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apparitionism · 22 hours ago

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Court

Happy @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange , @amtrak12 ! What I have for you is the start of a story—it would have been a more lengthy start, but work and other concerns perfect-stormed me into an unanticipated time crunch. Excuses, excuses... I know, and I regret it. However! What I don’t regret at all is how your many great ideas inspired me; you’ll see which of those I began with (tweaked a bit!), and as this gift keeps on giving, you’ll find I worked in several other possibilities as well. Here’s hoping they combine into a whole that—over time—brings you some moments of enjoyment. (Many thanks to @kla1991 , of course, for the continued heroic herding of the fandom cats.)

Court

Breakfast, Myka has lately decided, or determined, or realized, is her favorite meal of the day. The reason is not that there is lately a new person at the breakfast table, but rather...

Okay. Yes. That is the reason.

Every morning, she waits for the reason to appear, here at breakfast, to remind her: of importance, of why it (she) is her favorite. Today begins the second week of this lovely new ritual—an anniversary of sorts, one she would like to be cherishing (H.G. Wells, Agent Wells, Helena Wells, at the breakfast table every morning for two weeks!)—but instead, she is being assailed by Pete’s distracting habit of pawing through the box of Lucky Charms, extracting the marshmallows, tossing them into the air (up through which they ascend, and down through which they tumble, in seeming slow motion), and catching them on his tongue like purposeless candy snowflakes. Or not catching them, at which point he scrabbles for them on the floor.

It’s viscerally offensive. Why doesn’t Leena tell him to stop it?

Oh. Leena isn’t here. Why isn’t—

But then Myka is again distracted, and even more viscerally offended, when Artie huffs in and declares, “I need lawyers.”

“You’re being sued for excessive curmudgeonation,” Claudia says with a sigh. “Had to happen someday.”

“I’m surprised we don’t have any,” Myka says, pretending that she can ignore what she’s waiting for.

Pete misses another marshmallow. “We’ve got a doctor but no lawyers?” he asks from under the table.

Claudia raps on it, right above his head. “We’ve got no accountants either, big guy, but I never saw anybody get surprised about that.”

“A blue moon!” he exclaims as he emerges, popping it into his mouth. “Because Artie’s worse than any accountant. Plus everybody thinks we’re accountants on account of being IRS.”

“I heard what you did there,” Claudia says.

Artie snorts. “Everyone did, unfortunately. But you’ve managed to bring me to my point.”

“Score!” Pete enthuses. “Maybe.”

“Thinking,” Artie says.

Pete deflates. “Aaaand I’m out. I don’t really do that.”

“Noted,” Artie says, looking over his glasses. “And you are out. This assignment requires making people think you’re a lawyer.”

“Mykes, I bet you’re up,” Pete says.

“I was pre-law,” Myka says, but with an internal I say things like this too often twinge.

“Two lawyers,” Artie continues.

Pete deflates again. “Aaaand you’re down. Even you can’t be two lawyers.”

“Agent Wells,” Artie then says. Music, that title and name are, which is certainly more than Myka would normally think of any words Artie utters.

Pete, however, gapes: “She can?”

With exquisite, yet hardly surprising, timing, Helena sweeps in. “Of course I can.” To Claudia, she asides, “What am I claiming the ability to do?”

Myka wishes she were the one Helena would so casually tap on the shoulder for a sidebar. Speaking of lawyers.

“Be two lawyers at once,” Claudia says.

Helena shrugs. “Haven’t tried. Certainly willing to.”

“Maybe you can be yourself and your evil twin,” Claudia proposes, which wins her an interested blink, plus raise of chin, from Helena.

Artie harrumphs at Claudia. “Don’t give her ideas.” Then he makes the same noise in Helena’s direction. “Though I don’t see how we’d tell one from the other.”

Helena’s face takes on an aspect with which Myka is thrillingly familiar, a “try me” challenge; it is the expression she wore—the memory flashes to life in Myka’s head—as she stepped close, closer, closest to Myka in that office in Tamalpais, and for the briefest instant, re-breathing Helena’s breath as her own, Myka loses the present plot...

...which she knows because when her hearing retunes, Pete is saying, “Aha. How do you gay-run-tee a win?”

Helena says, “Play both sides.”

They nod knowingly at each other. Myka seethes with jealousy at their consonance.

“Nevertheless,” Helena says, “couldn’t we simply steal it?”

Myka doesn’t know what “it” is, but she’ll infer, she’ll get back on board; she just needs to make sure she doesn’t blink out into some Helena-inspired reverie again.

“That’s the evil twin talking,” Claudia says, “because you’d end up in court for a whole different reason than ‘I’ve got the legal right to this artifact!’ Myka versus ‘No, I do!’ H.G.”

“We do try to avoid running afoul of the law,” Artie mumbles.

“That’s new,” Helena says.

“To you,” Artie snarks.

Myka always wants to step in; never knows how. Everything with Artie and Helena, speaking of sides, is double-dutch... which, honestly, Myka knows nothing about except as metaphor. She tries, “But we aren’t actually lawyers. And I’m pretty sure that runs afoul of the law.”

“Save your objections for court,” Artie says, ignoring the contradiction.

It’s what Myka would have wished him to say, so she admonishes herself about gift horses, trying to push the concern from her mind.

And then she forgets to try, for Helena catches her gaze, assessing then smiling, sly, then saying a single, satiny word: “Adversaries...”

The syllables envelop Myka as if embroiling her, paradoxically, in a conspiracy.

She hadn’t thought of the situation that way, but suddenly she sees it sees it sees it—then she sees it further, sees herself and Helena free of the Warehouse, if only for the length of a trial, if only in the space of a court, existing as adversaries with stakes high but not mortal... it’s an arena in which she might fight Helena and win... or at least play to a draw, for Myka knows she is good with precedent, with bringing the previous to bear on the present... then again, applying the volumes of information always available to her can be laborious—and Helena is, among other things, quick. Objection! Myka can hear her saying, feel her leaping to say, in response to some carefully crafted question from Myka. And the judge, any judge, would be captivated, would ignore Myka’s ensuing sputter entirely, would sigh “sustained,” chin in hand, gazing.

Myka considers casting herself as the judge, rather than as the now-hapless adversary. “In my chambers, Miss Wells,” she could order. Order! (In the court!)

She clicks back in as Claudia looks from Helena to her, back to Helena, back to her, tennis match–style. “Sparks are gonna fly,” Claudia pronounces, like it’s Solomonic wisdom... and maybe it is.

This, Myka thinks—printed in words, a silent-film intertitle in her head, each word appearing as she ideates it—is going to be fantastic.

TBC

Preview of coming attractions:

Pete to Myka: Are you wearing makeup?

Myka, exasperated: I’m going to court.

Pete: Who? The judge?

Myka: What?

Pete: And you’re the word nerd... but seriously, do they judge on hotness now?

Helena, who walks in looking like a dream: I certainly hope so. [She looks Myka over.] At the very least, I relish the competition.

#bering and wells #Warehouse 13 #fanfic #b&w gift exchange 2025 #Court #(with its obvious corollary ‘and spark’)#anyway the best-laid plans #something something #eventually you’ll see what’s really going on #if I can pull it off #it’s always a tightrope #in any case all best wishes to amtrak12!

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sunrisecaminus · 16 hours ago

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Ultra Magnus x Government Agent Reader SFW

Summary - Ultra Magnus falls in love with an human Agent after realizing she has a sweet side to her personality.

Warnings: Light Hurt/Comfort

Never have you ever thought you would be seeing real aliens when you first met the Autobots. Being one of the Agents from the US Government, you were assigned to see if Agent Fowler was doing his freaking job. That man has not gotten anything done to defeat the Decepticons that are trying to destroy the world. Now, you have been best friends with Fowler ever since college, but dang from what you have been hearing from your boss, he has been getting lazier and lazier. It was your job to see if he should be fired or not and get a replacement.

After a few months at the base, you have realized two things. One, the Autobots don't have enough recourses to even kill one Decepticon. Two, Fowler has been working his ass off for everyone to survive. Optimus was very kind to you when you arrived and introduced everyone to you. Ultra Magnus was professional, but you can tell he did not like your presence. The US government have been yelling at them about sitting on their afts, while also not providing anything for their survival. He has been warned by Fowler and Prime that humans don't understand what they were going through and so they will be very uncooperative if the bots even tried to explain themselves. "Prime sir, we should not be having anymore interference with these human leaders. Non of them have even came up once to listen to reason." He stared at Optimus with a pleading look, he didn't like to be similar to Ratchet, but he understood why Ratchet hated almost all humans. Optimus looked up from the data pad and gave him a stern look. "Ultra Magnus, I understand your lack of faith my friend, but you have to remember the humans that have helped us so far. Agent Fowler is one of the reasons we have not been kicked from this planet, the children have saved our lives, and Agent Y/n is here to help us get more supplies from the human's government if we give her reason that we are efficient enough."

Ultra Magnus hated that Optimus was right, but he was a bit suspicious of the last sentence. "I am sorry sir, but Agent y/n has not even once reported to the government in three month. I don't think we are up to her standards at all." Optimus closes his eyes to think. Magnus was right about that, you have not been really doing anything around the base except observe everyone's movements and work. Hell Ratchet has been quite annoyed by your presence since he has to stay at the base for most of the missions. He is holding on to you though, giving you hope. Only one person has been supportive of you, and that was Fowler. He told Optimus whole stories about you saving his sorry ass from college professors all the time. He told him many stories of you supporting him and even giving him a place to stay when he needed it the most. Fowler has said though you were a calculated person, and never really showed your emotions a lot. It was hard to tell if you are being nice or just straight cold. "We shall see Ultra Magnus, though I cannot confirm if she is as troubling as you say. I will talk to Agent Fowler once more, so please look over the kids."

