adalwolfgang - Tumblr blog

adalwolfgang · 5 days ago

Text

Oh my gods, this was perfect. Both angsty and funny at times. Seriously though 🥺💛

A Love That Never Dies…

(You broke up with Remmick 30 years ago…He’s back.)

A knock. Then another. Then pounding. Like a medieval battering ram trying to break down your quaint little cottage door. You shuffle to the front, hair in rollers, slippers on, with a mug that says #1 Granny, muttering, “If it’s those neighbour’s brats again…”

You open the door and freeze. There stands Remmick, looking exactly the same as he did thirty years ago when you broke up with him. Pale. Puppy dog eyes. Messy dark curls. And looking as pathetic as he had always been.

“Mo ghrá,” he breathes. “Please. I need ye.”

You blink. “Remmick?! It’s been three decades.”

He scoffs. “I was mournin’, woman!”

You raise an eyebrow. “Mourning what, exactly?”

He presses a hand to his chest, dramatic as ever. “The loss of our love.”

You sigh and take a sip of tea. “Remmick, I’m fifty-eight. I’ve got a bad hip and a skincare routine now. You still look like you’re thirty and haven’t washed your shirt since the day we met.”

“I’m a vampire,” he says proudly.

You roll your eyes. “I know you are. That’s why we broke up, remember? You bit my uncle.”

“I thought he was a goose!” He tries to justify.

You squint at him.

“…It was dark.” He insists.

You rub your temple. “Remmick, go home.”

“I don’t have a home!” He tells you.

You glance at the moon. “Of course you don’t. You sleep in a box and probably have fleas.”

He steps closer. “Please. Just lemme in. I’ll be quiet. I’ll sleep on the floor if I have to.”

You blink. “…That’s not the selling point you think it is.”

He kneels dramatically on the porch, ignoring the fact that it’s starting to drizzle. “Have mercy. If not for love, then for pity. Or nostalgia. Or the scent of your blood, which has aged like fine wine—”

You shut the door.

Five seconds later…

“Please!”

You sigh, grab a blanket, open the door just a crack, and toss it at him. “Fine. Barn’s still out back. Don’t touch the chickens this time.”

You hear him gasp happily and dash into the night. You swear you heard him giggle.

“Bloody idiot,” you mutter affectionately, locking the door. “Still cute, though.”

…

The next night

You sip your tea, watching his shadow dance around in the drizzle outside like a hyperactive bat with no shame. Blanket over his head like a cloak, arms flailing as he twirls in the mud. The chickens watch from their coop in judgmental silence. You stare at him and can’t help the smile from coming onto your lips. Years later and he still manages to be an adorable dork…You shake your head.

Nope. Not going there…

A few minutes later

You’re halfway through your second sip of lukewarm chamomile when there’s another knock.

You don’t even turn around. “Remmick.”

His voice is muffled through the door. “Yes, mo ghrá?”

You sigh. “You’re not sleeping in the house.”

“I know,” he says quickly, trying to sound obedient. “You were very clear. Barn. Chickens. No touching. I respect your boundaries. But…I’m starvin’.”

You set your mug down with a sigh that comes from your bones and suddenly open the door. “What do you want me to do, fetch you a stray hiker?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “No! No, no. I’m changed! Reformed. I’ve been drinkin’ rats for years. Mice, even. Had a squirrel once. Would not recommend.”

You crack the door open. He’s standing there dripping wet, holding the blanket like a makeshift cape and looking like a drowned bat. Pitiful.

You narrow your eyes. “We have goats.”

He perks up. You raise a hand. “Touch Mabel and I will personally stake you with my cane.”

He wilts. “Then what do you want me to do, woman? Wither away in the barn?”

You stare at him for a long moment. Then an idea emerges. “You want blood? Work for it.”

His head tilts. “…Come again?”

You jab a finger towards the back window. “I’ve got rows of tomato plants that need tending. Chickens need cleaning up after. There’s a scarecrow in the back field that fell over last storm. You want a snack? Earn it. Work the fields by moonlight.”

He blinks at you.

You fold your arms. “You’re undead, doesn’t mean unemployed.”

“…This is a trick,” he says slowly. “You’re tryin’ to domesticate me.”

You smirk. “I’ve already got the blanket on you, might as well throw in an apron.”

