#The-Code-of-a-Black-Ally | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

thepencilnerd · 2 months ago

Text

Your Man

thank you very much to @ananonymousaffair, @clubsoft, and @letsgobarbs for including me in the 𝘈 𝘋𝑂𝘊𝑇𝘖𝑅 𝐴 𝐷𝘈𝑌 writing event <3 i cannot wait to dive into the pieces written by my fellow writers (check out the full post for every tagged gem!) prompt: "I think to be so dumb must be nice." | colour: black 🖤 pairing: jack abbot x f!resident reader summary: You and Jack have been bickering your way through night shifts for ages now—until two flying trays, a stitched-up hand, and one too many almost-confessions turn everything into something neither of you can ignore. content/warnings: enemies to lovers (all the banter, jabs, & sarcasm), slow-burn, emotionally repressed idiots to emotionally repressed idiots in love, depiction of harassment towards healthcare workers, protective!reader & protective!jack, fluff, angst, Robby being done with both of you wc: 5.2k a/n: i def could have gone a certain direction *cough cough* but i was overcome with a sudden craving for enemies to lovers / "they're both stubborn and it's complicated tropes," so i present to you this emotionally constipated snippet of my heart 🩺🖤

It was a well-known fact that you always clocked in after Jack Abbot.

Not because you meant to. At least, not exactly.

It started one night during your first week on night shift. You’d been cramming for exams all day, convinced you could fit in just one more practice block before your shift—just one more. But you dozed off somewhere around question 43, mouth open against the back of your textbook, a puddle of drool collecting around what once was a diagram of the cardiac chambers.

You sprinted in at 6:45pm, flustered and un-caffeinated, only to find Jack already there. Leaning against the nurses’ station with a cup of coffee like he’d been born in that spot, annoyingly calm and smirking like he’d seen this coming.

"Cutting it close, Dr. L/N," he’d said, not even looking up from his chart. "Careful. That’s how habits start."

He was right.

At first, you were apologetic—nervous and over-eager, all stammered greetings and shuffled charts. Jack didn’t seem to notice you beyond the bare minimum, and you chalked that up to his status, his seniority, his general aura of don’t talk to me unless someone is actively dying.

But things changed. Somewhere between covering for each other during rounds, tagging out on disaster admits, and a running tally of how many times you each got paged during a single trauma night, familiarity set in. You became colleagues. Then reluctant allies. And somewhere along the line—rivals. Enemies, depending on who you asked and on how bad the night was going.

One time, you were both elbow-deep in post-codes, barely functioning off stale coffee and mutual spite, when he passed you a chart and muttered, "Try not to kill this one with your bedside manner."

You took it without looking up from the board above you. "I'll match your emotional range and we'll both be fine."

You were never late, but it soon became a silent game. He always beat you at it. Whether it was by five minutes or five steps, you never let yourself get there before him. A superstition, maybe. A routine. A rhythm. And because you liked to keep him on edge—just to get a reaction out of him.

Seeing Jack colored with shades of affect, even if it was playfully annoyed, was fun. It made him predictable, addictive, a full 180 from his usual stone-cold demeanor. He’d scowl, grumble something about professionalism, and still let you win half the time. It became a kind of game, and you were very good at it.

Now as a senior resident awaiting board licensure, it was practically tradition.

He was already at the nurses’ station, sipping black coffee like it was fuel and he was a half-full tank, eyes scanning over charts. His voice cut through the hum of bedlam as you approached. "Late again, Dr. L/N. At least you're consistent."

You flipped him off without breaking stride. "And yet, somehow, the hospital hasn't burned down yet. Miraculous, wouldn't you say so, Dr. Abbot?"

He raised a brow, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Not even ten minutes in and already have our claws out, do we?"

"Oh, Jack," you pouted, "this is just foreplay."

"Ah, is that what you call passive-aggressive incompetence now?"

"Bold of you to assume it’s passive," you fired back, picking up an iPad and scanning through your list of patients for the night. "Or that I’m incompetent, considering I actually round with patients instead of brooding in corners like a gargoyle."

"Gargoyle?" he echoed. "I’m flattered you’ve been staring long enough to come up with nicknames."

"Please," you scoffed. "Your aura of gloom is visible from space. NASA actually filed a complaint saying it was interfering with their ability to conduct research."

Jack paused for a beat, gaze flicking over you more intently than usual. "Did you eat before your shift?"

You eyes were glued on the iPad, your only response a single head bobble "no."

He didn’t like that. Robby could tell from the way his jaw flexed slightly—but he said nothing. Just hummed under his breath and looked back at his clipboard.