When Optimus walked off, Magnus stayed around to make sure Miko wasn't going to prank Ratchet and helped Ralph with any questions he had about Cybertron. He than starts to hear the clicking of heels from the elevator. You had a clip board in hand and was already writing something down. Your h/c (hair color) hair looked all neat and your outfit seemed nice and custom made. Walking over to Ratchet, you ask for his latest findings from last night's mission and both of you started to talk about work. Honestly if Ratchet had a scale for which human was more annoying, you were probably around in the middle. He was able to keep a conversation with you, but from far away he would grumble about things he didn't like that you did. After a few minutes you walked over to Ralph and Ultra Magnus. You stood behind the couch and watched as Ralph was making a nice online form about his cultural findings. Of course, it wasn't public for other humans to see, but if he ever forgot about something he could always click over to his notes and see what he put down. "Ah, you are doing so well Ralph. Although you spells that wrong, the symbol you put down actually has a small line going across the bottom." You pointed out something on Ralph's computer and he gasps. "Oh crap! Your right! Dang I thought I studied that!" Magnus sees you smile for the first time. "Oh it's ok. It's impressive to see you learn so much already after only a week. Better than what I could do."

After you turn around, walking back to the railing from across the base to keep writing in your clip board, Magnus looks at Ralph confused. "What were you and Agent y/n talking about?" Ralph looks up at Magnus and shares his screen for him to see. "Oh? Y/n is teaching me how to read your alphabet! She knows a lot about Iaconian and helped me learn so I can surprise Optimus later! Don't tell him though." He couldn't believe what he was hearing. You knew Iaconian?! When did you have the time to learn such a difficult language?! Magnus couldn't help, but be flabbergasted by the fact you took the time to learn Iaconian and finally had enough. Did you like them or not? Why were you not reporting to your bosses and why haven't you left yet? You were only here to stay for a week…why haven't you left yet? He was getting to the bottom of it one way for another. He excuses himself and walks over to you. You see that a shadow surrounds your body and looks up. "Oh, good evening Ultra Magnus." You put your pen away and stood up straight to give your full attention to him. Magnus narrows his eyes and leans down just a smidge to be a bit closure to your frame. Look he may not like you, but at the very least he did not like intimidating people who are not Decepticons. "I need to speak with you Agent y/n. You have been keeping secrets from Prime and the rest of us, but now all of sudden you are learning Iaconian? What is your motivation?"

The smile that grew on your face made him a bit taken a back by the reaction. The smile looked nice on you, but he wasn't going to tell you that. "I have been monitoring everyone's work so I can give a long report to the government if they should give you their energon findings." WHAT?! The government had not only supplies, but they had the one resource they have been dying to get this whole time?! He clenched his hands into fists and looked angry. "You have energon is your procession? That stuff is useless for your species. Why didn't you report us being useful sooner. We could use those energon cubes to help give us more energy to fight for your planet." Before he could get even more angry, you put a hand up to shut him up. "Do not worry, I have already reported to them about you all working your hardest even with such little food. They needed a better report from me just in case you were pretending to be efficient for a week, so they have extended my stay for five months. At the end of my stay I will be in a very important meeting with all the higher ups to give my findings. Then they will happily give you all the crates they have by helicopter or by truck, just matters how much they are willing to give you." He could not believe this right now. This was the worse news he could get from you and he is trying not to go ape shit. "I understand this could be frustrating right now, but understand I am trying to poke them as much as I can to give you what you need. All of you have past the bar. In my book I would have given you everything by now after the first week. Right now I can't do anything but listen to their orders so you can be granted free supplies. Oh, and Optimus told me about where he lived back on Cybertron, I was curious about your culture so I had Bumblebee and Ralph help me learn. I am now known as one of the only human translators for Cybertronians and Humans. Luckily it seems you all already know English, though I would not have minded to be your spokes person."

This kind of made his anger fade…Your voice was not cold to him anymore. It seemed…sweet. This was the most care he has heard from you and it made him feel things he didn't want to feel. "W-well I appreciate you trying your best from what you have." Did he just stutter?! Oh Primus no, he needs to control himself. Why was he feeling such lovely feelings for you now?! He was just pissed a moment ago! You snapped him out of his staring and giggled. "Awe you are too kind. I need to go to Fowler now. I will see you before you all charge for the night, ok?" He nods and watches you leave. Your laugh was so cute. He needs to stop himself from feeling this way before he says something he is going to regret.

...

Bonus: Ratchet glares at Ultra Magnus while he scans him. "So a professional lady who works at the top has taken an interest in our species, her personality is a sweet yet serious person who gets the work done before she does anything else?" Sighing, Ratchet grabs his data pad and walks over to Ultra Magnus who looks at him for an answer to his condition. "You are not sick, you are just an idiot who fell in love with a fleshy."

#maccadam #tfp #transformers #transformers prime #transformers x reader #transformers x y/n #transformers x human #ultra magnus #ultra magnus x reader

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fandomsandflyingstingrays · 23 hours ago

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@fantasybookgeek09 this was such a fun prompt, thank you!! I've never written a modern au before so I hope it came out okay!

“Since we only have five days left until the holidays, I’m going to go easy on you guys this week. You’ll be doing some fun group work— but it still counts towards your final grade, so don’t slack off.”

Rayla slumped in her chair, not quite sure if it was out of relief or disappointment. She was thrilled not to be getting a third essay to work on over the Christmas “break”, but group projects could be… unpredictable.

“I’ll be assigning you into pairs—" the typical wave of groans erupted from the student body— “to write and illustrate a short original story based on the themes we’ve been discussing in class. You can divide up the work however you see fit, but you have to contribute at least something to the writing and the art.”

Okay. Rayla could work with that. The short story she’d done in her freshman year had won an award, and she was certain her recent work was even better. And as for the art? Well, she could do some stylized swirls or something. Crossing her fingers under her desk, she prayed to be paired with someone better at drawing than she was.

“…Ram, you’ll be working with Andromeda, and Rayla, you’ll be working with Callum.”

Rayla bit her tongue to keep from groaning out loud. She just had to make that wish, hadn’t she?

Callum was a good artist, but that was about all he was good at. She’d been sitting two desks down from him all semester, and not a single class had gone by where he hadn’t been doodling instead of listening. She might as well kiss her grade goodbye.

The bell rang, the more fortunate students around Rayla gathering into pairs to discuss their plans and get their project rubrics on the way out. But Callum just stowed his sketchbook in his bag, picked up his pens, dropped his pens, and scrambled to stow them, avoiding Rayla’s eyes all the while. She didn’t move, crossing her arms and staring him down. He wasn’t getting off that easily.

Finally, he looked up at her. Or, slightly to the left of her. Rayla would take it.

“I want to figure out the plot of my— our story before we start working on it tomorrow. Are you free this afternoon?”

Callum nodded, a single, sharp jerk of his chin. “You could come over to my house?”

Well, that was easier than anticipated. Rayla had expected to cut through three excuses at least before he realized he couldn’t worm his way out of it. “Sounds like a plan.”

…

Another infuriating thing about Callum was that Rayla hadn’t needed to ask for his address, or even for directions to his house. Everyone knew where he lived, because it was an enormous mansion roughly the size of seven of Rayla’s houses put together, pretentiously seated on the hill over Katolis, visible from anywhere in town. And it only got more ostentatious up close.

Pulling into the driveway— and circling around the fountain in the middle of it— Runaan let out a low whistle. “If they ask you to stay for dinner, make sure you smuggle out some of the cutlery. It could probably keep us in food for a year.”

Rayla laughed. “There isn’t enough money in the world to get me to stay for dinner. Nice try, though.”

Runaan smirked in return, clapping Rayla’s shoulder as she slid out of the car.

Rayla was fully expecting a butler to answer the door, so it came as a shock when it swung open to reveal Callum’s ten-year-old brother bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Hi, Rayla!”

“Hey, Ezran. How’ve you been?”

“Good!”

She smiled, relaxing slightly as Ezran waved her into the house with a flourish. They’d been on speaking terms ever since Rayla had pelted some kids with snowballs for teasing Ezran about talking to birds, and he was a sweet kid. A bit strange, but then, so was Rayla, in her own way.

“Rayla! You made it!”

Rayla followed Callum’s voice to find him standing at the top of a real, actual marble staircase, framed by railings of golden filigree. Maybe she should try to make off with some cutlery.

“It was pretty hard to miss,” she said drily.

Callum flushed, but Ezran just laughed.

Recovering, Callum managed to lead Rayla into a “living room” roughly the size of Katolis High’s gymnasium. At least it gave them plenty of room to spread out.

“All right,” Rayla said, pulling out the planning sheet they’d been given. “I already plotted out the storyline, so I just need you to tell me which sentence you want to write and what you want me to do for the illustrations.”

“Which sentence I want to write?”

Rayla glanced up at him, surprised by the offense in his tone. “Well, yeah. I want this to be good. I have a grade-point average to keep up, and—"

“And you think I’m a bad writer?”

“Writing well requires practice, Callum, and I’ve never seen you so much as take notes. You’ve always got your nose in that sketchbook. You’ve got it with you now!”

