction score is high, you are never facile or reckless with your judgment; with how smart you are, you can give odds to many doctors, him included. And Jack knows he is older, with years of experience under his belt — but he can’t in good faith wish for anyone to go through the same things he did to gain the same knowledge.

On his second week of day shifts he is still clueless about what to make of you. And Jack tells himself that he is simply looking for a connection — except, all his attempts look like he is trying to pick a fight.

“This is a teaching hospital. You are supposed to teach them things,” he grumbles as he meets you outside the trauma room. You got a guy who came in spitting blood — post-tonsillectomy hemorrhage, and things went south pretty quickly. He started choking, crashed, his airways flooded with liquid; you had to intubate him blindly. Whitaker spent an hour by your side, his questions endless — to which you did give answers, barely ever breaking focus, but you only allowed him to use suction.

“He’ll learn plenty if he is attentive enough,” you say, throwing away the gown, trying to put some distance in between you.

Jack doesn’t like it, he keeps pace with you. “Whitaker needs more practice, as much as he can get. He’s not supposed to stand there like some deer who wandered into the yard.”

You whirl around, so fast that Jack comes to a stop when you are separated by merely an inch. And your gaze burns, like lava seeping through the mountain’s restrain.

“And I needed the patient not to die on the table,” you bite back, then breathe in — and then add more coolly. “Dennis will get his chance to shine.”

“And when exactly is that gonna happen?”

“That’s for me to decide,” you state, like you would do a fact that can’t be questioned. “Thank you for your input, Dr. Abbot, but I have to get back to work.”

You turn your back to him and leave him standing there, and Jack almost feels helpless. And that’s the feeling he can’t stand. It simmers in him, it must be the reason his cheeks suddenly feel hot.

Dana tsks as she comes near, her brows furrowed and face visibly concerned.

“You know how I’ve been calling Robby a sad boy? I’m gonna start calling you a pissy boy.”

“Not the worst thing I’ve been called,” he dismisses, a humorless escape attempt. But her fingers grab at his elbow, and he pauses with an annoyed exhale.

“I’ve been watching you hammering away at her for days,” Dana makes sure to lower her voice. “If she was a student, I’d maybe let it slide, but she is a resident, a senior one. And nothing I am seeing suggests she isn’t doing well.”

His eyes dart to her hand; then he glares stubbornly at her. She looks unfazed.

“Jack, you will take it too far one day — and you will regret it,” Dana tries to reason. “She is a good kid and she’s really good at her job. Just let her be.”

“Thank you for your input, Evans. I’d prefer to get back to work,” he frees his arm, and she allows it. But Jack can feel her worried gaze as he walks away.

He doesn’t come home until the twilight hugs the sky, until he feels like he’ll pass out on the next step. Jack wastes hours on attempts to wear himself out: he walks the entire park three times, peeping about in case the puppy comes again. It doesn’t. He stops by the bar he hasn’t been to in a few weeks, orders a beer and sips on it, his musings soon drowned out by the blasting music. The alcohol tastes weird, and the bass guitar gives him a pounding headache. He takes a walk instead of taking a bus home, two miles on foot in hopes he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

But the thought of you cuts into his mind as easily as a nail does into a human body, and it stays there, vexing and robbing him of whatever little peace he’s had.

He barely gets any sleep.

And his nights are dreamless.

It’s just another Friday, and these bring in a lot of drunks — from parties and family gatherings, from business meetings that ran late and tense until someone reached for whiskey. Jack stays behind for paperwork, a tedious pastime that keeps him pinned to an uncomfortable chair. He briefly takes eyes off the screen, stretching his neck — and then a noise catches his attention. It’s someone talking in a raised voice, someone who sounds too wasted to be reasoned with. Which sounds like a problem.

Jack finds the source with ease — the nurses all glance in the direction of the trauma room, and in support of their agitation Mateo all but flies out, his face hardened at the edges. Jack gets up and gets closer, his ears open and eyes watchful.

“Should we call security?” Dana asks warily.

Mateo brushes the suggestion off. “No, it’s fine,” — but it sounds like it’s not. “I just need a short break.”

“What’s wrong?” Jack interrupts.

And it isn’t a question but a demand for explanation Mateo can’t reject. He lets out a tired sigh.

“The guy got drunk and couldn’t hold his liquor, some passersby saw him sprawled out in an alley and called the ambulance. Came in with a nasty arm fracture. He’ll live though,” Mateo looks back at the room with obvious disdain. “Unfortunately.”

Jack promptly moves forward. “I will deal with it.”

“Hold on, Rambo,” Dana interjects. And she keeps her eyes on him while she talks to Mateo. “Did he get physical?”

“Nah, he’s too inebriated. Keeps trying to get up from the gurney but mostly he’s all talk.”

More can be heard from where they are standing — it’s some drunken yelling, a disarticulated chain of curse words. And then they hear something break, a dull sound of an object hitting a wall.

In a few seconds comes another one.

“I can’t just let him trash all of our equipment,” Jack gives Dana a pointed look.

She clucks her tongue at his persistence. “It’s not the equipment that I fear for.”

“Rest assured, Evans, I won’t give him another arm fracture.”

“I didn’t think you would, but now that you suggested it so easily—”

“Finally someone decided to take action instead of all this talking,” Perlah remarks, her gaze isn’t on either one of them. And Jack turns to follow it just in time to catch you running right into the room.

His heart falls. Why the hell are you even still here?

And it’s barely three heartbeats before a realization strikes: you can’t go there alone. He can’t let you.

Jack bolts to you without waiting for anyone’s permission. He comes in just in time to see you dodge the trolley the patient pushed at you — it slams into the wall and rolls over, the instruments scattering loudly across the floor. You don’t seem scared, but you are all tensed up, gaze fixed on the guy who’s screaming his lungs out.

“You won’t trick me! I won’t let you experiment on me!”

And you don’t look away once but you must’ve noticed Jack; your voice comes out low. “I think he’s having an episode. He needs benzodiazepines but I can’t get close to administer them.”

“And you should not,” Jack retorts, eyeing the guy with discontent. “You absolutely shouldn’t deal with him on your own. Not when he’s flapping around and yelling like a fucking psycho.”

“Silently watching him wreck the room didn’t seem like a good tactic either.”

In an instant Jack’s gaze is drawn to you, pulse racing as he is struggling to bite down his emotions: why would you put yourself in danger, why can’t you ever back down, why can’t he stay away? And unexpectedly you look at him, and your gaze isn’t a puzzle or a dare but an explanation: you can’t be mad at me for the thing you would’ve done yourself. I know you would have.

The room goes quiet but only for a moment — before another cry comes, and the patient lunges straight at you. Jack’s eye catches the movement, and at the very last second, he moves to stand in the guy’s way.

The drunkard crashes into him, hands swatting at the air, too uncoordinated to land a proper punch. And then all of a sudden he headbutts Jack. The pain is sharp, shooting toward his nose, but Jack manages to stay upright. He can’t see you stopping cold or the security approaching in a hurry and in worry.

Because Jack is only seeing red.

He breathes in through the mouth and grabs the man with both hands, rough and unflinching. Jack pushes him back to the gurney, then throws him on it, face flat against the pillow; his angry cries tone down to weak whimpers.

“Shut the fuck up. Stop moving,” Jack hisses into his ear.

He can taste the blood that oozed down to his lips and he can hear the sound of footsteps in the room. But he doesn’t let go.

Jack feels a hand on his shoulder — he turns to see one of the guards, Ahmad. “Man, let us handle this. C’mon, step away.”

Begrudgingly, Jack does. Ahmad quickly takes his place, he and two other guards strapping the patient down; Mateo wriggles in the middle to sedate the guy. He dozes off, a dark purple bruise already blooming on his forehead, drool at the corner of his mouth.

You are still standing at the exact same spot, but then your eyes land on Jack’s blooded nose, and you immediately fall out of the stupor. You rummage through the nearest drawer and get a few clean cloths, then call for Dana to bring an ice pack. The guards leave but Mateo hangs back; he pulls up a chair for Jack to sit on.

“Are you okay? Any headache or dizziness or—”

“I’m fine, no need to coddle me,” Jack waves off his concerns crankily. Mateo looks at you for some support.

“He needs a head CT,” you say, gaze glued to Jack. “Ask the radiology if they can squeeze him in.”

Mateo nods and takes off with no other questions asked. The silence is now laced with tension, and while Jack’s pain gradually subsides, his anger doesn’t. He’s not the one for chit-chats, and it’s not a 'thank you' that he wants — but an admission: he was right, and you were careless, and maybe this is the one time you can agree with him.

You lean over wordlessly and wipe the dried-up blood, pushing his head back to examine his nose. Your touch is light, fleeting, but his skin heats up under your hands. You take a penlight to check for septal hematoma; then your thumbs move from his cheekbones to his nostrils. Jack doesn’t wince or look away, eyes dark and boring into you, unblinking. You put a finger to his nose and move it slowly from side to side, watching closely as his gaze follows it.

And then you pull away, and something cracks in him, a line formed on the ocean floor after it’s shaken by an earthquake, a force that pushes waves to crash onto the shore. And all his feelings surge up, unstoppable like a tsunami.