Robby had been watching through his glasses the entire time, arms crossed and eyes narrowed like a dad wrangling in two over-caffeinated siblings. He blinked at the two of you, then sighed—long, theatrical, the kind of sigh that said he had survived more codes than he could count but this was titrating his patience.

"You two ever gonna kiss, or just keep trying to murder each other with sarcasm?" He took his glasses off to bury his face in his hands with a groan.

Jack didn’t look up, turning the page over on his clipboard. "I prefer homicide. Cleaner paperwork."

"Honestly, I'd take an explosive diarrhea case over having this conversation," you muttered, half to Robby, half to yourself, rubbing at the bridge of your nose like the words might erase Jack from your field of vision.

Robby would be remiss if he didn't catch the way neither of you clocked his kiss and make up comment. He stared at you both, mouth frozen in a half-smile that said he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or launch you into separate time zones. He gave it two full seconds—long enough to confirm that you were both still hopeless—before shaking his head in defeat.

"I think," Robby hummed, patting both of your shoulders like a tired camp counselor, "to be so dumb must be nice."

You and Jack had the same unimpressed expression locked and loaded—scowls sharp and identical, contempt trained squarely on Robby, both of you about to mouth off in perfect sync.

He walked off before either of you could open your mouths.

—

By 3am, the fatigue and hunger were chewing holes in your composure.

Too many admits. Not enough staff. Shen being chronically unbothered. Myrna threatening to murder her wife—when you and Jack turned to ask if she had a wife, matching expressions of disbelief already locked in place, she looked at you deadpan and asked, "You wanna get hitched?"

And always—always—Jack.

Fucking Jack.

With his clipboard full of passive-aggressive notes in that damn attractive calligraphy handwriting.

His tone clipped like a warning and welcome all at once.

And his black scrubs making him look like the grim reaper of constructive criticism and deconstructive mental undressing.

"Patient in six?" you asked.

"CT just came back. Small bowel obstruction. Classic presentation, apparently."

You glanced his way. "Told you it wasn’t just post-op gas."

Jack didn’t miss a beat. "And yet, you were already quoting discharge guidelines to the new intern before radiology even called back."

You shot him a look. Walsh would be proud of you for that one. "I was outlining possibilities. It’s called methodical thinking—must not be a concept you’re familiar with."

He grinned, lazy and unbothered. "Chaos works for me. You panic without bullet points."

You rolled your eyes. "You’re the only attending I know who thrives in complete chaos and calls it a ‘method.’"

"And you’re the only resident I know who color-codes her trauma alerts."

The edge of your lip curled. "That’s called being prepared."

He gestured vaguely. "It’s called being uptight."

You arched a brow. "Spoken like someone who thinks organized is a four-letter word that starts with 'f' and ends with 'k'."

He leaned in, voice dropping just slightly. "Spoken like someone who secretly enjoys cleaning up after my messes."

You blinked once. Then grinned wider. "One day, your beloved chaos is going to bite you in the ass."

He tapped your chart as he walked past. "I guess it’s a good thing you’ve already alphabetized the first aid supplies for me."

—

By 3:20, the storm hit.

Lightning cracked the sky. Power flickered. The backup generator hummed to life with a groan. You should've brought an extra jacket to keep in your locker but it would end up disappearing anyway. Jack was in the hallway already, flashlight in hand.

"OR’s shut down. We’re triaging manually. You good?"

You nodded, biting your tongue. This wasn’t the time.

You worked side by side in the makeshift command center. Tension simmered beneath the quiet coordination—until a grabby frat-boy type from bay four decided he didn’t like being told to sit still and wait.

It happened fast.

He flung the tray off his bed, sending instruments clattering across the floor. You instinctively raised your hand to shield your face—just as a stray scalpel nicked the back of your hand, slicing a sharp, shallow arc. The pain didn’t register immediately. Jack did.

He was on the guy in an instant, stepping in front of you, voice low and lethal. "Sit. Down." The words came out all but minced.

Security had already been called, but Jack looked like he wanted to break the guy’s face just for breathing in your direction. He didn’t even turn back to you until the orderlies dragged the patient away.

Then his hand was cupping your elbow, his voice much softer. "Let me see it."

You hissed as he inspected the cut. "It’s not deep."

"You’re bleeding on my chaos," he muttered, guiding you gently to an empty room.

You snorted through the blossoming pain. "Told you my color-coding wasn’t excessive."

He grabbed a suture kit, pulling gloves on with the kind of care you usually saw him reserve for crics and broken ribs. "Hold still."

"Bossy."

"Only when someone I like gets stabbed in the hand."