To prove her point, she snatched it up from the cushions between them. Callum yelped, reaching out for it.

“This thing must have hundreds of pages, and I’d bet you’ve done half of them in class.”

“Don’t!”

Callum lunged for it, Rayla pulled back, and the sketchbook clattered to the floor to reveal…

Drawing after drawing of her.

Rayla froze. Callum buried his face in his hands.

“So you must think I’m pretty creepy.”

Rayla wasn’t sure what to think. She reached out and picked up the sketchbook again, and this time, Callum didn’t stop her.

The sketches were… incredible. They looked like her— all the things she liked about herself, and all her imperfections. He’d captured the way she tugged at her braid when she was nervous, the way she tilted back in her chair when she was bored. She could tell when many of the sketches were done by her expression alone: focused eyes the day before their first exam, a wrinkled nose the day Soren had come into their classroom to dribble a basketball around the desks for no apparent reason, a drawn mouth the day her parents had been deployed.

“Why?” Rayla asked quietly, tearing her gaze from the drawings to meet Callum’s eyes.

His face was red as fire, but his voice was steady. “I’ve always liked people-watching. You can learn so much about them by how they dress, how they sit, what their expressions are. There are whole stories there, if you look for them. Ever since you stood up for Ezran, I… I’ve wanted to know what your story is. You’re so smart, and confident in a way I don’t understand at all, and you’re… good. I wanted to know what makes you that way. But… I didn’t think you’d tell me.”

Blood was rushing to Rayla’s cheeks now, her throat clogging with an unexpected shame. All this time, Callum had been looking at her. Had really seen her, in a way no one else at school seemed to. And she’d taken a few glances at him, built him a false image, and never thought to question it.

Rayla forced herself to look back up at him. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For… seeing the best in me, I guess? For wanting to get to know me, even though I’ve been such a jerk. I’m sorry I said you weren’t a storyteller.”

Callum laughed. “You were right, actually. I really am a bad writer. I mean— except for poetry, I think? But no one’s ever read those, so who knows?”

“I didn’t say writer, I said storyteller.”

Callum’s eyes widened, and then he smiled. It was the first true grin Rayla had ever seen him make, and it transformed his whole face, making dimples appear in his cheeks and his green eyes gleam. Rayla’s breath hitched in her chest.

“So… does this mean I can write more than a sentence?” he asked.

“You know what? I’d bet we can fit some poetry in here for you to write. But first, I want your opinion on the plot. You might have some ideas I didn’t think of.”

“Oh— wow. Thank you.”

Callum reached for their planning sheet, but Rayla placed her hand over his. The contact sent a jolt through her fingers, and she quickly withdrew them.

“Before that, though, I think it’s past time I asked about you.”

“About me?”

Another spike of shame shot through Rayla at the confusion in his voice, but she smiled through it, settling close enough to him on the couch for their shoulders to touch.

“Why don’t you tell me a story?”

#the dragon prince #tdp #tdp callum #tdp rayla #rayllum #tdp runaan #tdp ezran #tdp soren #ray rambles #ray writes

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gloomwitchwrites · 2 days ago

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Not a request I just would really love to know how you come up with your ideas? You put out a lot of content and it always unique! How do you do it??

Oh my gosh! Hi! Yes! Of course! I'd love to answer this question.

Ha. Okay. This is going to take some explaining, so hang in there as I ramble (because I will ramble.)

If you were to crack open my skull and peer inside, you'd find a nest of noise. It's loud in my head (it's anxiety and likely something undiagnosed) and I am thinking about anything and everything all at once. Really, I should be medicated, but since I'm not, I channel all that energy into being productive because I literally cannot be alone with my thoughts. I require constant distraction.

Writing is that distraction for me. It's very soothing for my brain when I take all that noise and focus it on something I really love, and it always produces productivity and creativity as a result.

My best friend is always like "how the fuck do you write so much??" and it's because it's a coping mechanism. It's a bit like therapy in a way.

When it comes to the What If & Imagines series, I cannot take all the credit. All except a handful of prompts have come directly from reader requests. While those specifically don't come from my head, they do act as a great starting point. I think about possible angles by considering how I believe the characters would act in those scenarios. I start small, and then expand if I think I need to. I also go into them knowing that I do not want to rehash the same thing four times, and I go out of my way to make sure each is different.

But beyond that, I'm always thinking and questioning and considering how I can turn something on its head. And I don't mean that just for my CoD work. I take that mentality with all the fandoms I write for. I carry a little notebook with me, my iphone's notes app is a literal jungle, the Google Docs app on my phone is also abused, and I write down anything that I'm like "I need to keep that." Sometimes if all I can grab is a sticky note, I'll use that and then shove it in my purse. And if I'm in the car, I'll dictate my thoughts through Siri to add them into my notes app or send an email to myself (through Bluetooth y'all; don't text and drive.)

I also schedule time to write, and I make a to-do list of what I want to accomplish during that writing session. It helps focus my brain.

I also stay heavily organized. Like heavily organized. I have lots of spreadsheets that are color-coded, and I purposefully assign "due dates" because it tricks my brain into thinking "you must get this done because it is assigned" and WHAM, I'm plugging away at the keyboard.

When I get stuck, I only ever reach out to my bestie. Sometimes I just need a fresh pair of eyes when I'm rolling ideas around in my head but something is missing and I have no idea what it might be. She's great about throwing a few suggestions my way that has me looking at the story differently, or considering a prompt from another angle.

But it's important to note that what works for me isn't going to work for everyone. I'm sure one of you reading this right now is thinking "Poppy, you need to fucking chill." And friend, I wholeheartedly agree. But if I'm not being productive through managing my anxiety-induced head noise, then I'm running on pure rage and spite.

Anyway! I hope that answered your question! Thank you so much for sending it in, and also kudos to y'all who read through all that. <3

~ Poppy

#gloomwitchwrites #ask box #anon ask

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louisthepillowprincess · 2 days ago

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After watching Olurinatti's review on Interview With The Vampire, I fear I need to rewatch with my Black✊🏾 cap on, rather than my "lets just take this in as it is,"🫶🏾 initial viewing.

As someone who started watching because of the TikTok edits and loving my fellow queers I started watching the show, with no prior knowledge of anything except that everyone was a cunty vampire, constantly serving face.

But I fear, this rewatch will make me HATE Lestat... Because the micro/MACRO aggressions he does throughout season one we're not completely lost on me, but I did not analyze further.

Unless you're Black I do not imagine many look at the story this way, considering Louis is white in the original book but, him being a Black, Creole, gay man during Jim Crow is VERY important to the way he acts and people treat him, including Lestat.

The identity of Louis is why I attached myself to the character and love him so much. Because I understand the plight. Being Black and queer with a religious family is NOT for the faint of heart bb, let me tell you.

And I get really agro with the way some people talk about him as if he crashes out for no reason, when there is one, but it's one you wouldn't understand.

It's also why I fear people trying to BlackMan™ him with a hyper masculine approach to his character, when he's never been allowed to truly show all the facets to himself because of the way people view Black men.

EDIT: What I mean by this is people do not know how to take a Black gay man who is not acting in the 'stereotypical' way gay men usually do, like Lestat. So they assign this hyper masculine identity to his character.

When I see Louis in the way he carefully styles his clothes, the care he puts into his hair, the way he sits with his legs crossed; keeping his back straight, constantly trying to keep control of everything around him because he has to, if not things fall apart.

At least this is what he is made to believe by his family and everyone around him. That it's on him to provide, to fix and contain himself while doing so.

Not to absolve Louis of anything because my pookie did some fuck shit, (cough) choosing dudes over his daughter multiple times, throwing Armand's abuse back in his face, using woman as prostitutes for profit, etc,.

Even still, I feel he's a character many do not know how to take or analyze properly because of the disconnect they feel with his identity and his actions.

I hope this shit makes sense. 😭

TL;DL I'm rewatching IWTV with a more Black Analysis approach.

#loustat #amc interview with the vampire #iwtv amc #lestat de lioncourt #interview with the vampire #louis de pointe du lac #ldpdl #amc iwtv #iwtv

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gingerteafairy · 2 days ago

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𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐧'𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 + 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐚𝐠𝐞

tate langdon – physical touch and quality time

Even when you were just getting to know each other, random touches were common with Tate. He just loves feeling close to you—whether it’s holding your hand, fixing your hair, resting his head on your shoulder, or giving you a hug. His favorite thing to do is cuddle up while watching a movie or stay wrapped up together while playing games. No matter what you’re doing, he just wants to be touching you. When he feels extra needy, he just shows up by your side, even if you're busy with something: "Positive education. Wanna cuddle now or when you finish? You win in both options."

kit walker – physical touch, acts of service, and gifts

Kit covers a lot of love languages, but these are the core ones. As a hardworking man, he likes to save money to buy you something special you mentioned wanting. Even when he’s exhausted, helping you with tasks makes him feel good, and he appreciates when you return the favor whenever you can. Physical touch is crucial—it’s how he reconnects with you after a long day. Sometimes, he just wants to hold you in silence or listen to you talk. "My day? Boring, just work. How about yours? You did somethin' new today?"

frat!kyle – quality time and acts of service

Being a dedicated student, Kyle’s idea of a date is often a study session together. He’s always happy to help with a tough assignment, and you’d do the same for him with your knowledge. If he had to be away for a trip or exams, he’d constantly text to ask "how you’re doing", "how your day’s going", "did you have your breakfast today?" In his free time, he’d join you at parties or stay home to hang out. He’d never let you wash the dishes—it was his way of thanking you for spending time with him. "You can do something for me later, okay?"