You look for more cloths, and only with your back to him, you finally decide to speak:

“Doesn’t look like a fracture but—”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Jack bursts out, the stridency of his voice barely contained.

Your hands flinch at the sound. Jack misses it or maybe chooses to ignore it, too adamant in his displeasure, too wrapped up in it.

“Do you realize how dangerous it was for you to go here alone? What could’ve happened to you if security came late? Or do you just assume it’s not a big deal if you get hurt? Can you for at least a second consider the consequences of your relentlessness, can you imagine how dire they might be? And what it’s like for someone else to throw themselves between danger and you?”

But then you turn to him, and his tirade breaks off, the anger ebbing instantly as he sees your face expression.

It would be easy to assume he must’ve hit a nerve. Except, it looks way worse than that.

Your gaze is swept with pain, eyes wide and bright with tears you are holding back. An inhale quivers at your lips, chest heaving like you are scarcely managing to curb your feelings. Like there’s been a wall you’ve built meticulously over the years, and he didn’t just put a crack in it — no, he tore it down completely, drove through it with a bulldozer, only a mess of rubble left behind. And he knows that’s not something an apology will fix.

Jack feels the guilt already swirling in his chest as he sits straighter, eyes not leaving yours.

“Listen, I didn’t—”

“I heard you loud and clear, Dr. Abbot,” your voice is lacerating, a blade you’ve armed yourself with, steel that cuts him deep. “If my company displeases you so much, I will make sure to limit our interactions. Apologies for any inconvenience.”

You turn away, and when he sees you wipe your cheeks with one quick motion, Jack knows he is the only one to blame. But you don’t let him see your tears nor do you wait for him to talk again. You rush out of the doors, and the words he catches aren’t meant for him:

“Dana, please help Dr. Abbot with the ice pack.”

He hears her coming in and he’s almost ashamed to look — Dana meets his gaze with arms crossed over her chest, shaking her head in disapproval. She doesn’t say a thing and puts ice on his nose with a face that looks like she would rather punch him. Jack doesn’t even try to come up with excuses — he knows he has none.

He fails to find you after the shift ends: you must’ve sneaked out to avoid him, and he can’t say that he’s surprised. Jack walks home in the rain, not bothering to open the umbrella, the street lights drowning in the puddles underfoot, the wind biting his wet face. He can barely feel it. And in the privacy of his apartment — a cold, half-empty space, walls void of any color — a thought that has been lurking in his mind finally takes shape:

Jack loathes being alone.

And he messed up so badly.

🎵 the title is a quote from Tom Odell’s “Can’t pretend” (the song is just so Jack-coded to me! highly recommend you give it a listen. the small part from 1:29 to 1:49 gives me heart palpitations and is very fitting for this chapter lol).

by “rivals” I meant it’s all in Jack’s head, he’s silly like that 😩 you’ll learn about the reader’s past in the next chapter!

I didn’t specify how big the age gap is exactly. google search told me you get into residency when you are in your 30s, and Abbot is def over 40. but some like to imagine the reader younger, so I didn’t want to ruin that for you.

there are definitely some medical inaccuracies (pretty sure ex-lap isn’t performed in the ER) but I am begging you to ignore that.

dividers by me & plum98.

» I plan on writing 3 parts in total (a prayer circle for my inspiration to stay with me, PLEASE). of course, there will be smut... they just have to learn how to talk to each other first. » read on AO3 » English is not my first language, so feel free to message me if you spot any major mistakes. reblogs and comments are very appreciated! tell me if you want to be tagged ♡

[dantes-jacket]

All the little things

Dante x fem reader

Author notes: Dante loves all the little things you do for him so he writes them down so he will always remember them. You then find his writings and read them. Pure flufffff, I really have a soft spot for soft Dante <33 I also had an idea of a part two and kinda mentioned the idea in this so lmk if you want it !!

Dante has never met a more attentive person than you. Even before you two started dating, he saw that no matter what you were doing you were always doing it with the utmost care and attention. You have a kind heart and it shows easily.

When you two started dating you got even more attentive or maybe he’s just realizing it. He always was a little slow to catch onto things, he didn’t even know you liked him for a long time before you two got together. He hates himself for making you wait so long but at least he has you now and that’s all the matter to him.

But Dante swears you’re out to make his heart explode, in a good way. He started writing down all the awesome things you do for him so he won’t forget anything. He keeps the little notebook hidden on the top shelf in his closest so you won’t be able to find it. Or well he hoped you didn’t find it.

You were cleaning his room because it really became so dirty and you don’t know how. He was on a mission for the past few weeks and you swear you’ve been cleaning so how did it get so bad? You started with trying to sort through the laundry, after you realized how that was going to be you decided to sort through his closest.

You start with what you can reach first. You throw out any clothes stained with demon blood, have too many holes, or just aren’t fit or anyone to wear anymore. You then make a pile for donations because there’s stuff that is literally covered in dust or still have tags on it. You know he won’t wear them because he wears the same three things.

Once you’re done with the stuff you can reach you grab a little stool and stand on it to clean the top shelf. You pull down a couple of clothes then see a random notebook lying up there. Maybe it’s something from his mom? You’re a little nosy and want to take a quick peek.

You grab the notebook and sit down on the stool. You open the first page to see neatly written handwriting saying “All the little things.” The handwriting looks like Dante’s but normally his is pretty messy because he doesn’t care and puts no effort into whatever he’s writing.

You flip the next page to see a well written paragraph with the date on it. You recognize the date because it was you two when on your first date together. You see he’s talking about you, so you sit back and read.

Today we went on our first date but man I was so nervous. We didn’t see each other for a while because of me being so busy demon hunting. But she never held it against me. She waited and I really appreciate it.

We met at the restaurant because she was coming from work and when I saw her, my heart couldn’t stop racing. I was so nervous. I wanted to make this perfect and not ruin anything. So my smart self thought that yapping the ENTIRE time would help.

It didn’t help my nerves at all because after I realized I was the only one talking and not letting her say anything or talk about herself I felt awful. I was so stressed that she’d think I was annoying and selfish. I brought that up and apologized and all she said was, “Why apologize? You’re a great story teller and I love hearing all I can about you. I want to know more about you Dante. So keep talking. Don’t ever feel bad for talking about something that excites you or something you find funny. Even if it’s sad, I’ll comfort you. Just know I’ll always listen.”

She said that with so much love and kindness. The rest of night when I’d talk her eyes would shine. Even the biggest diamond wouldn’t hold a candle to how much she was shining with each story I was telling. She made all the stress leave my body and was a safe space I didn’t even realize she created. I couldn’t help but falling for her even more then. This may have happened early into our relationship but it’ll be one of the moments that stick with me the most.

You feel your face heat up and your stomach fill with butterflies. You never knew how nervous he was, he never showed it. You thought you were the only nervous one. But now knowing you helped him so much without even having a little bit of an idea makes you happy.

You can’t help yourself so you turn to the next page to see what he wrote. You look at the date and it doesn’t jump out to you. So you wonder what it could be.

This beautiful girl only proves to blow my mind each and every day. She pays attention so much and it’s crazy. Well not in a bad way obviously but a way you didn’t think was possible.

So if we spend the night with each other it’s normally always at Devil May Cry because of my schedule. But I know she loves to host and cook a meal in her own place so I try to spend the nights I can at her place.

The first time I ever spent the night I kinda forgot to bring all my shower stuff. Man I was so mad and embarrassed. She noticed my annoyance with myself and asked what’s wrong. I explained it to her and all she did was grab my hand and drag me to the bathroom. In there she pulled out a basket under the sink filled with all the stuff I use. All I could do I stare at the basket.

She noticed my quietness and started quietly apologizing and explaining. “I’m sorry if this is weird. I just noticed all the products you used when I spend the night so I wrote them down. I know you are trying to spent more nights here so I wanted to make sure you were comfortable and if you ever forgot something you wouldn’t have to worry or stress. But again I’m really sorry if this is creepy or weird.”

I never even realized she took note of everything single thing I used. She put so much thought and effort into this. How could I ever think this is weird? It is so thoughtful and sweet. I did the only thing I could think of in the moment and kiss her.

We’ve kissed plenty of times but I tried to put so much gratitude behind it. I’ll never know if she felt that but I couldn’t help but thank her a million times. Her kind heart and beautiful mind always puts me first without a second hesitation. I hope I come off to her in the same way but I really do appreciate her more than anything. I am so happy she’s my girlfriend. We haven’t said it to each other yet but I really do love her.

Now you remember this. Again you didn’t know it meant so much to him. You’ve always known that he puts everyone before himself and tends to forget to take care of himself. All you wanted was to have a little safety net just in case he forgot. If he won’t look after himself, you always will.

But seeing he’s loved you since that moment and had those words on the tip of his tongue for a while makes you smile big. You’re on such a high reading these so you turn to the next page. This date again doesn’t stick out to you but you’re assuming most of these weren’t since this is about little things you’ve done.

Coming home was probably always my favorite part of the mission. I can get bored quite easily on missions especially if the demon is easy to kill. But ever since we got together, the best part is coming home to her. She basically has been living at Devil May Cry but I’ve been too much of a coward to ask her to move in.

For about four months into our relationship I didn’t have a long mission that kept me away longer than two or three days. But this time I was going to be gone for two weeks. She looked sad when I told her but she didn’t complain. She just said “I know you’re needed but please be safe and come back home.”