He grins. “You always were terrifying.”

“And you always were useless,” you retort, “but I suppose I can recycle you.”

He beams like you just told him he won a medal. “Aye. I’ll do it. I’ll be your vampire farmhand.”

You give him a once-over. “Start with the pumpkins. If I see one fang-mark on a hen, you’re compost.”

He salutes with the blanket.

You shut the door, muttering under your breath, “Bloody idiot..”

From outside, a faint, “I heard that!”

And then:

“Where do you keep the gloves?”

And a minute later:

“…And the shovel?”

You sip your tea. You’re never getting peace again. But at least the fields will be weeded.

A week later

The barn’s never looked better.

Your tomatoes are thriving. The pumpkins are lined up like obedient orange soldiers. The chickens are calmer. Even Mabel, your prized goat, seems relaxed—though she did headbutt Remmick into a wheelbarrow on Day Three. You didn’t interfere. You figured she had her reasons. He works every night, murmuring poetry to the soil, singing haunting Gaelic lullabies to the chickens, and talking to the scarecrow like it’s his therapist. You catch him once brushing a duck with an old toothbrush he found in the shed.

You would almost be touched. If he didn’t reek.

By Day Seven, the smell hits you before he even knocks. Like damp moss, old boots, and the ghost of something vaguely feral. You nearly drop your cup of tea. You open the door. He smiles brightly, his curls plastered to his forehead with sweat and barn dust, his shirt clinging like it’s evolved into a second skin.

“Mo ghrá,” he says, radiant with pride. “I fixed the shed roof. With me bare hands. And a cursed hammer I pulled out of the mud.”

You take one long inhale and promptly gag. “Remmick.”

He straightens like a proud schoolboy. “Yes, love?”

Your eye twitches. “You stink.”

He frowns. “I…do?”

You sigh. “You smell like something that died, undied, and then rolled in compost. Get in that bathtub, Remmick.”

He blinks. “I…what?”

You step aside and point down the hallway with the authority of a queen declaring war. “You heard me. Get in the house, Remmick. I boiled the water. Got lavender soap and rosemary oil. Go. Strip. Or I swear I will fumigate you with vinegar and tomato sauce.”

He stares, eyes wide before he grins widely. “I-Inside? Really?”

You grab a towel and throw it at his face. “Yeah. Don’t make that face. I still hate you. But, you truly stink. It’s hygiene. Vampires don’t sweat, and yet somehow you do. How is that possible?”

“I have a condition,” he mutters, clutching the towel like a shield.

“Your condition is filth.” You march behind him, herding him like one of the chickens. “Now move. Upstairs. Third door on the left. If I hear you’ve climbed out the window to avoid the soap, I will stake your unwashed butt.”

“But—”

“No buts! Bathtub. Now.”

He skulks up the stairs like a damp cat, muttering curses in Gaelic.

You cross your arms and shout up after him, “And scrub behind your ears! I saw moss growing there!”

A moment later, there’s the sound of a splash, a curse in Old Irish, and the faint scent of lavender beginning to waft through the cottage. You smile, just a little. Maybe he’s finally being civilised.

Maybe.

You hear him shout down: “Do I use the soap first or…eat the bubbles?”

You groan. Never mind…

The scent of lavender drifts down the stairs, chased by the occasional splash and muttered Gaelic curse. You’re sitting by the fire, tea forgotten, rummaging through the cedar chest in the hallway—your husband’s old things, neatly folded, still holding the faintest whiff of pipe smoke and wood polish. You pause over a shirt. A deep forest green, soft and well-worn. He used to wear it in the fall, sleeves rolled up as he carved wood in the back shed. The matching trousers are a bit loose, but you know Remmick—he’s always been lanky, all limbs and no fat. You pull out a belt too, just in case, and lay them across the banister.

When Remmick finally emerges from the bathroom, there’s a towel draped over his head like a shroud and another one around his waist, and he’s barefoot, blinking blearily like a baby bat.

“You,” you say, standing and tossing the clothes toward him, “are not dripping vampire water on my floor. Dry. Dress.”

He looks at the outfit in his arms, then back up at you. “These aren’t mine.”

“No,” you say gently. “They were my husband’s.”