Your breathing hitched. "Like, huh?"

Jack’s attention was fixed on your hand. "Don’t make it weird."

You smiled, watching him thread the needle, so close, so focused. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy. Quite the opposite. It felt warm. Easy. He worked methodically, hands sure, touch gentle, eyes flicking up every few seconds to check your expression like it mattered more than the wound. As he cleaned around the cut and prepped the lidocaine syringe, you both said it in unison—

"Slight prick and a burn."

You laughed under your breath, both at his expression of surprise and your synchrony. "God. That phrase is ingrained in my soul. I think I said it to a grapefruit during my 5th year."

Jack’s lips twitched. "I said it to a patient’s plush raccoon once."

You watched his hands move with steady precision, stitching you up like he had all the time in the world. The storm outside cracked again, but neither of you flinched.

"Make sure I don’t scar, Doc," you teased, settling in as he prepped the suture. "I need these hands to make magic and miracles happen. Might even become a hand model if this whole medicine thing doesn’t pan out."

Jack didn’t look up, but you caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I’ll do my best, ma’am. But if you end up on a billboard somewhere, I expect royalties."

You snorted. "In your dreams."

Jack didn’t say anything at first—just gave you a small, private smile like he was tucking something away in the back of his mind. Like he was keeping it just for himself.

And this time, when you looked at him, he didn’t look away.

For a few minutes, the raindrops tapping against the windows were the only sound that filled the empty space. Jack didn't speak. He just kept his gaze on your hand, now bandaged, resting on the edge of the tray table like it had never been hurt. You watched him watching you, your heart thudding quietly in your throat.

"You always take care of your disasters this nicely?" you mumbled.

He smirked. "Only the pretty ones."

You didn’t speak of it.

Not until later, when the lights came back and the halls emptied and you were alone in the break room.

You noticed it as he leaned against the counter, scrubs rumpled, hair even more so. His scrubs were black, as always—just rumpled enough to prove he'd been moving all night, just fitted enough to be infuriating. You took a sip of water, eyeing him from across the break room table as you both took a seat. Something about the way the fluorescent light caught the curve of his jaw made the words slip out before you could stop them.

"Do you own anything that isn’t black?" you asked, voice light with sudden curiosity. "Or is your off-duty wardrobe just a series of increasingly gothic-toned hoodies that match your work-wear?"

Jack glanced up from his coffee, one brow arched. "It hides blood."

You stared. "You really don’t let anyone in, huh?"

He didn’t answer right away, just sipped his coffee and stared out at the empty hallway beyond the break room.

Finally, with a shrug that didn’t quite match the weight behind it, he said, "You’re one to talk."

That made you laugh, but it came out softer than expected. "Guess we’re both pretty terrible at normal."

Jack’s lips twitched. "Normal’s overrated."

You leaned back in your chair, legs stretched out in front of you, the tips of your sneakers barely brushing his. Neither of you moved.

Suddenly, Jack got up and yanked open a small drawer by the coffee machine and pulled out a sad-looking granola bar, handing it to you without meeting your eyes.

"Eat this."

Your brow furrowed, suspicious. "Seriously?"

"You haven’t eaten since yesterday," he muttered, brushing it off like it didn’t matter. Like he hadn’t noticed.

You stared at the wrapper, then at him. "You really had that locked and loaded?"

He didn’t answer. Just crossed his arms and stuck the bar out at you further. "It’s chocolate. Don’t make me regret it."

Instead of prying further, your hand reached out slowly and took it, eyes still narrowed, studying him like he’d just burnt out a fuse in your brain.

Silence washed over you again. Occasionally filled by the sound of you munching on your granola bar and taking measured sips of your coffee. After a few minutes and one crumpled granola bar later, you caught Jack sneaking a glance at you over the rim of his cup.

You didn’t say anything—just raised a brow.

He looked away like he hadn’t been watching you at all.

But the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

The words crept out of your mouth carefully. "Do you think..."

Jack looked up, gaze intent.

"Nevermind," you stopped yourself.

He leaned in closer, the space between you shrinking into something almost unbearable. Not quite touching, not even brushing—but the air thickened under the weight of his stare. That kind of eye contact that felt like it could crack glass. Steady. Searching.

You let the quiet spool between you like a thread someone might tug, if they were brave enough.

"It's rude to start things you don't intend on finishing," he stated simply.

You blinked, still caught in the current of that look, then leaned in a little—almost like you were about to whisper a secret. Jack mirrored you without hesitation, like it was instinct.

Your voice was barely above a murmur. "Do you think..."