That gave me the biggest push to make sure I came back safe and in one piece. Normally with missions I didn’t care what happened because I always knew I could heal and I knew deep down no one was really worried about me. But now I had someone that did and I couldn’t bear the thought of her knowing something bad happened to me and I wouldn’t be coming home.

The mission was long and tiring. I was dragging myself back home. It was about two in the morning and I wasn’t expecting her to be up and at Devil May Cry. She normally stays at her apartment when I’m on a mission because she said it’s lonely there without me.

Once I finally got back I kicked open the door then locked it. I was greeted by her in the kitchen. We both froze when we saw each other not expecting to see each other in this moment. Then all I knew was she was in my arms holding me tightly. I asked her why she was up so late and what she was doing here.

“Well I was feeling lonely in my apartment. This place is nice because it reminds me of you and seeing all of your stuff makes me happy. But I was up because I was expecting you to be home later today so I wanted to get all the things ready to make you a sweet treat for when you got back. I taught myself how to make ice cream so I could make your sundae so I just finished making it and was putting it away.”

I hugged her tighter and didn’t stumble on my words when I asked her to move in. I know we haven’t been together for long but I need her with me. I need her in my home. I can’t have my home away from me and my physical home. She belongs here with me. When she hugged me tighter and said yes, I felt like everything in the world was right.

You smile brightly at his comment about how you’re his home and everything feels right when you’re around. You agree but obviously you think this with him in mind. He is your everything and the world hasn’t felt the same since you two got together because he is your world.

You look real quick to see how filled this notebook is. You run through the pages and see this whole thing is almost full. He’s done this without you knowing at all!? That’s crazy, you wonder when he does it.

You turn the page again and recognize this date. It was the date you two first said I love you to each other.

I’m lazy and everyone knows this. So with my laziness I don’t shave sometimes. I like my look with and without the stubble I grow. But sometimes the stubble bugs me and I just want it off. Of course the every time I went to do it today, something new came up that needed my attention.

By the time I finally had free time it was about eleven at night and I was tired. I took a quick shower but by the time I was done I really didn’t want to shave. When I got out of the shower she was standing there getting everything ready for me to shave. I told her I was too tired to do it and I’ll just let it grow.

She turned around and just simply told me, “Yeah I saw you were busy and now tired. I watched videos this afternoon about how to shave a beard so I could do it for you.”

She grabbed my hand and pulled me over to the sink. I think I shocked her because I picked her up and placed her on the counter. I knew she’d have an easier time shaving if she could reach and see my face closer. She got everything ready then started preparing me.

She put shaving cream on me the grabbed my razor. She lightly took my face in her hands and slowly worked. She was nervous you could tell by the little shake in her hand but she really wanted to help so I didn’t have the heart to tell her to stop. Especially when she learned how to do this for me.

When she was all done she put my aftershave and moisturizer on and smiled all happily while saying, “All done!”

I looked in the mirror and see she did great. I leaned my forehead against hers and thanked her before kissing her. After I pulled away I couldn’t help but tell her I love her. I know, I had her move in before I told her I love her. But I just had to tell her now. I couldn’t keep my love for her hidden anymore. She had to know.

I could tell she was shocked but then she smiled even brighter than earlier and easily told me that she loved me. It made my heart race. I couldn’t believe this perfect girl loved me and she was all mine. I really am the luckiest guy in the world.

At this you start crying. He has written so many beautiful things down to always remember them. Dante never hesitates to write something in here. He really is the best boyfriend you could ask for. He isn’t the luckiest, you’re the luckiest. This really makes you want to show him your memory book you’ve made with you two.

You failed to hear your name getting called but you hear Dante come into the closet.

“There you are! I thought you took a nap without me. Hey what do you got there?”

You freeze at the sudden voice and slam the notebook. You turn to face him and he sees the tears running down your face. Dante quickly rushes over freaking out, “What happened!? Why are you crying?”

He looks you up and down then sees it. The notebook. His eyes widen then snap to meet yours.

“Uh, so um- you found it?” Dante stumbles out.

You just nod and wrap your arms around his neck holding him close. He doesn’t hesitate to return the embrace but you can tell he’s nervous. Does he think you won’t like it?

“Dante I know this was suppose to be a secret but it made me so happy while reading it. Knowing you hold moments like these so dear to your heart is such an incredible feeling. I’m so lucky I can call you my boyfriend. I love you so much.”

Dante grips you tighter and kisses your temple. “Every second I get to spend with you is a second I don’t want to forget. You mean the world to me and I’m happy this showed that to you. Sorry I never told you about it, I just really wanted to write these down. But I’m the lucky one, I get an incredible woman like you to call my girlfriend. I love you more than you know baby.”

You pull back from the hug and place the notebook on the floor. You place your hands on his cheeks and pull Dante into a kiss. You’re pulling a card from his notebook and try to put all your emotions into the kiss. Sometimes words are hard and actions can convey what you’re thinking way better than words ever could.

Dante seems to be doing the same thing. The kiss is soft with so much love behind it. It fills you with such warmth and comfort. It’s like being wrapped in a warm blanket.

You two separate and just look at each other. “Dante?” You call out to him. He hums to have you ask your question.

“Can you keep writing about these moments?”

He just smile, “Of course. I love all our little moments and will always keep them in my heart.”

[maidragoste]

deserves better

Jacaerys Velaryon x Aegon’s Widow!Reader

continuation of i am making you feel sick?

I'm happy to share more about Jacaerys and this reader. I hope you all enjoy it. If you like it, please don't hesitate to leave a like, comment, and reblog. The comments and interactions always motivate me to continue writing 🥰🥰💖💖

If you have any ideas, questions or headcanons you want to share, my inbox is always open 🤗💖

Disclaimer: English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

I hope you have a good reading!

Jacaerys was surprised at the entrance to the chamber to see you sitting vigil over the child. He expected to find the handmaidens or the maester watching over him, not you. He felt guilty for thinking so little of you; of course, you would worry about the child once you found out he was sick. However, you wouldn't be spending much time with him. Jacaerys didn't blame you for not wanting to see the child that much; after all, he also avoided his own son because he couldn't help but see your Jaehaerys in his face. It's not as if it were a secret: the future heir to the throne seemed to be being raised by the handmaidens instead of his parents. Even Jaehaera and Egg seemed to be spending more time with the child than you two did. Except now because neither you nor Jacaerys wanted them to catch winter fever.

“I was praying,” you said, looking at him with tired eyes, but that was nothing new. Since your last pregnancy, you almost always looked tired. “You can join me if you want,” you decided to extend an olive branch. This wasn’t a time to argue. If this was his son’s last night alive, then you wouldn’t deprive Jacaerys of being with him in his final moments. You weren’t that cruel.

Jacaerys swallowed, feeling a little nervous. He was used to you avoiding him, to you rejecting him. “I would like that,” he said before sitting down in the chair next to you. Had you been waiting for him?

He watched as you clasped your hands and closed your eyes. He knew he had to join in your prayer, but he couldn't help but stare at your hands. There was dried blood on your cuticles. You may seem serene now, but that detail told him the situation was weighing on you. He couldn't imagine what was going through your head. It must have been traumatic for you. You'd already lost two sons; the gods couldn't be so cruel. Jacaerys felt a lump begin to form in his throat. You didn't deserve this.

Jacaerys closed his eyes and asked the gods to have mercy on you and to let their son live.

You both fell silent as the two of you continued your prayers. It wasn't a tense silence, but it wasn't harmonious either.

“If he lives, we have to be better,” you declared, breaking the silence, your eyes meeting Jacaerys’s. “I will be a better mother to him,” you promised.

“You are a good mother,” he said, because he couldn’t bear to hear you speak ill of yourself. You had done the best you could. He couldn’t hold you responsible when he and the kingdom forced you to bear a child you didn’t want in the first place.

“Don't lie,” you cut him off instantly. “I was terrible to him, to Jaehaera.” The tremor in your voice was like a blow to Jacaerys. “But I will get better and you should too. Our son deserves better.”

Your words hurt Jacaerys because he knew you were right. His son deserved a better father. Someone present, caring, and someone he could trust. It was ironic how before the war, Jacaerys imagined himself a loving father and ended up being an emotionally neglectful one. His mother would be disappointed. He, himself, was disappointed by his actions, by putting you and innocent children in this situation.

For the first time in years, you felt sorry for Jacaerys, seeing the tears and pain in his eyes. You still disliked being married to him, but the child you share is more important than any bad blood. Perhaps there could be a new beginning between you two, for their family.