He stills. His expression, for once, isn’t dramatic or mocking—it’s soft. “Ye sure?”

You nod. “He won’t be needing them. And you’re not going back into that barn wearing that fungus-ridden excuse for a shirt.”

He bows his head, solemn, and disappears into the guest room. When he returns a few minutes later, you freeze mid-stir of the soup pot. He stands in the doorway awkwardly, hands shoved in the pockets and sleeves rolled just right. The trousers are a bit long, but he’s rolled them. Hair still damp, curls tousled. Clean.

You forget to breathe for a moment.

Because thirty years ago, he looked just like this. When he’d show up at your window after curfew, whispering poetry and offering stolen apples. When he kissed you under the full moon, smelling like wet leaves and stolen time. Before all the drama. Before your uncle. Before life got in the way.

You blink hard.

“Is it…alright?” he asks, fidgeting. “I didn’t want to—if it’s too much—”

You shake your head slowly, a small, tired smile curling your lips. “No. It’s perfect.”

He brightens just a little. “I look like a respectable man, don’t I?”

You chuckle. “You look like trouble disguised as a respectable man.”

He steps forward into the light. “Did I ever thank ye for lettin’ me in again?”

You glance at the soup, suddenly very busy. “You’re working for your keep, don’t get smug.”

But your voice is softer than it was before.

He hums. “Still…ye didn’t have to give me a second chance.”

You look up, eyes meeting his.

“I didn’t,” you say honestly. “But I remembered something tonight.”

He tilts his head. “What’s that?”

You smile, just a little. “Why I fell for you in the first place.”

And Remmick? That poor, soggy, undead idiot? He beams like you’ve just handed him the sun.

“Don’t smile like that,” you warn, pointing your ladle at him. “You still reek of damp goat.”

He just laughs. And the house, for the first time in years, feels a little bit less lonely.

Days later

Remmick sits across from you on the couch, freshly bathed, hair still damp and combed back. He’s wearing one of your late husband’s old sweaters. You’re halfway through a row of purl stitches when you notice him staring. Intently.

“…What?” you ask, not looking up from your work.

He leans forward, voice smooth and wistful. “Ye look radiant. Positively—” He clasps his hands dramatically. “—like the morning sun glintin’ off a field of heather.”

You squint at him over your glasses. “Remmick. I’m old enough to have three separate medications in a day-of-the-week pill box. Don’t flirt with me while I’m knitting.”

He grins, sharp canines flashing like he thinks he’s still got it. “Age is but a number, mo chroí. And like a fine bottle o’ red, ye’ve only gotten better with time. I came back just in time, didn’t I?”

You pause and snort. “Back in time for what? The hip replacement?”

“I missed your fire,” he sighs dreamily and lays down on the sofa—batting his eyelashes at you.

You eye him suspiciously and mutter, “You mean my sciatica.”

He reaches across the table, gently brushing your hand. “Let me make it up to ye. Thirty years is a long time to miss someone. Lemme…take care of ye. Help around the house. Run ye a bath. Knit ye a sweater.”

You stare at him. “You know how to knit?”

“…No,” he admits after a few seconds.

“Didn’t think so.” You snicker.

He leans in, eyes gleaming. “But I could learn. For ye.”

You lift your needles and stab one towards his chest—lightly. “You just want me for my blood.”

He gasps. “How dare ye. That’s only…40% true.”

You laugh. You actually laugh, surprising both of you. He looks so damn proud of himself.

“…Alright,” you sigh. “You can stick around. But if I catch you sniffing my neck again while I’m watching Wheel of Fortune, I will make garlic muffins.”

He throws a hand over his heart. “Bless yer heart!”

You toss him a ball of yarn. “Good. Now wind this. You wanna be here, you learn to respect the needles.”

Remmick stares at the yarn like it might bite him. He sits beside you with the tangled ball of yarn and two knitting needles he’s holding like chopsticks. His brow is furrowed. His tongue sticks out slightly in concentration. He has stabbed the yarn. Repeatedly.

You watch this for about five minutes before finally commenting, “You look like you’re trying to perform surgery on a sock.”

He grits his teeth. “Bloody thing wouldn’t cooperate!”

You bite back a smile. “Relax, batsy. You’re holding it like it’s gonna fight back.”

“It is fightin’ back!” He shoots back.