He waited, gaze steady, maybe even a tinge of hope if you squinted.

"...that the real reason you thrive in chaos is because it matches your personality?" you deadpanned.

Jack exhaled sharply, the ghost of a scoff tugging at his mouth. He sat back, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."

You grinned, eyes bright and playful. "What? I finished it."

"Barely," he muttered, but he was smiling too.

A few beats passed. You both sat in the lingering quiet, the kind that settled in only after long shifts and half-spoken things.

Then he leaned in—just a little—mirroring what you'd done earlier. You furrowed your brows, curious.

He lowered his voice, almost conspiratorial. "Do you think..."

You leaned in too, expecting something real, something heavy.

"...that you secretly enjoy being wrong? Because, statistically, it’s seems like your favorite hobby."

Your jaw dropped to let out a puff of air, baffled by his audacity, and pushed his arm. "God, you’re insufferable."

He chuckled under his breath. "And yet, here you are."

You gave him a sideways glance, lips quirking. "I will admit that it’s in my top five favorite hobbies. But it still doesn’t beat ‘annoying Jack Abbot.’ That one’s undefeated."

Jack shook his head, eyes warm and lips softened in a grin. "You’d miss me if I ever stopped letting you win."

Your only response was a coy smile. You nudged his foot with yours beneath the table, and he glanced down at the contact. He nudged back, subtle and sure, like he didn’t want the moment to end just yet—then looked back up at you. Something passed between the pair of you—unspoken, tentative, curious.

The room fell quiet again, comfortable this time. Neither of you moved to leave.

Until Jack's phone buzzed.

He glanced at it, then cursed under his breath. "Room seven. It's that kid who demanded to speak to the 'head doctor' because I wouldn't give him dilaudid for a tension headache."

You raised a brow. "So... a normal Friday?"

"Basically."

You watched him go, expecting a quick de-escalation. Room seven. You knew who that was. Height rivaled only by his ego. Frat letters drawn across his bare chest like illiterate war paint. Barked at nurses like he owned the floor. The kind of guy who made everything someone else's problem, backed by daddy’s legal team and a two-semester record of hazing infractions.

Jack had said he’d handle it. He always did. Especially with these types. It was like they were on a rotation—every Friday night, a new brand of uninhibited pre-frontal cortex, privileged chaos.

But then you heard his voice—Jack’s—sharp and too loud from down the hall. A clatter followed, unmistakable. Tray to tile. A chair scraping. Then another crash. A shout that definitely wasn’t Jack’s.

You were already moving.

By the time you rounded the corner, the frat boy was mid-lunge, fury twisting his face as he hurled a tray toward Jack’s head like he was reenacting some half-remembered bar fight. Jack ducked, barely—but he was boxed in, too close to the wall.

You didn’t think. Just moved.

"Hey!" you barked, adrenaline surging. You threw yourself at him, coming at him like a freight train and making him fall back onto the bed with a grunt. A nurse hit the emergency call. Security swarmed seconds later.

Jack had grabbed your arm and pulled you back—tight but not painful—pulling you just out of the fray. "What the hell?"

You glared at him, chest heaving. "Returning the favor."

He didn’t let go.

"On-call room. Now."

He practically hauled you down the hall, his hand never leaving yours. You were both silent until the door shut behind you. He pressed his palms to the counter and stared at it like it had personally offended him.

"What was that?" His voice was sharp, unfiltered, pissed in a way you didn’t see often—not like this. Not when it was about you. "You could’ve gotten hurt."

"So could you." You leaned against the metal bunkbed frame, still catching your breath. "A simple 'thank you' would suffice."

His Adam's apple bobbed, slow, like the movement itself took restraint. His jaw was tight, eyes darker than usual.

"You're reckless," he said quietly.

"Takes one to know one," you laughed.

Jack didn’t.

He stepped forward instead, jaw clenched. "You have no regard for your safety and only for that of others."

You took a step back.

"You will go out of your way to treat and protect everyone around you at the expense of your own well-being."

Another step back. Any closer and—

"Do you understand," he said, each word measured, devastating, "how much I worry about you?"

Your heartbeat was a war drum now—loud, insistent, thunderous.

"Do you know how much I think about you? How much I plan for the worst every time you throw yourself between danger and someone else without a second thought?" he added, voice cracking just enough to reveal the truth beneath it. Laid bare.

"When you walk into the ER and you haven't eaten since the night before and I can see it—you're running on caffeine and impulse and whatever scraps of adrenaline are left."

You opened your mouth, but no sound came out.

He didn’t stop there. "When you give your jacket to a freezing patient and spend the next six hours shivering without saying a word—like that’s normal."