Taglist for all my House of the Dragon works

@chaotic-fangirl-blog @venus-flytrap3 @ajordan2020 @iloveallmyboys @sweethoneyblossom1 @fudge13 @crystal-faith @tita004 @ichanelvxgue @snowprincesa1 @joyouart @rosey1981 @alastorhazbin @papichulo120627 @apollonshootafar @jasminecosmic99 @partypoison00 @labellapeaky @rebelliuna @bxdbxtxh15 @impartinghades @thegirlnextdoorssister @angeliod @snh96 @aleemendoza2425-blog @natashaobo @watercolorskyy @nyenye @savagemickey03 @kishie8 @ewwwitsel @arabis-world @missusnora @nzygftoji @alisoncdariel @cookielovesbook-akie @partnerincrime0 @klara-lily @427120lxld @justhereiguess2 @buckylahey @wa801 @artistadistrada2002 @thelastemzy @justanotherkpopstanlol @jacesvelaryons @aemondwhoresworld @cassiopeiablog @multiversemayhemme @dixie_elocin

hotd masterlist

[8r14r-r0s3]

Ì don't think a piece of media has fucked me up as much as tetro has. Like Jesus fucking christ. It's frankly horrifyingly realistic how none of the characters are recognizable. They're all broken.

Wada's regressed in every way possible. His selective mutism came back as a stress reaction. He hasn't eaten in a week. And just like into the game, he has no one. But now it's even worse, because now instead of never having them, each and every one of them slipped through his fingers. It's unlikely he'll actually be able to locate any of the other students, and before the game he was struggling to make ends meet. Now he doesn't even have a coping mechanism. Isono is gone. He'll never be able to view a streamer the same way again. His eating habits aren't going to get better when he's completely and utterly alone. He's going to starve to death. Wada Masanari died in the killing game, just like Isono, Tsuno, Watari, and Hama. And with them gone, his stumbling husk will meet their same fate.

Mai. God Mai. She fought through everything. She shouldered every burden, she made every sacrifice, she befriended every last person, and in the end, it wasn't enough. Hayashi Mai was broken. She was physically tortured, she lost any semblance of feeling safe, she lost parts of her body, and she fought through it all until the very last second. She died fighting, I doubt it was just shock, her hands were cut because she wanted to try to save herself. But in the end, Hayashi Mai lost the fight. She fell on the sword for everyone else. Hayashi Mai died in the killing game. And what's left of her body will remain in a burned down school in an underground cavern to rot.

Ojima seemingly lost nothing, but Ojima also lost everything. At first he was genuinely trying his best to be a leader for the group, almost like a second in command to sasaki at some points, but he lost his privacy and then everyone pitied him. Ojima was close with no one, but he was close with everyone. Ojima wasn't well socialized, he views every person who continues to be near him a friend, it's why he always calls people by their first names. While Ojima lost no one, Ojima lost everyone. He had what was left of his innocence defiled. He no longer felt safe within his own mind, he was scared he would hurt someone, he forced himself to stay afloat in an ocean with no bouys but a million whirlpools, and he broke. Ojima Takeshi died in the killing game just like Sasaki. And now he exists as an adult, stripped of his blissful ignorance of the world, and now way to escape the horrors he's seen.

Hiroaki. Where to even begin with Hiroaki. He was hurting when he entered the killing game, and he was hurting when he left it. He was broken, and slowly he tried to fix himself, and he was broken again by the people he hurt, and eventually he couldn't find the strength to fix himself. He's using again. He has been fairly clean for a few weeks, and now he's using again. He at least used to have his ego to fall back on, but now? Now he's nothing. He says his own name like it's an insult. He's done horrible things and hurt the people around him. Every character from Isono to Yanagi, he all hurt them somehow. And he didn't get the chance to apologize to most of them, and he has to live with the guilt that he didn't. It's honestly doubtless that Hiroakis behavior patterns are only going to get worse. He has his drug supply back, he's back with those same faux friends, and he's separated from the people he's grown to actually care about. Hiroaki Nakamigawa died in the killing game, just like Sasaki, Chiba, and Tsuno. And what's left of his facade has to continue through his old routine and go through his same habits, but with none of the artificial joy they used to provide.

Tamba is ruined. Her career is over. Her parents aren't going to give her the kind of love she's desperate for. She's looked in the mirror and seen the worst, ugliest, most horrible parts of herself. She's a coward, she's a backstabber, and she's a hypocrite. And worst of all, Tamba survived. Out of everyone who died. Isono, Sasaki, Chiba, Harada, Kamimura, Tsuno, Watari, Hama, Mai, and Hasegawa. Tamba Ruiko survived but they didn't, and she has to live with that forever. When she was cruel, when she was angry, when she bit the hands reaching out to her, and when they did everything they could to be safe. But Tamba is alive. But she isn't. Tamba Ruiko died in the killing game, just like Kamimura, Watari, and Mai. And now what's left of her broken body has to live in the shadows of their lives.

Hasegawa lost. He was a winner. He was a champion. And he lost. Everything about his life in the killing game was fundamentally unfair. He did his best to do everything right and protect the people he loved and he lost. Then he did his best to hurt the people he felt let his best friend die, and he lost. They were going to lose. He was going to win. But due to forces outside of his control, he lost. Hasegawa lost the only things keeping him steady. His meds ran out weeks ago. Kamimura died weeks ago. And now he's rotting in the med bay. He didn't have the energy to care about the people reaching out to him, and when he did get his energy back, the only thing he wanted to do was get revenge. To make them suffer the same loss he suffered, to make them understand a fraction of what it felt like. Hasegawa Ken died in the killing game the exact moment Okazaki killed Kamimura. And then with what little he had left in him, he took the blade from Okazaki's cold hands and plunged it into Hayashi.

Yanagi Shigeki became what he despises. He's nothing like who he used to be and he'll never be able to go back. One by one the layers of his facade he had built up over the years were stripped away. First he lost his faith when Sasaki killed Isono. Then he lost his dignity when he broke and hurt Nakamigawa. Then he lost his prince guise when he continued to fail time and time again to please and protect the people around him. Then, he lost Mai. He lost his knights oath. The one thing he has left was that he had Mai, he had her and he was loyal to her and he was at her service and he was going to hold onto her and die before he let go. But he was forced to. He was locked in a room with all his failures as the one flicker success he had was snuffed out. And now, he's angry. He's angry and upset and he's violent. He's exactly what he despises, a violent man who scares people. He feels deserving of death, because those kind of men are deserving of death. Yanagi Shigeki died in the killing game just like Sasaki, Tsuno, Watari, and Mai. And now, all that's left of him is everything he despises, and with nothing but hatred in his heart, he's forced to return to the people who would fear him most

This wasn't a happy ending. It was never going to be a happy ending. They're alive. The five of them are alive, but they're all dead. Everything that made them *them* when they entered the game was destroyed. Sasaki was right. Children are their best before they become aware of the horrors of the world.

Goodbye, Tetro Danganronpa Pink. Goodbye Isono Miki. Goodbye Harada Keizou. Goodbye Chiba Airi. Goodbye Kamimura Kazutoshi. Goodbye Hayashi Mai. Goodbye Wada Masanari. Goodbye Sasaki Hitomi. Goodbye Ojima Takeshi. Goodbye Okazaki Hanano. Goodbye Hama Ran. Goodbye Tsuno Manami. Goodbye Hiroaki Nakamkgawa. Goodbye Tamba Ruiko. Goodbye Hasegawa Ken. Goodbye Watari Nishino. Goodbye Yanagi Shigeki. It was an honor to meet you all, and wherever you are, I hope you're happy. You all deserve it. You were all just children, broken, innocent, scared children. And while you may never be innocent again, I hope you can still be happy.

And thank you most to Von Babbit, the voice actors, and the editors. Thank you for giving me the honor to experience your art. I will never be the same again, but that's okay. Because you guided me here. I'm not lost, I'm not afraid, I'm just somewhere new. And I think it's beautiful here.

[bernardsbendystraws]

I’m addressing things once and that’s it because there’s truthfully no reason for any hate or drama to continue.

No, I am not homophobic. I’m quite literally apart of the community myself. I don’t even know what I’ve ever done to be portrayed as homophobic.

No, I am not racist. I don’t give a fuck what you look like as long as you bring good energy and vibes. I rarely get specific with any physical traits in my writing, but when I do, I write the things I know how to write. I’ve never had naturally curly hair. I don’t write poc/black!reader since I don’t believe I should be getting the recognition for that when I promote black writers like @leoslaboratory and @muwapsturniolo.

No, I am not ableist. I’ve never used that slur in a derogatory way or done anything that would be put under this category. The only time I’ve said the word is when I repeated it and asked what it was in elementary school. I had been called it before and all I knew is it really hurt my feelings so I’d never wanna say it to someone else.

No, I am not a pedophile. I do write smut and minors do read it, but to say that is unfair when so many other creators could say the same. I don’t control what people read. I’m not their parent/guardian. I’ve always made remarks about Matt and whatnot, but I’ve never talked to a minor sexually about themselves ever. We’re all here for the same reason. I do sometimes forget people’s ages since I try to interact with everyone and some people don’t have their age posted on their blog, but I try my best.

Hate accounts are hurtful and unnecessary. The uproar in them being made for multiple people and things after this whole situation is weird and disgusting.

Now can we pls move tf on 😭 I called out hurtful behavior when we got a meme as an “apology” for using a slur as a joke. I wasn’t the only one too either. People speak up when they see something genuinely wrong. One of the GC members has had an issue with these things I’ve mentioned and two other anonymous accounts. Only people defending me have addressed these situations other than that and I think that says enough so let’s all get back to being simps fr.

[le-chevalier-au-lion]

15 reasons to not forgive Valentino Rossi: rosquez, [g]

The 2025 amendments.

Àlex would hate it.