zombie!kyle – physical touch and words of affirmation

At first, Kyle wouldn’t quite know how to express what he felt, but he’d quickly fall in love with giving you bear hugs. Kisses all over your face would become common, but when you did the same to him, it felt extra special. Over time, he’d learn to communicate his feelings, blurting out things like, “You’re really nice,” “I love being with you,” or “Can I have a hug?” at random moments during the day.

jimmy darling – physical touch and acts of service

At first, Jimmy might be hesitant to touch you, worried you’d find his hands strange. But once he got past that, it was like his fingerprints had super glue for you. His favorite pastimes would be giving you massages, hugging, playing with your hair, or holding hands as you walked around—feeling bold and accepted. He’d also take any time spent fixing up the trailer, house, or meals with you very seriously. Can't go out without you. "Wanna join me for a ride after cleaning? I was thinking about buying something for the show and having some ice cream. It's freaking hot today."

james patrick march – words of affirmation and quality time

James has no filter when it comes to compliments—they’re grand and meaningful. Anytime you did something extraordinary, he wouldn’t hesitate to shower you with over-the-top praise like, “Darling, that’s fabulous, stupendous, bravo!” or “Indeed, my muse, how radiant my queen is today.” He adores spending time with you, especially if you join in on his strange hobbies. If you weren’t into hunting, he’d settle for a dinner date or a tour of the hotel, sharing its secrets and stories about its residents.

kai anderson – words of affirmation and quality time

Although physical touch is a constant in Kai’s life, he expresses his emotions best through words. Rare as they may be, his compliments are always intentional—"you're very intelligent, you know that?", or even changes in your hair or appearance "liked what you did in your hair, looks healthier". Quality time is another strong expression for him—whether watching movies, talking about his plans, or venting about how the world is falling apart and how you seem like the only one sane person next to him.

austin sommers – words of affirmation, physical touch and quality time

As a writer, Austin is most comfortable expressing himself with words. Though he enjoys physical affection, he values time together even more. Of course he loves to bury his head on your neck and nuzzle his nose after love bites, but there's something special about spending time with you doing nothing. He’d take breaks from writing just to go on walks with you, using the excuse that he needed inspiration when, in reality, he just wanted an excuse to admire you a little longer. "You wanna go back home? Nooo, I just had a new idea in my mind. Let's keep it for a while, hm?"

masterlist part two

#x reader #imagine #reader insert #fanfic #evan peters #evan peters fandom #evan peters x reader #evan peters x you #evan peters x y/n #ahs #tate langdon #jimmy darling #james patrick march #kai anderson #austin sommers #kit walker #kyle spencer

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electricneonvalkyrie · 3 days ago

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While Abby is away on assignment, you can't shake the feeling that your world is about to change forever. Survival is no longer just about yourself—it’s about the people you love, the ones who depend on you.

This piece holds a special place in my heart—one of my absolute favourites from my old account. It’s a two-part story, both completed, with Part 2 dropping tomorrow. I poured so much love into this, and I truly hope you enjoy reading it as much as I adored writing it.

𝟙𝟠+ 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪

𝑽𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒔

𝓞𝓾𝓻 𝓢𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓡𝓾𝓲𝓷

Abby feels the warmth of tiny hands tugging at her sleeve, their grip wrapping snugly around her thumb. As she looks down, a toothy smile greets her, and it’s contagious. A precious rose blossom opens inside her chest as little feet bounce in her presence.

Accompanying the dirt-streaked smile is a sweet voice teeming with innocence.

"Mama?"

"What’s up, bug?" Abby asks, her voice warm.

"Did you and Mommy make this whole town?"

Falling behind schedule for her training session, Abby shifts on her feet. She treasures her family above all else and proves it to you every day, but tardiness is the bane of her existence. She contemplates handing off the question to you and making a quick exit, but the intensity in your gaze gives her pause.

"We sure did. Built it from the ground up, just like we dreamed."

The child wiggles their fingers, inviting Abby to lift them up into her strong, steady arms. Without hesitation, she obliges, scooping them up effortlessly. A gleeful giggle erupts, bright and full of joy, filling your home with warmth.

"How, Mama? Tell me a story!"

Abby glances at you as you carefully trim the aloe vera plants that decorate the living room window, affection softening her sharp features.

"When you’re a little older, I’ll give you the whole rundown, yeah?" Abby says, shifting them against her hip. "Tell you what, I’ll sing your favourite song before I go. Deal?"

In the foyer, Abby gently rocks your child to their favourite tune, her mellow voice humming along as the melodies drift with the spring breeze, spilling into the courtyard.

Her hope is that this little one will only ever encounter the weight of the world through stories, never experiencing its cruelties firsthand.

She and you have both seen enough.

The thought of history repeating itself keeps her awake at night.

××××××××××

Abby is away on a two-week assignment with her squad when you notice something is amiss at the stadium.

Isaac has distributed an overwhelming workload that has stretched everyone to their limits, and you can feel the support beams of the bridge beginning to shudder. But it’s more than that, and you sense it in your gut.

There is a noticeable shift in behavior, as people become more guarded, stress levels soaring through the community.

Before Abby set off, an unshakeable premonition filled you, hinting at imminent upheaval. While you wish you could’ve gone with her, it’s rare for the two of you to work together anymore. To achieve broader coverage, Isaac strategically assigns his most skilled soldiers to different missions. In the past, questioning his authority has always had negative outcomes for both of you.

Your extensive knowledge and experience in various types of weaponry, as well as Abby’s exceptional skill in combat, have made you both indispensable members of the WLF. If that enhances the likelihood of you leading missions independently and getting separated, pissing off Isaac almost guarantees it.

It’s not uncommon for your brain to send signals of distress when she is gone, even though there’s often no insurmountable danger to speak of. You’ve navigated being isolated from her countless times and always emerged relatively unscathed.

Still, this time, midnight without her lingers—its darkness stretching wider with every passing hour. The familiar sound of her crunching her way through a bag of sunflower seeds is something you’re desperate to hear again.

Occasionally, your fears have crept up on you and consumed your thoughts. But now, they have materialized into a tangible, brambly husk, prodding both hands.

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

You try to ignore the group sitting across from you in the chow hall, their hushed conversations sporadically punctuated by the sound of them coughing into their arms. Isaac’s practice of bringing soldiers from other parts of Seattle into the stadium has, time and again, resulted in the spread of dreaded viruses.

Lately, it seems like his drive for power has clouded his judgment, making him increasingly careless. His urgency to build up his militia faster has led to lax enforcement of quarantine protocols, something you’ve griped about for a while.

Memories come rushing back like a flash flood as you observe a sweaty, emaciated man coughing without restraint while waiting in line for his breakfast.

He receives disdainful looks from both soldiers and civilians, the atmosphere thick with disapproval.

You get where they’re coming from.

Last year, a terrible flu spread through the community, and it knocked you on your ass for three days. Abby’s diligence played a crucial role in ensuring that you recovered quickly, just in time to reverse the roles until she was back on her feet, too. For the first time in a while, you felt the perils of something that wasn’t Cordyceps.

With your girlfriend’s support in making certain you were hydrated and fed, keeping a cold cloth pressed to your forehead, you were able to endure the fever until it eventually broke.

Not everyone in the community had the same stroke of luck.

Enveloped in the ambiance of Abby’s mixtape playing in your ears, you ditch your tray and stroll towards the communications room. When it comes to selecting music that can elevate your mood and ease anxiety, Abby is nothing short of a godsend.

True to her nature, she threw in something completely offbeat, leaving you to interpret its meaning. Just as the edges of your worries are blurring, a sudden and forceful slam against the janitorial room door next to you reverberates through the corridor.

Your shoes absorb the vibrations from the shock, making every muscle in your body coil.

Your pulse spikes, a cold ripple skimming up your spine. "Shit," you mutter, yanking out your earbuds.

A voice drifts past with a chuckle. "People sure are getting creative with their hiding spots these days."

You exhale slowly, your grip tightening on your earbuds. People will go to great lengths for a little privacy. With your music blaring, it’s clear she picked up on nuance better than you could.

You force a half-smile. "Yeah. Real creative."

The woman’s laughter fades down the corridor, but the tight knot in your stomach only coils tighter. Something isn't right.

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

It’s a refreshing change to find the radio room completely empty.

Most times, there’s a line stretching out the door, and despite being given preferential treatment, you seldom make use of it.

With anticipation, you reach into your pocket to retrieve a crumpled slip of paper, the frequencies Abby plans to use hastily scribbled on top.

Without fail, you’ve established a daily routine of connecting with each other twice a day. Regardless of any compromises she may make in other areas, Abby remains unwavering in her stance on this.

The one time you overslept and showed up late to your shift at the armory, missing your scheduled check-in, she stormed into your apartment days early from her mission, her expression wild with worry.

It’s better to pause everything for a few minutes than to let her spiral while she’s fighting through an ominous world with her bare hands. Although you try to conceal it, devastating panic would consume you just the same if she didn’t show up.

As soon as you switch to her current frequency and call out, her response is instantaneous.

"Morning, sunshine," Abby says, her voice warm and relieved. "God, I miss your voice. How’s this dreary day treating you so far? Over."