You sigh, stand, and lean over him, reaching for his hands. “Okay, okay, here. Loosen your grip.”

He stiffens when you touch his fingers but obeys. Your hands guide his slowly. Knit. Purl. Loop. Pull.

He frowns. “Why dye humans find this relaxin’? It’s like bein’ mocked by string.”

You smile. “It is relaxing—once you stop acting like the yarn personally offended you.”

You move back to your chair and resume your own project, casting the occasional look at him. He manages three stitches before the needles clack, the yarn snags, and—

“OH FOR THE LOVE OF ST. PATRICK’S LEFT TOE!”

You nearly drop your needles. “Remmick!”

He slumps dramatically across the couch, tangled yarn clinging to him like seaweed on a sunken sailor. “I’ve fought in wars. I’ve fed on nobles and crept through castle halls unseen. But this—this wool demon—has bested me.”

You lean back with a smirk. “Now you know how I felt when you left me for ‘a century of wandering.’”

He groans into a pillow. “Don’t bring up the wandering, it was a phase…”

You deadpan. “You were in a band.”

He glares at you. “It was the ’80s!”

You chuckle and throw him your backup needles. “Start again. And if you cry, you’ll owe me foot rubs for a week.”

He perks up immediately. “Wait. That’s an option? I could’ve cried sooner—”

You sigh. “Remmick.”

He rolls his eyes playfully. “…Right. Right. Focused. Yarn demon. Yes.”

A few hours later…

You decided to go to the store to buy groceries and took Remmick with you. You’re just about to grab a jar of jam when—

BAM.

A young man comes around the corner too fast and bumps into you, jolting your cart and nearly making you drop your coupons.

“Oh! Sorry, ma’am!” he says quickly, clearly mortified. “Didn’t see you there!”

You blink. “It’s alright—”

Remmick, however, has already stepped forward.

“Ye didn’t see her?” he repeats in a low, sharp voice, accent thickening.

The poor guy freezes, eyes going wide. “Uh—yeah—I didn’t mean—like—”

Remmick steps closer, looming, eyes flashing with something deeply not human.

“She’s a whole person, not a ghost, y’know. Watch where yer goin’ or the next thing ye bump into might not be as polite.”

“Remmick,” you call him, touching his arm, “It was an accident.”

He doesn’t look at you at first. He’s too busy giving the kid a stare that says I’ve buried men for less.

The young man gulps. “I-I’m sorry!” he stammers again before speed-walking away.

There’s a long pause. You glance at Remmick.“…Was that really necessary?”

Remmick finally exhales through his nose, nostrils flaring. “He touched ye.”

You sigh. “He merely bumped me. It’s called physics.”

“Ye don’t bump poetry,” he mutters, brooding and righteous. “Ye respect it.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re lucky they don’t sell garlic in bulk here.”

Remmick smirks as he trails behind you with a pleased strut. “I’d risk it.”

You smile and end your shopping trip.

…

That night

You sit back on the couch, fingers aching but heart warm, admiring the scarf laid across your lap. The green, white, and orange stripes are thick and a little uneven, but that only adds to the charm. The Irish tricolour, clumsy but full of care—just like everything you made. Remmick is pacing nearby, muttering to himself about modern shoelaces or the “unnatural brightness” of LED lights. You look up from the scarf, watching the way his shoulders shift beneath his coat. He always moves like a man waiting for a fight, like even silence might throw the first punch.

You stand, approached him quietly.

He looks up—wary, those dark eyes scanning you like he still half-expects betrayal, even now.

You smile gently. “Stand still.”

Before he can protest, you reach up and wrap the scarf around his neck, the soft yarn tugging a surprised grunt from his chest. You adjust it gently, fingers brushing his collarbones, then take a step back to admire your handiwork.

“There,” you exclaim. “Now you look less like a brooding revenant and more like a warm, fashion-forward brooding revenant.”

Remmick blinks down at the scarf. His hands come up slowly, touching the wool like it might melt. “These are my…my country’s colours.”

You smile and nod. “Mm-hm. Thought it’d suit you.”

He stares for a long moment. Then his jaw flexes, and something shimmers in his eyes. “You knit this for me?”

“Well, I wasn’t knitting it for the neighbor’s cat,” you playfully tease.