No, really, Àlex would hate it. And fine, maybe Marc has spent a lifetime ignoring advice to stay safe, to calm down, to let go of things that are hurting him, but not from Àlex, who’s the only person who knows how much he can be hurt. If Àlex says, don’t race, that’s too much, he won’t race. If Àlex says, hasn’t he done enough to you, then perhaps—

People keep talking about it, how Marc never learns a lesson, how he never lets anything go, not in any way that matters, but that’s not true. He’s human, too. Has a limit to how much he can take. People see Cervera with claw marks, see Honda with claw marks, but he’s not holding on anymore, is he?

In 2013, back when Marc had been almost harmless, or less polished, Valentino cupped the back of his neck and smiled, serene, razor-sharp, cruel in that way of his of being cruel—so that you craved that cruelty. You’d take anything I gave you, and the answer was yes, yes, yes. Yes for so long that people started laughing at him.

In 2019, in Misano, after both of them had kissed the gravel because Valentino couldn’t take some fucking towing, he’d not dared to look at Marc. Stood there, dead-eyed, while the stewards panicked at another chapter of their little spat.

It would hurt.

Marc is tired of being in pain.

Worse than the pain had been the loneliness. The years, one after the other after the other, that Marc had spent bent over toilets throwing up, NSAIDs and opioids making him dizzy, standing stiff-faced in the middle of his garage and his worried-sick team, staring at the sterile white walls of doctors’ offices and hospitals. All of that without one fucking glance from anyone, because God had told them to not do it.

Valentino had been much sweeter to him when he started losing in 2014.

Marc cannot be sweet at all. It’s been said before—he’s ruthless, he’s addicted to winning, he makes things not fun for everyone else. Another ten years have not made him any more prone to apologizing about it than he was at 22.

And really? Conspiring with Jorge?

Once, just once, they’d fought ugly, they’d fought like it mattered. Somewhere in 2015 anno domini, the last stretch of races before Sepang, and Valentino had gotten slick, lizard-like, and opened his thin, mean mouth to say something that started with if you aren’t careful, you'll end up—

Marc is angry. It surprises him sometimes—that if anyone touches him, he’ll unravel at the seams, his porcelain doll act shattered.

There’d been some fifteen minutes in Phillip Island, after the race but before Uccio, that Valentino had laughed, had dragged him for a kiss, then two. You’re crazy, he’d said, and for those fifteen minutes, it was a compliment. Then he’d not heard about him until that Thursday in Malaysia.

Marc wants Valentino still.

[astraloverflow]

Depraved and Obsessed König Teaser 2

warnings: König is an INCEL, power dynamics, fear, manipulation, implied smut, implied non-con This fic is taking way longer than I anticipated. I'm at about 16k words right now and they haven't even gotten freaky yet oh my god,,, I hope to be done sometime next week, but while you guys wait, here's another small part hehe enjoy ;) PS. This takes place before the first sneak peek I put out!! (THE BUILD UP MAKES IT BETTER I PROMISE, JUST WAIT MWAHAHAHA) WC: 1362 MDNI

“Really, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammer. Your heart shivers in its cage of bones; it makes you sick. Instead of whatever twisted game he was trying to play, where he tries to figure out what you know while ignoring the obvious, he should be apologizing to you, begging for your forgiveness. Though you were uncertain you would even receive an apology at this point, even if you did, you doubt you would be willing to forgive him— you realize, a second too late, that it should be the least of your worries right now.

He brings his hands from behind his back towards the desk you’re pressed against, placing both palms on either side, essentially trapping you within his hold, bending at the waist to meet you at eye level. You almost jump at this, and your breath catches in your throat before he begins to speak again, piercing cerulean taking in your mortified face. “Listen, Schatz. I’ve been patient,” he huffs out, eyes burning straight through your own with an intensity that makes your stomach churn and knees wobble, “I wanted to wait. I really did.” He pauses to take in a shaky breath, “I had hoped that by teaching you, by being kind to you, by showing you how to become a better sniper— that it would bridge that gap, and allow us to become closer… naturally. You know?” A beat, and he inhales again, eyes now darker, glaring, “I must confess, though, meine Leibe, I got impatient…” 

Leibe. 

He has never called you that before— it sends your head spinning, heart sinking, stomach churning as you try to find any way you could comprehend this situation. He brings his frame a bit closer to your own, enough for you to feel his body heat on your skin, hot enough to burn.

“I should have been better, Schatz, I am sorry for getting...” There it is, the apology you've been waiting for, but it’s followed by silence— an empty regret. You try to respond to him, tell him that you’re uncomfortable at the position that you two are in, your hands finding the table behind you, pulling yourself deeper into the wood, trying to put distance between you and him, but your voice dies, a small squeak coming out instead. He chuckles slightly, almost sheepishly, before speaking up again, “Honestly, I’m really embarrassed that you… found that. You weren’t- you weren’t supposed to.” 

The first time you’ve heard him sound so nervous. 

“I want to— I want to make it up to you,” he whispers, eyes flicking down to your lips before they meet your eyes again, “I really do.” His left hand reaches up to place onto your shoulder, and he exhales, “I see the way you’re looking at me right now. Leibe, please, you don’t need to be afraid.” His heavy hand makes contact with your shoulder, resting on it, thumb rubbing small circles that were meant to be soothing, only they made you violently ill instead, his touch scorching you. “I only ever wanted to protect you. Everything I did— it was for you.” His voice cracks slightly, but he covers it with a deep inhale.

He looks inconsolable, but you try nonetheless; a part of you feels afraid to set him off if you decide to be too direct or ignore him, so you decide you have to take the route in between. “I understand how you feel, I just— you're my colonel," you shake your head, "I can't— please— you have to understand why this is a shock to me,” you murmur out, looking at him with pleading eyes.

After a moment of quiet, he speaks out, sharply, hand tightening on your shoulder, “No.” He growls, and the armoury suddenly feels too small, like the walls are closing in on you. 

Wrong move.

“You don’t understand anything.” There’s an ugly, wretched note in his words, sharp and rising with each syllable that leaves his throat; his words come out as a hiss, and it terrifies you to no extent. His grip on you becomes almost painful as he barks out another sentence, “You think you can just walk away from this? From me?” His breathing grows heavier, each word dragging out of him like it physically hurts, desperation evident in his eyes that were quickly flickering between your left and right eye. “After everything,” he takes in a hefty breath, “you smile at me, you talk to me, you laugh with me,” a pause, “you touch me.” Suddenly, you’re brought back to just yesterday when you hugged him, and you feel your stomach twist, feeling partially responsible for this outcome. No. He had that photo of you before yesterday— this is all wrong. “Schatz, you let me think that—” He cuts himself off with a choked noise, taking his hand off your shoulder to slam against the desk, balled in a fist. The knives on the table behind you rattle slightly, and you flinch. “You made me need you,” his voice is a growl now, full of accusation, “and now you want to act like I’m the problem?” Another harsh breath, chest heaving as his eyes darken further— betrayal, rage, heartbreak all tangled together.

You feel your heart squeeze itself in your chest, your rib cage not big enough to hold the feelings in. The fear rising in your veins constricts your circulation, causing you to go lightheaded— you need to get out of here. A lump forms in your throat, making it hard to speak, but you do so regardless. “I need to go,” you manage to say, vision obscured by the formation of tears starting to pool in your eyes. You’re inching sideways, trying to find a gap to slide through, considering ducking under his arm to make an escape.

“Don’t you dare,” he snarls, eyebrows furrowing in anger, “I’m laying out all my feelings out for you here— I’m being vulnerable with you, Leibe, and you want to leave? You’re unbelievable.” His hands lift off the table, and he places them on the left side of his chest, eyes now suddenly desperate, pleading, “I am trying to have a heart-to-heart with you,” he chokes with what sounds like a sob. 

As his hands move off of the table, your blood rushes, your vision tunnels itself, and you use the movement of his arms as leverage, in a haze, you push past him, ducking low, as you sprint for the door— your boots slam against the concrete as you sprint, the fluorescent lights of the armoury buzzing overhead, overstimulating your senses. Behind you, heavy boots pound, twice as loud as your own— the noise of pure rage. As you rip through the entryway, cold air of the night hitting against your skin, pumped full of adrenaline, you put a considerable amount of space between yourself and the entryway. You don’t hear footsteps past the concrete floor of the armoury, and you come to a stop and turn your body around to assess your situation, backing up still, ready to bolt if he starts moving towards you. Turning to face him allows you to see his body, leaning against the door frame of the small building, huffing with what you can only assume is unbridled rage. You could see just through his eyes how defeated he looked, head tilted down, to look at you with resentful, heartbroken eyes. 

“Fuck Schatz,” his sighs, voice breaking with desperation and he pauses, watching you hastily walk away, “you want to do things like this?” He breathes in deeply, lifting his head and widening his eyes at you in what feels like a challenge, wildly. You can see his chest rise and fall unsteadily as he does so, “Fine.” The last bit of his monologue was a growl, anger lacing his words with a small puff, “Have it your way.” He pushes off the doorway with his forearm and begins walking over to you. Each one of his steps, two of yours, and with your body turned to face him, stepping backwards, it was almost three— he didn’t need to be fast. You did.