You’re dying to tell her how much you long for her, worse than a lost limb, but you keep it under wraps. Abby gets distracted when she worries about you while she’s on the road, and she needs to stay sharp.

"Oh, you know, just out here kicking ass and taking names. Over."

Even with the static crackling through the radio, her laughter sends a pleasant shiver up your spine, numbing the wasps buzzing in your chest.

"That’s my girl. So, I have something important to ask you, okay? Over."

As you rest the mic against your cheek, the mischievous tilt in her voice tugs at the corners of your mouth.

"Lay it all out, beautiful," you say, playing along. "And you better make it good. Over."

The line flickers between static and clarity before she finally speaks again.

"Tell me," Abby purrs, voice dipped in playful sin. "What are you wearing right now? Over."

Lively whoops and cheers erupt on Abby’s end of the line. Her squad is clearly listening in, relishing the moment. Abby’s up to something, and you feel the heat crawl up your neck as you try to gather your composure.

One of her favorite things—aside from making you happy and keeping you safe—is catching you off guard. Every soldier on Abby’s squad is someone you trust and adore, which fuels your determination to outshine her at her own game.

"Good you asked, my love," you say, pulling at a frayed thread on your hemline. "Since I only just realized how stinkin’ low your tank top hangs under my arms. You think I should go home and put on a bra before my shift starts? Over."

Silence stretches on the line, and you grin, picturing the exact moment those elated blue eyes crinkle at the edges, her teeth dragging over her bottom lip.

"Goddamn," she says, her voice husky, resolve slipping fast. "You’re killing me, woman. Which one did you steal this time? Over."

"The one I tore off you the night before you left," you answer, letting your lips graze the microphone, creating a tantalizing, crisp murmur you know will torture her.

"It still smells like you, Abigail. I don’t know how on earth I’m supposed to stay focused at work today. Over."

You’ve undoubtedly scandalized the soldiers on the other end, who are likely pressing close, eager to listen in. It thrills you to no end that they’ll have plenty of material to tease her with for the rest of the day. It’ll keep that smile on her face longer.

But instead of scrambling to regain control, Abby’s voice softens, brimming with affection.

"Man, am I ever nuts about you," she breathes, chuckling. "You still make my heart race—have I ever told you that? I must be the luckiest girl alive. Over."

The spark of your first meeting with Abby burned as brightly as lightning caught in a bottle, and you reminisce for a while.

They paired you together in training just to watch you consistently eclipse her in target practice events, while she effortlessly outperformed you in hand-to-hand combat. It took mere moments for you to become completely infatuated with each other.

Your love for her outshines all others, but the most significant impact she’s had on you is how she’s helped you learn to love yourself. Abby revived the light in your life, offering you a fresh perspective on the art of finding it.

"I can’t wait to hold you. Swear you’ll keep my side of the bed warm for me until then? Over."

A lump settles in your throat. Each goodbye feels just as difficult as the last, and no matter how much you try to suppress your fears, you can never predict when it might be the last time you lay eyes on her.

"You know I will," you say. Wrapping your arms around yourself, the scent of the forest lingers on your skin, and Abby is right there with you. "I love you deeper than the ocean, Abby. Stay safe out there. Tell Manny to watch your six until it’s my turn. Over."

Out of nowhere, an ear-splitting siren blares throughout the stadium. A chill shoots up your spine, settling into your bones like you’d known, somehow, this was coming.

It completely obscures the last thing Abby says, her voice swallowed by the rising panic.

And then the radio goes dead.

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

The disorientation intensifies as you make your way back to your suite, the relentless strobing of emergency lights casting jagged shadows along the walls. Every few feet, another crimson flash splits through the darkness, turning the hallway into a dizzying nightmare.

There are only a few reasons security personnel trigger the alarm, and all of them spell trouble.

Someone, somewhere, made a catastrophic mistake.

Panicked screams echo down the corridor, blending with the shrill wail of sirens. You can’t help but wonder how many festering bites and scratches slipped past the gates undetected, spreading quietly among the population.

You’ve seen firsthand how a single infected can tear through an entire settlement. How many people have been suffering in silence? As the sun sinks below the horizon, casting the field outside in a burnt orange glow, frightened figures scatter across the open space. You know it’s only a matter of time before you find out just how bad this is.

With quick, steady hands, you slide boards onto the hitches Abby installed, fortifying the battered door to your apartment. In their frenzied escape, bodies collide against it, causing the hinges to groan under the pressure.

Abby’s cautionary words about living in a high-traffic area surface in your thoughts, and for the first time, you wish you had listened to her.

You scramble under the bed, cobwebs and dust clinging to your arms as you grab the go bags you’ve prepared. The weight of Abby’s duffel presses against your side, forcing a sharp breath through your nose. You hesitate. Then, with measured intent, you slide it back under the bed. If she comes looking for it, she’ll know you made it this far.

But you pray she stays as far away from here as possible.

Yanking the curtains shut over the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, you reach for the crowbar strapped behind your wardrobe. The armory enforces strict regulations, even for soldiers who manage it—no weapons allowed outside without authorization. But right now, rules are the least of your worries.

Abby has fought hard to change that policy, but even her high-ranking position hasn’t given her the leverage to store firearms within the stadium, let alone carry them inside the walls.

As you pry back the panels of the oak furniture Abby helped you build, a hidden arsenal gleams in the dim light. Guns. Blades. Ammunition. Everything you aren’t supposed to have.

Atop the weapons, a notepad wobbles, nearly toppling off. You don’t recognize it—until you open it to find Abby’s hurried scrawl, barely legible in its urgency.

You are my world, so please, baby, don’t be a hero. You’re the toughest person I’ve ever met, but that heart of yours is just too damn big. I won’t tolerate you getting hurt, so I’m asking you to put yourself first, just this once. Nobody needs you more than me, okay? I’ll find you—wherever you go.

-Abigail

Your fingers tighten around the pages as the sirens wail on, relentless and deafening. The world outside is slipping into chaos.

Beside the door, hanging from a rusted hook, sit the earmuffs you and Abby use at the firing range. You slide them over your ears, drowning out the noise just enough to steady your breathing.

And then, with one last deep breath, you slip out the back door, disappearing into the night.

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

Turmoil has swallowed the stadium whole.

Despair seeps into every corner, feeding the hysteria that spreads like wildfire. The sirens scream—shrill, ceaseless—blurring with the panicked shouts echoing through the halls.

Your earmuffs dull the chaos, but the destruction unfolding around you is impossible to ignore.

You descend the stairs two at a time, pushing toward the dog kennels. Every step tightens the coil of urgency in your gut. These animals—caged, vulnerable—have no chance of survival unless you get them out.

Your hands tremble as you fumble with the latches, breath shallow, muscles taut with adrenaline. The moment the doors swing open, the dogs hesitate, eyes locked onto you, waiting for guidance you don’t know how to give.

They trust you. But you’re not Abby.

The thought of her sharpens your focus. She would know exactly what to do—how to command them, how to lead them to safety. But she’s not here, and you can’t afford to freeze.

“Go!” you urge, voice raw.

Some bolt into the night. Others stay close, tails wagging anxiously, unwilling to leave your side.

A cry splits the air, sharp and stricken. Your head snaps toward the field.

A woman stands frozen in place, hands shaking as she grips a splintered baseball bat. At her feet, a body lies twisted, lifeless—until, with a sickening jolt, it twitches.

The infected jerks unnaturally, limbs spasming. Its gurgling screech is wet and guttural.

The woman doesn’t move.

“Run!” you shout, already sprinting.

The Runner’s head snaps toward her, then you. Hollow, clouded eyes lock onto yours. A shudder races through you.

It launches.

Your fingers close around the hilt of your weapon, but before you can strike, a blur of fur and snarling teeth slams into the infected, taking it down in a violent struggle. Blood spatters. The dog rips, tears, silences the creature before it can reach either of you.

Panting, you scan the stadium. The field is a war zone—shadows moving, bodies falling, anarchy spilling in every direction.

Gunfire erupts like a thunderclap.

Your heart lurches.

The stadium is falling.

And you have no idea if Abby is coming for you—or if you’ll be gone before she ever gets the chance.

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

Abby’s leg bounces restlessly as she waits by the radio, hunched over in her chair well past the scheduled meeting time. The dim hum of static fills the small space, but the silence where your voice should be is unbearable. She clenches and unclenches her fists, fingers aching from how hard she’s been gripping the mic. When the sound of Manny’s boots pounding up the airstrip reaches her ears, she braces for more bad news.

“Anything?” she demands, her voice sharper than she intends.

Holed up in the traffic control tower all afternoon, her squad has been trying to reach Isaac—to no avail. Jordan, standing nearby, looks just as wired as Abby feels, his usual easy confidence replaced by something tight and restless. His fiancée was supposed to check in hours ago.

“Nada,” Manny replies, shaking his head. He gestures toward Abby’s radio. “How about here?”

Abby exhales hard, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead. “Nothing.”

“Maybe she got held up,” Manny offers. “It’s happened before.”

Abby’s jaw tightens. “Then why the hell isn’t anyone else getting through?”

Her voice is rough, splintered with the weight of what she isn’t saying: Something’s wrong. Her gut twists with certainty. She wants to scream, wants to get on that chopper now and fly straight to you, but there’s no plan, no intel—nothing but her own spiraling panic.

A fresh wave of static crackles through the speakers, and Abby snaps forward, seizing the mic with white-knuckled urgency.

“You’re breaking up,” she says, chest tight. “Say that again—we’re standing by.”