He gives a huff, almost a laugh, but it catches in his throat. His voice drops. “Y’know, when I left home…I never thought I’d see these colours again. Let alone have someone make them for me.”

You look up. “You’re home now. With me.”

That does it. His eyes go glassy, and he looks away sharply, clearing his throat like that might clear out the feeling too.

“…It’s a bit tight,” he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. “You want me to take it off?”

He clutches it tighter. “No.”

You smirk. “Thought not.”

A few minutes later, you are curled up on the couch, the soft hum of afternoon light filtering through the curtains as you drift into a nap. The scarf around Remmick’s neck peeks out from the chair where he settled nearby, quietly reading. When you wake up, you blink against the soft light—and then your eyes land on him, standing by the window, dressed in something completely unexpected.

Gone were your late husband’s clothes. Instead, he is wearing modern jeans, a crisp button-up shirt, and sneakers that look like they’d come straight out of a store window. You sit up, surprised, and clap your hands slowly, smiling politely.

“Well, color me impressed,” you say. “You clean up nice.”

Remmick catches your grin and gives a small, awkward smile in return, running a hand through his still unruly curls. Then, your expression shifts, curiosity and mild suspicion creeping in. “Wait—where did you get those clothes, Remmick?”

He blinks, hesitating just a moment before answering, his voice low and sheepish. “Borrowed…from a friend.”

You raise an eyebrow. “A friend, huh?”

He shrugs, clearly uncomfortable but sticking to his story.

You sigh. “Next thing I know, you’ll be texting me from a smartphone.”

He snorts quietly, the first genuine laugh you heard from him in ages. “Maybe I will.”

You smile and you both go to bed.

…

In the morning, you shuffle out of your room, hair tousled and eyes half-closed, wrapped in your soft dressing gown over your worn pajamas. Your fluffy kitty slippers pad silently across the floor as you yawn, clutching the mug of tea you just brewed. Without thinking, you start preparing a second cup, absentmindedly letting a few drops of blood from a tiny finger prick fall into it.

Behind you, a quick movement, then a gentle touch as his arms snake around your waist. You freeze for a moment, eyes still heavy with sleep. Remmick’s voice is soft, almost tender in the quiet morning air.

“You’re slow with the tea, but fast with the kindness.”

You lean back into the hug, a faint smile tugging at your lips.

“Don’t get used to it, bloodsucker,” you murmur.

He chuckles low and nuzzles your neck, eyes gleaming with a quiet affection that makes the sleepy morning feel just a little brighter. Remmick’s hands slide to the belt of your dressing gown, fingers lightly tugging at the knot as he leans in, eyes glinting with mischief.

“You know, I’ve been thinking…” His voice is low and playful as he starts to loosen the tie.

You squint up at him, still half-asleep but already firm. “Remmick, don’t forget how old I am. This isn’t exactly ‘young and reckless’ hour.”

He grins, utterly unfazed. “Age don’t mean a thing to me, darlin’. Like fine wine, you just get better with time. Besides, I am almost 3000 years old meself.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the small smile creeping across your face as his hands continue their slow, teasing work. You gently place your hands over his, stopping his slow tug at the dressing gown. Your voice softens but holds steady.

“Remmick. Why are you here? Really? It’s been 30 years.”

He looks down at your hands covering his, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face—regret, longing, maybe hope.

“Can’t forget what we had,” he says quietly. “Even after all this time…”

You search his eyes, feeling the weight of decades between you both. “Thirty years is a long time, Remmy.”

He swallows hard at his old nickname, a slow nod. “Maybe. But some things…they don’t fade that easy.”

Your voice cracks a little, barely above a whisper. “Then why did you leave?”

Remmick flinches—like your words struck deeper than he expected. He looks away for a moment, jaw tightening. When he finally speaks, it’s quieter. Raw.

“Because I was starvin’,” he mutters. “Because you had a whole life ahead of ye. Because I was scared I’d hurt ye or steal the best years or yer life.” His eyes meet yours again—haunted and desperate. “You were so warm. So kind. And I was…I was a thing that didn’t deserve that.”

You stare at him for a long, silent beat. “And now?”

He steps closer and kisses your forehead. “Now I know I’d rather starve beside ye…than feel full without ye, mo chuisle.”