[oh-tetrabiblos]

🌸🦇ELRIEL MONTH FICLET #1: Death and the Maiden 🦇🌸

Blood dripping from his fingertips, Azriel stepped out from the shadows into the darkness of the kitchen. He had taken longer than he would have liked with his last assigned job, and everyone in the River House was long asleep.

Reports would have to wait until morning, but he had already known that before letting himself into the house—the excuse ready on his tongue if he had come upon anyone. Anyone but her.

Azriel sensed her sneaky steps down the stairs first, and were he anything other than the spymaster of the night court, he probably wouldn’t have. They had been meeting in secret for so long now, that she had mastered the art of moving unnoticed.

But Azriel would always, always, notice her arrival. If not for the sound of her pacing or the soundless bustling of her clothes, for the painful feeling of anticipation that shook him to the core, or the uncontrollable catching of his breath as she came closer.

Elain Archeron emerged in the kitchen, shining like the sun at dawn even in the middle of the night. Her sight stole his breath completely. Elain was wearing her night clothes: a pure white dress held by two thin straps on her shoulders, that fell to her mid-calf and clung to her chest and the width of her hips. The scarce moonlight only added to the contrast with her pale, winter skin. Her hair, unbound and wavy, reached her lower back and Azriel’s fingers itched just to graze it.

She was a goddess. Azriel felt the urge to kneel before her and was yet unable to move an inch in her presence.

Elain took the remaining steps towards him, her eyes roaming his body in a quick check-up. Azriel carefully moved his affected hand behind his back, but it was too late. Elain stopped right before him, completely engulfed by his darkness.

It had never deterred her. His past, his power, his broodiness, or his job. Elain Archeron had looked at him, truly seen him, and considered all of it beautiful and lovable. Immersed in his shadows, Elain stood out to him like a beacon in all her pristine glory.

A Maiden, unafraid of Death.

“You’re hurt,” she said, as a way of greeting. Azriel had missed her sweet voice so much in the last few days.

“I cut myself.” Azriel offered, knowing she would catch his little white lie.

Elain pouted, a heavy blow against Azriel’s diligently constructed restraint of 500 years. Years. And he had barely minutes before he couldn’t resist touching her any longer.

“You’re not clumsy.” She bit down her soft, full lower lip and reached behind Azriel’s back for the hidden hand.

The moment Azriel felt the start of her warmth from the half-hug, he was done for. His bloodied hand shot to her hip and grabbed, twirling Elain around until her back was flush against his chest. His other hand immediately reached for her hair, pulling lightly at the roots so she would lean her head to the side. Azriel plunged right into the offered neck and breathed, bloodied hand clenching the fabric a tad too tight at her exhilarating scent.

‘Fuck.’ He cursed mentally, knowing Elain would imagine it in her mind as if he had said it out loud. That much she knew him. “I lost control.”

A chuckle. “Yeah, you tend to do that in the darkness of the night. It seems to embolden you.”

Elain’s flower scent never failed to make Azriel lose his mind. He pulled Elain impossibly closer towards him by her hip and allowed himself half a thought about his hand’s previous predicament and her white dress.

“I stained you. I apologize.” He said, but fisted her clothes in a bundle of folds all the same.

“I don’t care.” Elain breathed out, neck bare against his mouth.

The little vixen was demanding a kiss Azriel couldn’t deny her. Another, and another. A mark was what she wanted against her porcelain, unmarred neck. A sin ought to be punished with the most fervent of hell’s tortures: to maim such a goddess-blessed, unblemished, Maiden skin.

Oh, wouldn’t Azriel love to indulge her. But this was theirs alone for the moment, these encounters. Their story, their passion, their love. Theirs alone. For now.

How much longer would they resist?

A war for her unrestricted touch, the price a lifetime of her companionship.

Azriel was a soldier itching for battle. And death was his touch.

He bit down softly on Elain’s shoulder, eyes rolling back in their sockets at her taste, her scent. Jasmine, honey, and all his.

He lost control, again. He couldn’t be trusted with her.

“You will be the death of me.” He whispered against her ear before descending the path to her neck with smooth, barely-there kisses.

Elain grinned, turning her head upwards as if to look at him.

“Shouldn’t it be the other way around, my deadly wraith?”

Azriel chuckled, allowing her to turn around in his embrace, his shadows a cocoon so tight around her frame that Elain, in all her shining glory, seemed to be floating in a sea of darkness.

Elain reached up to cup Azriel’s face with her hand and smiled so softly at him it clenched his heart. Eyes crinkled in silent affection, Elain looked like a goddess Azriel was more than ready to worship at the altar of.

“Allow me to look at that before I have to go back upstairs.” She said, “I don’t trust anyone else to treat you properly.” It was indeed a lighthearted joke that served both to conceal her actual worry and the tinge of possessiveness he was learning she had for him.

In that they also matched, it seemed.

“However will I be able to say no to that, El?”

Elain grabbed at his dripping hand most delicately and, after a careful inspection, found out the bleeding cut on the side of his palm. It wasn’t deep nor worrisome, but quite bloody thanks to its location.

She huffed, but didn’t let go of his hand and instead fit her fingers between his and pulled him even closer.

“Come,” she whispered, and Azriel almost leaned in and kissed her. Instructions unclear. And the woman knew what she was doing to him. “Let’s clean that up.”

She led him towards the sink, where she washed up both their hands. Elain, refusing to let go of his hand, leaned all the way to the drawer she kept some useful supplies in and procured a white cloth for bandages. She tied it nicely around his hand, a kiss to the knuckles her finishing touch. The softness of her lips had goosebumps erupting down his spine, and when Elain cradled his bandaged hand between hers, he lowered his forehead against her own.

“Will I see you at breakfast?” Elain asked, almost shyly.

Azriel nodded against her. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Elain allowed herself one last moment in his arms before she forced herself away. They both knew that Azriel didn’t have the will to let her go. Their hands kept latched together as she stepped out of his embrace, fingers intertwined right until the very last moment, before he saw her walk and disappear upstairs.

Azriel remained rooted in place well after the last of Elain’s scent left the room, her warmth just a memory in his mind. As silently as he had arrived, Azriel stepped back into the shadows and left.

In the kitchen, their haven of darkness remained unbroken.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Hey miss Raven! I hope your recovery is going well. Make sure to not over exert yourself. Wishing you good health and fortune!

I wanted to ask about your honest feelings regarding Grim and more then often obnoxious behaviour especially during events. This is coming from someone who loves cats and one of the things that got me into Twst was the fact that there was a talking cat in it (I still love the little shi* and look forward to his new outfits. I'm basically the meme " i still love them but sometimes i just want to get in a car and run them over".) For me it was annoying but a little cute like the first few times but now that we are done with 7 books of main story and a buckload of events his obnoxiousness is starting to feel really annoying. His character feels like it had no development at all. I know events are not canon nor take main story progress in to consideration but come on! Yuu's motivation to rescue Grim in book 6 didn't felt genuine either. Even now his antics in eternity float didn't come across adorable but exasperating instead. How do you feel about Grim?

Also, curiously if you ,as in you the author not your OC, were in yuu's shoes what would you do? How would you interact with grim? Do you think you can handle him realistically? I know you don't self insert yourself but just hypothetically speaking how would you feel about him?

Hihi ^^ Thank you for the well wishes! I think I've made a full recovery (or close to it?) at this point, but there's some lifestyle changes I made in the aftermath. Thankfully, it's nothing too bad!

Before I give my thoughts on Grim, I want to preface by disclosing my biases so you can understand where I'm coming from. While I definitely prefer cats to dogs, I've realized recently that I don't actually like cats?? I just tolerate them better than dogs. This is mostly on account of the fur, which I generally find very gross and messy. (One of my friends jokes this is because I'm just a Mammal Hater 💀) I do happen to be a pet owner and my (non-specific) pet very much has Grim's personality. They're loud, they're needy, they love to eat, they cause trouble, they act like they're the boss around here--so I'm sort of used to and desensitized to most of Grim's behaviors.

Now, about Grim! I generally like him (mostly because he basically acts like my own nonspecific pet and has cute ribbons). He's unfortunately always going to be my annoying little fur baby, but I totally understand why some people don't like Grim. His voice is admittedly kind of grating, and he always seems to be causing Yuu/the player grief. I disagree with those who dislike Grim for "stealing" screentime from Yuu; I think he's a suitable stand-in for them, since the game has to take measures to keep Yuu vague for self-insert purposes. Grim did nothing wrong, he is just serving his function. I also disagree with those who find it demeaning when Grim calls us "minion". To me, it doesn't feel any different than a friend ironically calling another friend "idiot" or something of the sort. Additionally, several other characters in the Twst cast have derogatory or arrogant nicknames for Yuu/the player or for their peers, but for some reason those have largely been adopted and interpreted as signs of affection by the fandom??? Which has always been super odd to me. I do see a point to be made about being annoyed at Grim for not taking responsibility for his actions (Yuu is often demanded to control him), but I’d say that’s intentional to move the plot along, clunky as it is. This doesn’t feel different to me than your pet, child, or sibling is being a nuisance and you having to get them under control in public. It’s also difficult for me to stay mad at Grim for this when other NRC students arguably act similar (causing trouble but not apologizing or taking accountability) + are ruder to Yuu but they get excused or adored for it while Grim catches flack. Why is there this bias? Is it because Grim isn’t a conventionally attractive anime boy?? 😭 Is it because we are forced to spend more time with Grim so he has more opportunities to be pointed out? I don’t get it.