Across the room, Jordan’s pacing grinds to a halt. He’s at Abby’s side in an instant, eyes locked on the radio like he’s capable of willing his fiancée’s voice through the speakers. Abby barely notices. Every muscle in her body coils tight as another voice bleeds through, distorted and frantic.

“They got inside.”

A sickening pause. Then, chaos. Muffled screams, hurried breaths, the sound of something heavy slamming against a wall.

“What did he say?” Jordan blurts, panic creeping into his tone. “Abby—”

Abby throws a hand up, silencing him, her own pulse a thunderous drumbeat in her ears.

“The stadium’s crawling with infected—we can’t get out.”

A cold, leaden weight settles in her stomach.

“Have you tried the east gate?” she asks, pushing for any scrap of logistics she can get. “Is there a clear path—?”

“We can’t get near the gates,” the voice cuts in, barely audible over the sounds of mayhem. “They’re gunning everyone down. It’s a fucking massacre.”

A fresh round of gunfire rips through the radio, followed by static. The transmission is lost.

Abby’s already moving. She turns on her heel, jabbing a finger at Jordan. “How fast can you get that thing in the air?”

Jordan, still reeling, blinks before snapping into action. “An hour. Less if we have extra hands.”

Abby doesn’t hesitate. “You heard the man!” she barks at the others. “We ship out in thirty! Move!”

The squad erupts into motion, scrambling to load up weapons, fuel, anything that might be needed. Abby forces herself to breathe, forces herself to focus, but when she closes her eyes, she sees you. Sees the way you’d grip her wrist before she left, fingers warm and certain. Sees the way your brows would furrow when you were deep in thought, voice laced with conviction.

Even apart, you guide her.

Abby grips the mic, steels herself, and speaks again, voice steady despite the storm raging inside her.

“I know this is really fucking scary,” she says, firm, unyielding. “And it is. But you’ve made it this far ��cause you’re tough and you’re smart. You’ve got this. Stay right where you are—help is coming.”

The powerful whir of the chopper blades roars to life, a promise that she’s on her way. As she shoulders her rifle and marches toward the aircraft, Jordan steps into her path, hand gripping her arm.

“If shit goes sideways,” he shouts over the engine, “I need you to look out for my kid.”

Abby stares at him. For the first time, she sees past the soldier—sees the father, the man barely keeping it together. His desperation is a mirror of her own.

“We’re making it through this,” she says, gripping his hand and squeezing tight. “You’ll be back with them in no time.”

Jordan’s eyes flicker with something raw. “I mean it, Abby. Tell me you’ll look out for my family.”

Abby swallows hard, then nods. “I’ve got you.”

A breath. A beat.

Jordan nods back. “Then let’s give ‘em hell.”

Manny puffs a shaky breath, his usual levity replaced by a grim determination. He claps Jordan on the back before climbing aboard, his expression steeled.

The scent of aviation fuel clings to the air as they lift off, bound for the fight of their lives.

#abby the last of us #abby x reader #abby x fem!reader #abby x you #abby x masc!reader #abby tlou #tlou2 #abby anderson #abby anderson tlou2 #tlou #the last of us part 2 #the last of us part ii remastered

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aila0veyou · 10 hours ago

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I’ve been rewatching Death Note lately, and since I’ll be spending another Valentine’s Day alone, I figured why not write something to make myself feel better<3

LOVE NOTE

tw: female reader, dark and nsfw content, depressing thoughts, cheating, heartbreak, obsessive behavior, stalking, non-consensual touching, pseudocest, older man/younger woman (not underage), bad writing. This fic is inspired by the deadly notebook from the 2006 anime Death Note, but the rest of the story is purely a work of my imagination. Please proceed with caution.

The entire school was drenched in red and pink. Paper hearts lined the walls, roses sat in vases along the hallways, and every step you took seemed to land in a world overflowing with love. With Valentine's Day just around the corner, the atmosphere buzzed with excitement.

Couples leaned into each other, exchanging whispered affections, while hopeful romantics nervously confessed their feelings, eager to claim a valentine before the big day arrived. Love was in the air...sweet, overwhelming, and impossible to ignore.

Just a cruel reminder of something you could never have.

Love had always felt foreign to you, like a language everyone else spoke fluently while you struggled to understand even the basics. Call it dramatic, but no one had ever truly loved you. Every crush you’d ever had led to nothing, fading into disappointment before it could become something real. The ones who did show interest? They were never serious. Some were toxic, some were just rebounding, and some only saw you as a temporary distraction. None of them truly wanted you. Not in the way that mattered.

You had never been in a real relationship. Never been loved.

You envied your friends...if they even deserved to be called that. Your classmates, too, jumping in and out of relationships like it was the easiest thing in the world. They’d sit around, giggling and blushing as they gushed about their love lives, from romantic dates to thoughtful gifts, and even the intimate things they did behind closed doors.

You never had much to add to those conversations. So you just listened. Like you always did.

They never once thought to set you up with someone...not that you expected them to. In their eyes, you were the "inexperienced" one, the girl who prioritized academics and self-love over romance. Too busy. Too serious. As if love was something you had no interest in.

You moved through the rest of the day with a blank expression, forcing yourself to focus on your classes while trying to ignore the suffocating atmosphere of love in the air. Lunch was no different. You sat with your group, quietly picking at your food while they excitedly discussed their plans for the big day. Valentine’s. And, of course, the Dancing Hearts competition, the school’s grand event that everyone was required to attend.

They always acted so shocked when a few of you (including you, obviously) still hadn’t secured a date for the dance. As if it were some great tragedy. As if you hadn’t been alone every other year.

The rest of the day passed in a dull blur with just you, mindlessly scribbling down notes, barely registering the lesson as the familiar weight of loneliness pressed against your chest.

When the final bell rang, the halls filled with nervous excitement. All across the school grounds, students made grand, dramatic confessions to their crushes, love-struck and breathless. Meanwhile, others (yourself included) were stuck staying late, forced to help decorate the gym under the watchful eyes of teachers who had been assigned to supervise.

By the time the teachers finally dismissed everyone, the gym was only half-finished, decorations still scattered and incomplete. Not that it mattered to you. The sooner this was over, the sooner you could go home.

You had already texted your dad to pick you up, and now you stood outside the school gates, waiting. The cold night air nipped at your skin, and you instinctively hugged yourself, shifting on your feet. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional distant hum of passing vehicles. Most students had already left, except for a few lingering groups chatting under the streetlights, their muffled laughter carrying through the air.

You barely paid them any mind. Your gaze was drawn upward instead.

The sky stretched wide above you, a vast canvas of deep blues and blacks, with only a few stars managing to peek through the drifting clouds. The moon hung pale and distant, its soft glow casting a faint silver light over the region.

It was beautiful.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to get lost in it, admiring how peaceful everything seemed... Until something slammed into your face with a light thud!

You let out a sharp gasp, stumbling back as a stinging sensation bloomed across your cheek. Whatever had hit you landed at your feet with a dull thump.

You blinked, startled.

It's a notebook... A black notebook?

Frowning, you rubbed your cheek and looked around. But the street was empty, and there were no open windows or rooftops where it could have fallen from.

Your heart thudded strangely as you slowly bent down, fingers brushing over the smooth, cool cover. The title was embossed in bold, elegant print:

LOVE NOTE.

A strange chill ran down your spine.

Somewhere in the distance, a streetlight flickered. And for the first time that night, you felt like someone was watching you.

You flipped through its pages, finding them completely blank. But when you turned the notebook over, your eyes widened slightly at the sight of neatly written text on the back cover, a list of rules on how to use the… Love Note?

• To activate the Love Note, the writer must think about the target's face while writing their full name. Without these conditions, the effect will not take place.

• The writer must specify who the target will fall in love with.

• Once written, the target will develop uncontrollable feelings toward the chosen person within 24 hours. These feelings will manifest as love, obsession, lust, or devotion, depending on the writer’s intent.

• The effects of the Love Note are irreversible unless the writer destroys the page before 24 hours have passed.

• If a name is written twice with a new love interest, the previous bond will be severed violently, often leading to heartbreak, resentment, or madness.

• The Love Note cannot force genuine love. Only attachment, obsession, or lust. If the target already has strong romantic feelings for another, their emotions will distort, turning into possessiveness or desperation.

• If the chosen person rejects the target too many times, the target’s emotions may turn dangerous, resulting in self-destruction, violence, or obsession.

• The Love Note only works on humans. It has no effect on objects, animals, or any supernatural beings.

• If the owner of the Love Note dies, the effects on all targets will remain permanent.

Your brows furrowed as you read through each rule, skepticism creeping in. Was this some kind of prank? A joke left behind by some students for valentine's day?

Before you could dwell on it further, a sudden honk startled you. Looking up, you spotted your dad pulling up on his motorcycle. Quickly, you stuffed the notebook into your bag, not wanting to explain why you were standing there reading what looked like a love spell book.

Without hesitation, you jogged over and hopped onto the back of the motorcycle, gripping onto your dad as the two of you rode off into the night.

Later that evening, you lay in bed, wrapped in your blanket like a burrito, mindlessly scrolling through your phone. You jumped from one distraction to another, reading fanfics, chatting with character AI, watching anime such as hentai, just to feel something, anything to fill the hollow ache inside you. But no matter what you did, that feeling of emptiness clung to you like a shadow, your mind drifting back to past relationships...if you could even call them that.