You reach up slowly, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw. His breath stills, and for a moment he looks like he’s forgotten how to exist. And then you kiss him—softly, like a memory. Like a bandage over something too old to heal but still worth tending.

When you pull back, you whisper against his lips, eyes half-lidded and full of quiet ache. “…You poor fool.”

Remmick closes his eyes like the words pierced him. Not out of cruelty, but out of mercy. Like he’d waited a lifetime to hear them. His hands tremble slightly as they settle at your waist.

“Aye,” he murmurs. “I know.”

He smiles against your mouth, the weight of centuries in his gaze as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms. Your heart thuds, body pressed to his cool chest, and you let him carry you towards the bedroom, every step a promise in itself. He pauses at the threshold, brushing a thumb along your jaw as he sets you down gently on the edge of the bed. Moonlight spills across the sheets, illuminating the soft curve of your shoulders and the way your hair fans out behind you.

“How long has it been, mo ghrá? Thirty years and a day since I last had me fill o’ ye?”

You reach up, fingertips trailing along his collarbone, feeling the rapid pulse there—a reminder that even immortals can still feel the lingering echo of blood and desire. You draw him down for a tender kiss, warm and insistent. “Nearly a lifetime…but who’s counting?”

He chuckles and parts the front of your gown with deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving yours, and you arch into him as his hands roam familiar curves—gentle at first, then firmer as memory floods back.

Remmick whispers against your lips. “I won’t let another day steal you from me.”

He lays you back on the bed, leaning over you with a careful, worshipful intensity. His lips find yours again, and you taste the tang of centuries, the soft shimmer of promise as he finally—slowly, reverently—fulfills the absence of thirty years and a day.

…

The sunlight filters softly through the curtains, casting a warm golden hue across the room. The quiet hum of morning filled the space—birds chirping in the distance, the faint rustle of leaves, and the subtle creak of the old bed as Remmick shifts beside you. You are still half-asleep, your face turns towards the window, the blanket drawn up to your chest. And then you feel it—his cool hand brushing a strand of hair away from your temple, followed by the gentle press of his lips against your forehead.

He lingers there, savoring the closeness, before pulling back just enough to look at you. A grin curls at the corners of his mouth—mischievous, familiar, and utterly pleased. “Aged like fine wine…and I was right.”

You crack one eye open, squinting at him. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to hit you with a slipper.”

Remmick chuckles. “You can try, a stór. But I’ll still be here tomorrow. And the next day. And every day after…unless you kick me out again.” He winks, but his hand finds yours under the blanket, fingers intertwining. “Won’t leave this time, me love. Not unless you make me.”

And for a moment, thirty years feels like no time at all. You shuffle out of bed, your bones expecting the usual complaints—the tug in your lower back, the stiffness in your knees. But…nothing. No pain. In fact, you feel almost light.

“Huh…” you mutter, testing your joints with a few stretches. “That’s…weirdly nice.”

And then it hits you. The hunger.

Not for toast. Not for tea. Not even for those chocolate biscuits you keep stashed in the cupboard for emergencies. No—this craving is sharp. Hot. It coils in your stomach and climbs up your throat like smoke, thick and aching.

Your feet carry you to the mirror. You study your reflection, half-expecting to find bed hair and pillow marks. Instead, you find two faint, darkened pinpricks on the side of your neck. You freeze. Then lean in. And once it registered—

“…You absolute MORON!“ you bark at the mirror, then spin around to glare at the bedroom door. “REMMICK!”

No answer.

“Oh, don’t you play the ‘centuries-old deaf’ act now, you bloody cryptid! Come in here!”

There is a crash in the kitchen. A distant muttering of Irish curses and the sound of a teacup being hastily set down. Moments later, Remmick peeks his head around the corner, innocent as a choirboy…

“Aye?” he replies, sheepish. “Good mornin’, mo ghrá…”

You point dramatically to your neck.

“You bit me.”

“Just a nibble! Barely a kiss, really—”

“You turned me?!”

“I maybe…slightly enhanced you?”

“I crave blood, Remmick!”

“I crave ye too, love, but I don’t shout it across the house—”

You hurl a slipper at him. He catches it.

“You absolute idiot.”

He grins. “But admit it. Your joints haven’t felt this good since the 80’s.”