That being said, that doesn't mean I think Grim is necessarily a well-written character, especially not for most of the main story. As much as I love book 6, the kidnapping + tearful reunion ring hollow if the player isn't already invested in Grim before then. The issue is that the prologue, plus books 1-5 do very little to show moments of Yuu and Grim genuinely bonding. Most interactions between the two involve Grim making trouble, his skipping responsibilities, or generally being cocky, and Yuu having to clean up after his messes. That doesn't endear him to us. We don't really get moments of Yuu and Grim seriously getting to know each other or points where we get to see his good traits. Book 6 would have worked a lot better if there had been moments dedicated to Yuu and Grim being more intimate beforehand. You don't have to make Grim a completely new character; work off of his existing traits and give him scenarios where he is allowed to shine and support Yuu.

Maybe in the prologue or book 1, Yuu is having trouble falling asleep because they're so anxious about being in a new world and Grim tries to act all tough to reassure them they're safe by his side, and this finally helps Yuu drift off. In book 2, maybe Leona's picking on Yuu a little too hard during their practice game and Grim feels he must stand up for his minion against a bully. For book 3, there could be a scene where Yuu scolds Grim for trying to take the easy way out and Grim confides in them about not wanting to flunk out because being a great mage is all he has ever wanted. Then when Yuu asks why this is his dream, Grim can't come up with an answer (which calls attention to Grim not really knowing much about himself or his past). As for book 4, expand more on Grim trying to break them out of Scarabia with a spoon. Play up Grim acting like he has to be the hero and do what he can to help his minion out of a tight spot! In book 5, have Grim help Yuu with coaching everyone or maybe getting a little jealous that there's so many people he has to share his living space with. Then Yuu can reassure him he's irreplaceable!! And sprinkle in more scenes where Yuu and Grim just connect over being outcasts, alone and unsure in this world but able to find solace in one another. By the time book 6 comes around, we'll have all these moments to look back fondly on and motivate us to rescue Grim, who cared so much for Yuu. Grim, whom we've developed a friendship with over the main story... Grim, who is now locked away in an unfamiliar face with no friends around...

For events, I'm willing to be a little more patient with him since 1) they're not canon to the main story and 2) Grim is obviously used just to shoehorn Yuu's presence into several events, especially the hometowns (through his whining about wanting to do something fun/to eat lots of tasty food). I can't recall a specific instance of Grim being super annoying in events... but I will say that I do find Grim annoying in Eternity Float. Grim seems a little overwritten here, if that makes sense??? He's acting more cartoonish and childish than usual... Like, Grim comedically chomps onto a large ham hanging from the ceiling with ZERO understanding that he needs to pay for it first?? And he wants a bigger slice of pizza (but Riddle tells him it's rude to reach across the table), so he tries spinning the plate instead, only for the pizza to go SPLAT on Malleus's face??? Then he hoses people down with a water gun... SORRY, did Grim mentally regress a few years???? OTL

Mmm... If I were in Yuu's shoes, I think I'd deal with Grim similarly with how I deal with my irl (non-specific) pet: sternly yet fairly? I'd try to train Grim, make sure he eats a balanced diet, gets exercise, and keeps stimulated, bathe him, take him out on walks, give him treats and toys if he's well-behaved, put him in the corner and have him think about what he did if he doesn't, always keep a first aid kit on hand... Oh, and I'd carry him everywhere either by the scruff or in a carrier bag. One hand on him at all times, or else he might wander off and cause trouble. I think it'd be hard dealing with his fire magic and rashness but 💦 I've been told I'm pretty patient, so I think I could handle it if I had to. Whether I'd LIKE it or not is another matter entirely. Grim is basically a little kid or a toddler, and I'm honestly not a fan of children. An animal being feisty is... fine, even cute. But the instant the animal starts giving me lip in complete sentences, it's a lot less charming. I still feel like Grim has the potential to grow on me over time though... There's a weird charm to his attitude, haha.

P.S. My (non-specific) pet says hi.

[eleventhhourfactor]

🙏 - Possession with Mario

Ahahahahahaha...

Oh, have I been waiting for this one. As a bonus/apology, I'm gonna roll your previous prompt ask in with this as well...

..and sneak in a little reference here and there, both to other artists' takes on King Boo Mario and uh, another Kristen Schaal show. Shoutout to @akiiame-blog, @pianokantzart, @tinydragontoonz, and countless others for taking such wonderfully artistic stabs at a Mario possessed. If there's anyone who's slipped my mind, please tell me. There was a lot of art a while back, so I'm a bit fuzzy on who did what.

Here's the ask game for reference. I'll be doing this all weekend, with a big-ass break on Saturday because of comic con.

Without further ado, let's do this.

Mario - Possession🙏

"You just don't give up, do you?"

In any other context, such words would be encouraging, especially with Mario saying them. As things stood right now, with Luigi facing a twin possessed, he knew fully well what his opponent was trying to do.

Like thrice before, King Boo was trying to disarm him.

"You've dispelled our fused form when you slammed us around," the Boo snarled, moving Mario's mouth down into a frown unbecoming of his brother. "You've parted me from my crown. What else were you hoping to accomplish here?"

Luigi said nothing as he tightened his grip. This wasn't Mario, but it was still him—durable and dependable, at least from the outside, but overridden by the most malevolent of spirits within.

"I want you," Luigi demanded, "to let go of my bro."

"Hmm, let me think about it." King Boo moved a hand as though to tap out an idea, his borrowed finger tapping against darkened eyes and purple irises. "I haven't exactly been taking good care of this one, have I? Of course, he wouldn't be so roughed up if it weren't for you…"

Luigi narrowed his eyes.

"I don't think I will." King Boo crossed his vessel's arms. "You're gonna have to tear Mario apart to get rid of me."

"Is that what you think?"

Luigi took a step forward, his finger on the switch as King Boo raised a brow.

"Little note about the human body," Luigi said. "We're not made of pure energy. You might be the king of ghosts, but Mario's been awake for over twenty-four hours."

"S-So what?" King Boo sneered, though Luigi could see the facade begin to crack. "It's not like you've slept, either!"

"True," Luigi noted, "but E. Gadd makes a mean cup of coffee. What do you think's been in my thermos all this time?"

If King Boo had a retort, Luigi didn't care to hear it. With a pop and a flash, the ghost gave up his puppet, ascending up in a daze as Mario crumpled to the floor. Without a moment to lose, Luigi switched the Poltergust over to capture, seizing King Boo by his tail as he gave it all he had.

"NO!" King Boo screeched. "I will NOT be captured again! You can't do this!"

Luigi dug his feet in.

"You can't! I won't let you! This isn't the ennnnnnnd!"

Like thrice before, King Boo vanished into the tube with a squelch and not much more than a shake in protest. Luigi stood still as the Poltergust shuddered on his back, settling down as the room returned to normal, before shouldering it off onto the floor.

"Mario!" He practically slid onto his knees, taking up his brother's weary head in his lap. "Please be okay, oh, please be okay!"

"…Lu?"

Tired blue eyes stared up at him, wavering with wonder and another emotion Luigi couldn't quite place.

"It's okay," Luigi said, pulling him up into a hug. "You're okay."

"You got him?"

"Of course."

"I could've done more…"

"Don't say that," Luigi said with a shush. "You were possessed. I'm just glad you were able to come back."

They sat like that for what seemed like ages, with Mario holding onto him like a lifeline and Luigi reassuring him.

"You're safe now," Luigi kept saying. "I promise you that much. No more ghosts are gonna hurt you."

Mario could only shiver as Luigi kicked open the Pixelator.

"I've got you," Luigi said, collecting his brother in his arms after strapping the Poltergust back on. "Let's go home."

[carothepoet]

The way I *desperately* need Deborah to be the one who apologizes first.

In my head, it would go like this: Deborah reaches her breaking point after the screaming match at the show taping, gets drunk, and impulsively calls Marcus. She tells him the whole story (with herself as the victim, naturally), leaving out the specifics of the Bob Lipka situation, just saying that “Ava has some sensitive information about me and blackmailed me into making her head writer.” Then she relays how awful and hateful Ava has been ever since, minimizing her own part, but of course Marcus knows Deborah and reads between the lines. So he lets her get it all out and then gently suggests that she may have played a part in this, and in fact set it off by betraying Ava at the start. He explains how it might look from Ava’s side.

Deborah is PISSED, yells at him, and hangs up. But she can’t stop thinking about it, because goddammit if Marcus wasn’t *right.* (He’s always right, and she HATES it. What a relief that he doesn’t work for her anymore.)

She sulks about it for a few days, avoiding Ava as much as possible, but Marcus’s words eat away at her and she isn’t sleeping and she’s rearranged her salt and pepper shaker collection 14 times.

And normally she wouldn’t DREAM of apologizing, but the constant fighting is affecting the show, and the magic is gone, and she’ll be damned if she loses her dream a second time if there’s any way to prevent it.