You blinked away the wetness gathering in your eyes, sniffling quietly before sitting up. Deciding to distract yourself with schoolwork, you shuffled over to your desk, rummaging through your bag to pull out your lecture notebooks only to pause when your fingers brushed against something unfamiliar.

The Love Note.

Your breath hitched slightly as you pulled it out, your gaze locking onto the bold letters on the cover. You stared at it for a moment before flipping it over, once again rereading the neatly written rules on the back.

With a deep sigh, you flipped open the notebook to its blank pages. Grabbing a pen, you hovered it over the paper, hesitating. Who should you write?

Your mind raced, sifting through many different names of the people you knew. After a moment of thinking, your grip on the pen tightened, and before you even fully processed the decision, your hand moved on its own.

Ivan Volkov x Lucy Everhart

𝐎𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐋𝐮𝐬𝐭

The words sat there, staring back at you, absurd yet strangely thrilling. You swallowed, heart pounding against your ribs as you stared at what you had just written. Would it actually work?

Ivan was one of the school’s heartthrob. Handsome, charming, and a bit of a delinquent. As a star player on the basketball team, he had his own fan club, with many girls crushing on him and plenty of boys envying his fame. Unfortunately for them, he was already taken.

His girlfriend, Stella, was everything. A confident, intelligent class president who excelled in academics and had the poise of someone destined for greatness. They’d been together for over a year, and their relationship was known as the ideal "power couple" dynamic.

But, of course, gossip always finds a way. Whispers about Ivan possibly having a crush on Stella’s best friend, Lucy, floated around. Lucy was the quiet, gothic girl who stood out because of her beauty and introverted nature. She was the opposite of Stella in nearly every way. Most people wrote off the rumors as nothing more than attempts to stir drama, but despite that, some still wondered if there was any truth to it.

You thought, why not give Ivan a little push?

You weren’t sure what you expected to come from it, but you couldn’t help the nagging curiosity. You checked your phone, scrolling through your classmates’ group chat, hoping for some fresh gossip. After a while, you gave up. You realized just how ridiculous you were being. It wasn’t going to happen, was it?

With a heavy sigh, you closed the Love Note, pushing it aside as you focused on something more sensible, writing down the day’s lectures in your notebook so you could finally rest.

Completely unaware of the damage you have done.

Oh, you were such an adorable little thing in Pina's eyes. A tiny, fragile soul drowning in loneliness, silently envying those who had what you never did. Love. Affection. A place to belong.

He had been watching you for a while now, fascinated by the way you moved through life in dull shades of gray and blue. No warmth. No spark. Just a girl going through the motions, carrying the weight of a complicated, distant family and friendships that felt more like obligations.

The demon of love had always found the lives of mortals fascinating, watching them stumble through life, clinging to the belief that love was something sacred. They faced challenges, endured suffering, and sacrificed for the ones they cherished, all in the name of that fleeting emotion.

Some called him a darker version of cupid, others compared him to an incubus, but he was far more than that. He was a being who gifted love to humanity, weaving hope into their hearts only to watch as that same love consumed them, turning into pain, obsession, and despair. Nothing delighted him more than witnessing the way love, so beautiful at first, could unravel into something monstrous.

And lately, his newest fascination was YOU, the girl who had never truly experienced love, so different from the others he had encountered.

He wasn’t sure what exactly drew him in. Maybe it was the way you carried yourself, silent yet observant, blending into the background yet never quite invisible. There was a weight in your gaze, a quiet longing buried beneath layers of indifference. You watched others bask in affection, soaking in their happiness like a starving soul denied a feast. And yet, you never reached out, never dared to claim it for yourself.

How tragic.

How utterly delicious.

Pina had seen many hearts shatter, but yours… yours had yet to be touched, yet to truly bleed. And that, more than anything, made you the perfect subject for his little game.

With his ability to remain unseen by mortal eyes, he had the luxury of observing you without interruption. He watched as you groggily woke up to the sharp beeping of your alarm, your face contorting in mild annoyance before you forced yourself out of bed. He took note of the little details of how you moved through your morning routine, the way you showered, carefully picked your outfit, and adjusted your hair just right. He memorized your habits, the small quirks that made you who you were, the way you tapped your fingers against the desk when deep in thought, how your lips pressed together when you were annoyed, and even the fleeting smiles you gave when lost in a daydream.

He knew what made your heart race, what stirred frustration in you, and what dulled the light in your eyes. And the more he watched, the more fascinated he became.

Realizing that Valentine's Day was just around the corner and that you had no one to spend it with, doomed to another year of loneliness and self-pity, he decided to offer you a little something to make this special day more… interesting. With a mischievous grin, he deliberately let his Love Note slip from his grasp, watching in amusement as it landed squarely on your face. A soft chuckle escaped him as he observed your confused expression, the way you glanced around, searching for any clue as to where the mysterious little gift had come from.

His large hand enveloped yours, guiding the pen across the page as you unknowingly surrendered to his will. He hovered behind you, his towering presence pressing close, the heat of his body seeping through your thin clothes. His lips ghosted over the curve of your neck, a teasing kiss, followed by a slow, deliberate lick that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Such a good girl…" he murmured, his voice a seductive whisper in your ear, rich with amusement. His other hand moved freely, fingers squeezing the roundness of your breast, grazing over your waist before trailing lower, exploring, tempting, yet careful not to wake you from your oblivious state. He chuckled softly against your skin, watching in satisfaction as you unknowingly sealed the fate of those whose names now stained the pages of the Love Note.

He watched with a devilish grin as you arrived at school, the air thick with whispers and gossip about what had happened the night before. Rumors spread like wildfire, students who lived in the same apartment complex as Lucy claimed to have seen her letting Ivan in during the late hours of the night. Those who lived even closer swore they heard unmistakable sounds of wet, rhythmic noises, breathless moans, gasps, and curses echoing through the walls.

Pina’s eyes gleamed with amusement as he watched the color drain from your face. You stood frozen, listening to the murmurs around you, heart pounding in disbelief. Across the hall, Lucy moved through the crowd, ignoring the stares and hushed conversations, her expression unreadable as she retrieved something from her locker.

Then came the confirmation. Ivan strutted past her, his hand landing on her ass with a sharp smack before giving it a firm squeeze. A playful pout crossed Lucy’s lips, her cheeks dusted pink as she shut her locker and hurried after him without hesitation.

The moment she disappeared from view, the whispers exploded.

"Oh my gosh, did you see that?"

"There's no way it's just a rumor now."

"Poor Stella… she's gonna lose it."

Pina chuckled to himself. The chaos had only just begun. And you... Oh, you had no idea what you’d just set in motion.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. You barely registered your classes, your mind drifting elsewhere, tangled in endless thoughts. Was it just a coincidence? Could it really be possible that a few scribbled words in that notebook had shattered a long-term relationship overnight?

It didn’t make sense. It was ridiculous. Impossible. And yet… the timing was too perfect.

Your fingers fidgeted with your pen as doubt crept in. Had you really caused this? Had you truly made Ivan cheat on Stella with just a name and a few words?

A shiver ran down your spine. If it was real… then what else could the Love Note do?

That day, you let your curiosity run wild, filling the first few pages of the Love Note with the names of friends, classmates, and even teachers. It was a thrilling, twisted experiment, one that sent shivers down your spine, whether from excitement or something darker, you weren’t quite sure.

Some names were written with good intentions. You helped your shy male friend by making his longtime crush suddenly see him as attractive, her gaze lingering on him in ways it never had before. You smirked when you noticed the popular girl, who had built her reputation on humiliating others, growing flustered and bashful around the nervous introvert she used to torment. Watching her get pouty and restless whenever he ignored her was almost too satisfying.

But then, there were your darker experiments. With a wicked grin, you jotted down the name of a teacher you despised, pairing him with one of his students. The effect was subtle at first with lingering glances, an almost predatory hunger in his eyes whenever the student spoke. You shuddered, both disgusted and fascinated by how easily the Love Note twisted people’s hearts.

Then, for the final test, you pushed a boundary even though you hadn’t considered it before. You wrote down the names of the school's beloved transfer students, who happened to be step-siblings. Just for fun. Just to see what would happen.

Later that day, when you slipped behind the school building, your heart pounded at what you saw.

The older sibling had his younger sister trapped against the brick wall, his hand gripping her waist while his other hand tangled in her hair, keeping her close too close. Their lips moved together in a heated, frantic rhythm, bodies pressed flush against each other. A soft whimper escaped her as he deepened the kiss, his fingers tightening possessively around her hip.

She should have pushed him away. But instead, her hands clutched at his blazer, gripping the fabric as if torn between resistance and desire.

A heat spread through your chest. This is real. You had done this.

And no one even knew.

A devilish thrill coursed through your veins as you clutched the notebook tighter.

What else could you do?

Pina watched in amusement as you eagerly experimented with his Love Note, his devilish grin widening with every name you scribbled onto the page. He giggled wickedly at the chaos unfolding before him, entertained by your sinful curiosity.

He found it adorable. The way you played matchmaker with such innocence, only to indulge in darker whims moments later. The school was practically buzzing with drama because of you, yet you remained oblivious to the true weight of your actions.

By the end of the day, you felt a mix of giddiness and nervousness, your heart racing at the mess you had created. You had filled nearly an entire page with names, each one influencing lives in ways you could barely comprehend.

Pina watched the lingering smile on your lips with a teasing smirk of his own. However, that smile didn’t last long.