You grab your other slipper and hit him straight in the face with it.

236 notes · View notes

adalwolfgang · 22 days ago

Note

@wheres-my-marbles

Could you please do the yan alphabet for Psycho 2 Norman specifically? I'm so unwell about old men,,

🥀Yandere Alphabet- Norman Bates (Pyscho 2)🥀

Warnings: Yandere trope, spoilers for pyscho 2, kidnapping, isolation, jealousy mention, poor mental health, Norman in pyscho 2 is a pretty tame yandere all things considered

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Norman in terms of affection isn't very intense. His affection is shown through his actions. Bending over backwards to help you. Make you happy. Even when he's locked away. Flirting and pyshcial affection will be little to none. Maybe a stray stuttered compliment or hug. After what mothers drilled into his head and inflicted onto him.. they aren't something that come easy to him to say the least.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Unless we're talking about end of the movie Norman, not at all. That'd be creeping into pyscho 3 territory. Norman's relatively docile in this movie. He might try to scare people off or appear intimidating to people like Toomey.. but otherwise no one's being put in the ground. Not by him anways.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

He tries his best to be understanding..to be patient. He's kidnapped you after all. He's well aware what the reasonable reaction to that is. He gives you as much freedoms as he feels he can allow to give. He'll give you space if you want space. He'll regardless still leave dinner at your bedside or door.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

No. He really wouldn't. He wouldn't have the heart to. Abduction is as far as he'll go.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

His heart may as well be an open casket. He dosen't hold much back. Aside from perhaps the more horrific things his mother had done to him.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

Distressed. His hairs already starting to grey please stop. He can't even be mad at you. He's the one who's forcing you here. He just tries and begs and pleas with you to calm down.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

It's not a game at all. He does everything he can to prevent it. He wants to trust you but he can't. Unless you put up a convincing act of stockholm.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

The initial kidnapping, when his nerves act up..which can also be during escape attempts. He gets loud, defensive, cold in voice, desperate. Very different from his usual demeanor.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

He just wants you to stay with him. Keep him grounded. Live with him. Do whatever you want otherwise.

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

He admittedly gets jealous. He tries to keep it all inside. Trying to be cordial. Knowing it's wrong..if someone really rustles him wrong he'll kinda just subtly insert himself. Interrupting conversations with excuses like emergencies or needing your opinion on something.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Happy, aloof, he feels at ease. Less jittery. Cracking jokes. Even as his obsession bubbles under the surface.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

Offering things like shelter for free, food,gifts, help with things, small chats.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

There's definitely a difference but it isn't too extreme, he's a bit more distant with others, weary. With darling he's a bit more bubbly so to speak. Acting less like a skittish cat.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Locking you in whatever room you're in. Although I doubt it'll last long. At most you might get locked in the fruit cellar.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

Some and none. You have quite a few inside the house.. but none outside. You can't step foot out of the house. The phones are made inaccessible. Otherwise you can do just about anything else you want.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

Very patient for the most part, although there's times he may panic and his patience is considerably less.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

Most likely not. It could cause his push over the edge before the boiling point in the movie. If they die after he's already been put back at square one, or that's what causes it, your corpse is being kept and talked to.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

He feels immensely guilty of what he's done. Considering this is the second movie i think with enough convincing and depending on the point in the movie he could very well be convinced to let them go.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

100% his childhood and the years in the asylum.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

He'd feel awful. Almost sick. He'll try to give comfort, yet if you only become more distressed he'll simply keep his distance. Worrying from the open doorway.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

He could be convinced more easily than others to let you go.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

His more self aware state. He's riddled with guilt. He knows what he's doing is wrong. He was trying not to hurt more people. You can easily exploit these parts of his development to your escape.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

Not intentionally. It could happen during a struggle though. He's fretting over you right after.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

He isn't really a worship. Sure he depends on you, might let you step on him a bit, but he ain't gonna let you entirely stomp on him. He's his own person now.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

A couple. Unless you try leaving. Or Ms.Spool does Ms.Spool things along with Mary and her mother he won't there isn't really going to be a snapping part.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

No never.

@helpfandom, @adalwolfgang

#dweller's writing #yandere norman bates #pyscho 2 #yandere slashers #norman bates x reader #norman bates

14 notes · View notes