So she shows up at Ava’s apartment. And she’s there for 20 minutes before she works up the nerve to knock on the door. Ava opens it, and she immediately sees Emily and Dev in the background and feels that overwhelming surge of something like jealousy (but it’s NOT) and Ava’s standing there staring at her like she has three heads.

“Deborah? What are you doing here?”

“Can—can I talk to you for a moment?”

Ava hesitates and then steps out, closing the door behind her and crossing her arms over her chest. “Without Stacy?”

“It’ll only take a moment.” She bites her lips and takes a deep breath. “I’ve been doing some thinking, and…I don’t see how we can continue this way. “You were”—the words are physically painful coming out of her mouth—“you were right; our relationship is what makes the writing work. So I apologize.”

Ava furrows her brow. “You apologize? For what? For lying to me? For acting like I’m disposable after all we’ve been through? For screaming in my face and calling me names, in *addition* to fighting me on every single fucking suggestion I’ve made since?”

“First of all, I will *never* apologize for fighting back against objectively bad ideas, and second of all”—she grits her teeth—“yes.”

“Hm.” Ava regards her for a moment, clearly questioning Deborah’s sincerity. “Fine,” she finally says coldly. “I accept your apology.”

Deborah tries to hide the rush of relief that floods her body. “Okay. I’ll…let you get back to your guests.”

“Sooo…you’re just gonna be, like, *nice* now, or whatever?”

And Deborah’s hackles go up, in the good way, in the old way. “Oh yeah, that sounds like me.”

She proceeds to tell Ava the throuple situation is stupid and she’s going to regret it. Ava says something like “WOW, jealous much??” and they proceed to bicker in the old way, the Love Language way, and then Ava’s face softens a little and she says, “I missed this,” and Deborah says, “I did, too.”

The next day in the writers’ room, they argue all day long, but it’s different because the vitriol is gone, and everyone can sense the change in energy. They put together the best show they’ve ever done, and the ratings SOAR.

And Marcus watches the show with a smile, sipping a drink and knowing it was he who gave Deb the kick in the pants that she needed to do the right thing.

THE END

[arrimorr]

Hello!

I hope you're doing well. Is there any place where I can find a sort of "complete lore" or story about what's going on with all of your characters on The Road(?)

Basically I started following you a while back because I fell in love with your art (it's soooo good), and now I have a bunch of random tidbits of lore and characters that live in my head rent free, but I have no idea what's actually going on. If that makes any sense at all.

For instance, you've mentioned in an answer to another ask that the Knight was, uh, "put back together(?)" by the King? And he's had a modification done to his brain so that he's on a constant serotonin high?! I'm over here like "What is going on! I neeeed to know!"

My apologies if this has been asked before, or if I'm just blind and there's a link to what I'm looking for that I just haven't seen. I'm just so interested!

Hii! Thank you so much for your interest in my characters 🥺🥺🥺

I don't have any "complete Lore" articles, since I dont won't to spoil my own story too much, but I have this base Lore info post I made a while ago

[batcvntry]

[the darkness at the heart of my love]

relationship [Stack X FTM!Reader]

ratings [18+; minors dni]

word count [1,356]

warnings [Spoilers {but not really, just putting this in case}; Vampire bites + turning; Gay sex; Spit; Unprotected Sex; I think that's it but i apologize if I miss anything]

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧

You push through the dance floor, hot bodies all around you but you only care about finding one. Stack. Finally you break free from the dance floor and wander up to the bar, waiting for Grace to finish with another patron. After she is done she comes over to you, a friendly smile on her face.

“What’ll it be this time?”

“Give me one of those Irish beers please.” You smile back at her before dropping your voice, “You seen Stack around? It’s been 30 minutes and I can't find him anywhere.” You only keep your voice down so other patrons don’t get worried about one of the twins going missing. Grace pulls out a chilled beer and takes the top off for me,

“Last time I seen him was when he went up to talk to Smoke, about ten minutes ago.” She points to the small second floor of the old sawmill. You take a sip of your beer and slap a five dollar bill on the bar, smiling and thanking her, walking away before she can tell you that five dollars is too much for one beer. You start making your way through the crowd again to get to the stairs, but before you can get to them someone pulls you into the storage room. 

You turn around to tell the person off when you are met with the familiar dazzling smirk of Stack, he takes your beer and places it on one of the wooden stock shelves in the room. He doesn’t give any time to question him before pinning you against the wall, his breath hot on your neck. You whine softly under your breath, so softly he would have missed it if not for his new (and hidden) vampire instincts. His strong hands run down your sides as he kisses your neck, gently whispering between each kiss.

“Been so long since we’ve been like this.. Let me make it up to you.” His voice is low and full of hunger. On instinct you tilt your neck to the side causing his eyes to shine with an unnatural glow, your hands work at getting his three piece suit off. 

“Where’s all this comin’ from? I’ve been chasing after you since you got back home and you’ve been pushing me away.” You ask despite submitting your body to your old lover. He grins against your neck, pulling away slightly.

“You complaining now?” You quickly shake your head, your cheeks turning light red at his words. “That’s what I thought, baby. I let that tight little pussy get away once and I ain’t gonna let it again.” 

You grab the collar of his pristine white button up and pull him into a desperate kiss, letting him gently lower you to the floor. He crawls on top of you, pushing his knee between your thighs, right against your clothed cunt. A small gasp falls from your lips as he tears your shirt open, his eyes darkening with hunger at the sight of your unbinded tits. His calloused golden brown hands run up your comparably pale skin, cupping your chest as he leans down and kisses you again. Though it’s been seven years since he last touched you, he still remembers all of the ways to make you squirm, like circling the edges of your areolas, causing your nipples to turn into stiff peaks. Your whimper gets trapped between his lips as he slips his tongue into your mouth, something about him tastes different.. Tastes better.

He pulls away, drool dripping down his chin. You can’t help but grind against his knee, finally getting his button up undone. When you notice the drool you gently reach up and wipe it away, your pupils completely blown out with lust.

“Baby, you’re drooling.” You say softly, noticing a sinister glint in Stack’s eyes. He grins, leaning over you.

“You want some?” His voice is low and husky, his chain and dog tags hanging over your face. You nod dumbly, blushing deep red, squeaking out a soft ‘yea’. Stack smirks at you, gripping your jaw with enough force to open your mouth. He looks deep in your eyes as he slowly spits in your mouth, you eagerly swallow all of it. Meanwhile your hands work to get his pants undone, you whine under your breath as your fingers ghost over his hardness. 

He pulls your pants and boxers off in one fluid movement, hastily throwing your legs over his shoulders. His eyes are fixated on your soaking wet cunt, he guides his cock to your entrance, pushing in without hesitation. You let out an unintentionally loud moan that echoes around the small room, Stack’s lips curl into that damned smirk that you tried to get out of your head for seven years. You wrap your arms around his neck, gently pulling him closer for another kiss as he starts thrusting. 

Seven years has been far too long in your opinion, sure you had tried to find other lovers a few years after Stack left but no one compared to him. His hands gently knead your breasts, his lips leaving yours to trail down your neck. Soft moans and whimpers leak through the walls, not that anyone outside the storage room would be able to tell with all the music that’s playing. He groans lowly in your ear,

“Seven years was worth the wait… Now we got eternity ahead of us.” Before you can question what he means Stack grabs your tits roughly, slamming his hips into yours. Your body gently moves with each of his thrusts, your cunt clenching around his heavy cock as you get closer to a much needed orgasm. He grins against your neck, knowing he’s moments away from what he really wants. “That’s it baby, come for me. Come and I’ll make you mine forever.”

Your mind is too clouded with pleasure to question what he means but your body follows his directions, your back arches off of the floor as Stack’s name comes off of your lips like a prayer. You come hard on his cock, slick leaking onto the floor from how intense your orgasm is. Stack keeps thrusting through it, his fingers tweaking your nipples to help you ride through your release. He gives a few more hard thrusts before coming deep in your cunt, he pants against your neck. But before you can recover from what just happened he whispers,

“Sorry, love.. I promise it will be worth it in a minute.” He doesn’t give you time to answer before sinking his once hidden fangs into your jugular vein, his big hand covers your mouth to muffle your screams. His cock still buried deep in your cunt as he tears a chunk of flesh away, tears brim in your eyes as you feel life fading from your body. He pulls away from your neck, gently stroking the hair out of your face. “Shh, shh, shh. You’ll be back in a little bit, I promise.” 

Stack stays deep inside of you as the light fades from your eyes, gently holding your limp head close to his chest as your blood drips from your chin onto his chest. He hums ‘This little light of mine’ as he strokes your hair, knowing it will only be a few more minutes before you wake up. Despite the rough nature of Remmick and how controlling he is, Stack is oddly gentle for a vampire.

Just like he told you after about 10 minutes you groan against his chest, gently reaching for your neck but he stops you. Stack gently puts your head down on a large bag of cornmeal, smiling softly down at you.

“Careful now love, you don’t want to touch that.” He leans down and gently kisses your forehead, not bothering to hide his vampiric state now that he’s turned you. You grin up at him, your once warm brown eyes now hazy and gray. You pull him down into a proper kiss, gently grinding down on his cock which is still nestled in your tight cunt.

“How bout a proper welcome back, soldier?”

[moptopper]

the beatles, everybody

[odo-apologist]