Curiosity, or perhaps desperation, led you to write down your own name alongside your current crush’s name, Asher, on the notebook. He was one of the cool, effortlessly talented guys at school, known for his incredible art skills. You had admired him from afar for a while, and now, with the Love Note in your hands, you wanted to see if it could finally bring him closer to you.

Sitting in the gym during a short break after helping with the decorations, you let your pen glide across the page:

Asher Monroe x [Y/N]

𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞.

Then, you waited.

Asher was in the same room, also assigned to decorate the place, moving effortlessly as he adjusted banners and arranged lights. But as the minutes passed, nothing happened.

He didn’t glance your way. He didn’t approach you. He barely even acknowledged your presence.

Frowning, you gripped the pen tighter and tried again, this time adding more desperate words.

Asher Monroe x [Y/N]

𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞.

You glanced up, hoping for some kind of reaction but Asher remained the same, lost in his task, completely unaware of your silent plea.

The realization hit you like a cold wave.

The Love Note… didn’t work on you.

You tried scribbling down your name again over and over as if sheer persistence could change the outcome. Nothing.

Frustration built in your chest as you tested other names, mixing yours with different people in the gym. Still nothing.

It wasn’t fair.

By the time you finally gave up, the school has already asked the remaining students to go home, and you were left with a deep frown on your face. You barely paid attention on the way home, your mind stuck on the cruel realization that the Love Note, this powerful little book that twisted the lives of others, refused to work on you.

Collapsing onto your bed with a tired sigh, you stared at the ceiling, the day’s events replaying in your head. Why?

Before you left school, you had tried one last experiment. Instead of using your own name, you wrote down two of your teachers’ names, just to see if the notebook was still functioning properly.

And it worked.

You had seen the subtle shift in their gazes, the way their interactions grew strangely heated, proving once again that the Love Note was real.

So then… why?

Why didn’t it work on you?

You let out a frustrated groan, pushing yourself up from your bed before dragging your tired body toward your desk. Your school bag sat there, untouched since you got home, as if taunting you. With a huff, you unzipped it and pulled out the Love Note, its black cover feeling heavier in your hands than before.

Flipping through its pages, you reread the names you had written earlier, the careless scribbles that had twisted people’s lives in one day. Every stroke of ink had power, shaping love, lust, obsession. Every name, every pair, every fantasy you had created came to life... Except yours.

Your fingers brushed over the page where your own name was scrawled over and over again, paired with different people. The ink stood stark against the paper, mocking you, taunting you.

Why?

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your hand running through your hair in frustration. How could something so powerful work so flawlessly for everyone else but not for you?

Was this a cruel joke? Some divine punishment?

Your chest ached with the weight of the unfairness, of the rejection. The one thing that could have given you the love you longed for, the romance that had always been just out of reach, refused to grant you that happiness.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away. No, this wasn’t fair. This wasn’t fair at all.

"Now, now, there's no need for tears, love..." A deep, velvety voice purred from nowhere, sending a chill straight down your spine.

Your lamp flickered once. Twice. Then the light steadied, bathing your room in a dim glow. And that's when you saw him.

A man… No, a demon. An inky-black feathered demon sprawled effortlessly across your bed, his presence both commanding and sinfully relaxed, as if he owned the very bed he lay upon.

He lay on his side, watching you. One arm propped up, supporting his head, his golden eyes smoldering with dark amusement. The other hand rested lazily at his waist, fingers grazing his bare skin, dangerously close to the waistband of his low-slung pants. His long, toned body stretched effortlessly across the mattress, one leg bent just enough to look inviting...enticing. Everything about him was deliberate, controlled, and dangerous.

But it was his gaze that truly made your breath hitched.

He wasn’t just looking at you. He was studying you, eyes tracing every twitch, every unsteady rise and fall of your chest, every ounce of confusion and fear flooding your expression.

A slow, knowing smirk curled on his lips, and just like that, panic hit you all at once.

A sharp scream tore from your throat, and as you jerked back in alarm, your chair tilted too far, sending you tumbling to the ground with a sharp thud!

Then a quiet chuckle escaped from him. "Falling for me already?"

WHAT. THE. HELL.

"Who the hell are you!? And why are you on my bed?!" you shouted, pointing an accusing finger at him.

The demon only chuckled, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement as he lazily stretched, his wings shifting slightly behind him.

"No need to act so surprised, darling." he purred, his voice dripping with honeyed mischief. "I am Pina, the Demon of Love. That little notebook you've been having so much fun with? It used to be mine." His smirk widened as he tilted his head, eyes raking over you with an almost predatory delight. "And judging by the delightful chaos you've caused in just one day, I'd say you're quite enjoying my gift."

"You… you're saying you're a demon? And that you own this notebook?"

"Correct." Pina’s smirk didn’t waver, his dark eyes watching you with a glint of amusement.

You swallowed, gripping the Love Note tightly in your hands. "Wait, you said this notebook was your gift. What do you mean by that?"

The demon let out a low, silky chuckle, tilting his head as if entertained by your curiosity. "Exactly what it sounds like, love. A special little present, just for you."

Your brows furrowed. "Did you… purposely drop this notebook for me that night?"

Pina hummed, tapping a finger against his lips in mock thought before grinning. "Mmm… perhaps. Or perhaps it simply found its way to you because you were meant to have it." His voice dropped to something smoother, more intimate. "Tell me, have you enjoyed using it?"

You shot him in an uncertain glare, still feeling both suspicious and shaken at the fact that you were talking to an actual demon, a being you had only ever believed to exist in the pages of the Bible.

"I... I don't know." you admitted, gripping the Love Note tighter. "It was fun, but it also felt wrong."

Pina tilted his head, "Hm? But tell me… if it felt so wrong, then why did you keep writing?"

Your breath hitched. He knew. Of course, he did. He was a demon, the owner of this notebook. There was no hiding anything from him.

"I-I also have a question..." you stammered, trying to steer the conversation away from his unnerving gaze. "Earlier, I tried writing my name in the Love Note along with another student's name, but… nothing happened."

Pina's smirk widened, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement as he propped himself up on one elbow. "Ah… so you tried to use my gift for yourself?" His voice was teasing, almost mocking. "And let me guess… no matter how many times you wrote it, no matter how desperately you scribbled, your sweet little wish never came true."

Your grip tightened around the notebook, frustration bubbling to the surface. "Then how does it work?" you demanded, voice laced with impatience. "Why is it that I, the one writing in it, can’t experience its power?"

Pina let out a soft chuckle, stretching his arms before shifting to sit up. His wings ruffled slightly as he ran a hand through his dark feathers, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Oh, love," he sighed, voice dripping with condescension. "Did you really think something as powerful as this would bend to your will so easily?"

You swallowed, trying not to flinch as he slowly slid off the bed, his movements graceful yet unnervingly deliberate. He was close now, closer than he had any right to be.

"Then why did you give it to me?" you shot back, refusing to step away even as his presence sent a shiver down your spine.

Pina smirked, tilting his head as he observed you with an unsettling kind of fondness. "Because I enjoy watching you unravel." he said smoothly. "Seeing you toy with something you don’t fully understand… the excitement, the thrill, it’s more entertaining than anything I’ve witnessed in decades."

You swallowed hard but held your ground. "You think this is... funny?"

He leaned in closer, his warmth nearly brushing against you, voice smooth like silk. "I think it's fascinating."

His golden eyes flickered down to your lips, lingering just a second too long before locking onto your gaze again. "The way your heart races… the way your breath hitches when you realize what you’re capable of. You can create love, destroy it, and bend it to your will." His fingers brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch barely there, teasing.

You frowned, gripping the notebook tightly as you met his piercing golden gaze. "Tell me, Pina…"

For a moment, something flickered in his expression at the sound of his name on your lips, an emotion you couldn’t quite place. But just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by that ever-present smirk.

"Is love really never meant for someone like me?"

Pina let out a low chuckle, stepping closer with an effortless grace. "Now, now, love… Who put such a tragic idea in your head?" His voice was smooth, dripping with amusement, but his eyes held something deeper, something unreadable.

Before you could answer, his fingers brushed against your cheek, his thumb caressing the soft skin with a gentleness that felt almost out of place. Then, in one slow, deliberate movement, his hand shifted, gripping your chin and tilting your face up toward him.

"Love comes in many forms…" he murmured, leaning in, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips. "But tell me, my little heartbeat..." his grip tightened just enough to make your breath hitch, "is it love that you truly crave? Or the intoxicating thrill of being wanted, of becoming the object of someone's deepest and darkest desire?"

As if to drive his point further, his other hand slid around your waist, fingers pressing firmly against your back as he pulled you closer. The space between you disappeared in an instant, the warmth of his body radiating against yours. His smirk deepened, his voice dropping lower, silkier.

"Because if that’s what you seek…" he purred, tilting your chin up with a featherlight touch, "then let me show you what it means to be truly desired… deeply, endlessly. No fleeting human affection, just pure, unshaken devotion."

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! I hope I'm not too late. I was planning to post this yesterday, but it wasn't quite finished at the time. Heart's day was pretty uneventful for me (except for the fact that I received a sunflower from a guy at school, hehe) Thank you for reading! ♡♡♡

#★🎧♡𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐒!˖ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐#fem!reader #oc #yandere #yandere imagine #yandere x reader #male yandere #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #death note #death note fic #weell... inspired by the death note #tw cheating #tw stepcest #cw pseudocest #bully x victim #big bro x lil sis #older man younger woman #teacher x student

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