You swallowed. "It wasn’t cold..."

Jack’s voice sharpened. "You forget your umbrella and show up soaked but act like it's fine. Like it’s not freezing. Like you didn’t just volunteer to get sick."

Your fingers twitched against your side.

"And when you blow off your own wound care to finish a chart. Or cover a code blue for someone else even though your shift ended twenty minutes ago."

You looked away. His eyes never left you.

He stepped even closer, willing you to look at him. "When you pretend you’re made of steel. And then crack alone in the stairwell when you think no one’s looking."

It felt like ice cold water had dropped from the ceiling.

"Jack—" you managed to force out.

He held up a hand and turned around, cutting you off. "Please."

He couldn’t hear it. Not unless you felt the same. Not unless you'd listened, actually listened, for once. He’d rather bleed out not knowing than survive a rejection he couldn’t patch. Just colleagues. He'd switch over to day shift if he had to. Robby could put in a word for him. Temporary, at least until he found a new hospital. Maybe in a different city. Of a different state.

He looked anywhere but you, turning like he meant to leave, like he could walk it off and pretend none of this ever happened.

"Jack, please..." The words came out desperate, begging, pleading for him to stop.

He didn't meet your eyes—couldn't. "I'll see you at the nurses station."

"Oh, for the love of God—" You reached forward and yanked him back by his forearm.

And then your lips were on his.

It wasn’t clean or careful. It was a crash—years of tension detonating all at once. He froze for half a second, eyes wide open like his brain was short-circuiting, then kissed you back with everything he had and more. Desperation, disbelief, hunger—it all poured out of him like water breaking through a dam.

Your hands cradled his face, thumbs grazing over the light stubble along his jaw, fingertips brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones like you were learning him by touch alone. He kissed you like he couldn’t stand to stop, and you held him like you weren’t going to let him. He tasted like spearmint—sharp and stubborn—the gum he always carried in his pocket, and behind that, burnt coffee and something so distinctly Jack it made your limbs tingle.

His hands found your waist, your jaw, your back—grasping like he didn’t trust the moment to be real unless he mapped every inch of you with his fingertips. You were pressed chest to chest, and it still didn’t feel close enough.

Jack had kissed people before. He had slept with people before. He'd been married, for God's sake. But this—this—was unreal. This was heat and gravity and every inch of restraint he’d stitched into place finally tearing wide open. This was the reason human beings fought in wars. Why people wrote poetry and ruined perfectly stable lives for one perfect, maddening kiss. Why everything else material and immaterial suddenly paled in comparison.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging salt and pepper curls just enough to make him groan, low and wrecked against your lips.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, share the oxygen in your lungs, the little gasp you made when his thumb grazed the spot behind your ear just right. He devoured everything you gave him and kissed you like a man who had run out of time and patience.

Because he had.

He’d wanted this too long to pretend otherwise, and he'd sooner die than deprive either of you from this any longer.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting lightly against his. Both of you were gasping, eyes locked in the kind of dazed silence that usually followed adrenaline crashes.

"Took you long enough, old man," you whispered, lips still brushing his.

Jack blinked once, twice. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like the thought had crossed his mind a thousand times, but the reality of you—this—hit harder than he’d prepared for.

"You feel the same?" he asked quietly, in a tone that was more awe than question.

You nodded. "Since before either of us were brave enough to say it."

Jack let out a breath that shook at the edges. "I thought if I let it slip—if I looked too long, said too much—you’d shut me out."

"I thought if I admitted it, it would ruin everything."

"It didn’t," he murmured, leaning his forehead against yours.

"No," you whispered. "It finally made sense of everything."

Jack blinked again, almost like he hadn’t fully registered it until now. His gaze swept over your face, pausing at your lips, then your eyes, as if searching for the lie he couldn’t find.

"You really mean that?" he asked, quieter now. Not disbelieving—just internalizing.

You nodded again, slower this time. "I don’t do this if I don’t."

Jack let out another breath, but it wasn’t shaky this time—it was solid. Grounded. Relieved. He laughed under it, the sound warm and slightly incredulous.

"You really are impossible," he murmured, brushing his nose against yours.

"And you’re dramatic," you whispered back, smiling.

"Fair," he said. "But you’re still mine."

"Yeah," you said. "I think I always was."

Jack huffed a breath, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Careful. You just kissed your attending. That kind of power could go to your head."

You grinned, still breathless. "Please. You kissed me back like your life depended on it."

"Who says it didn't?" he asked rhetorically, so quietly it almost got lost in the air between you.

Your fingers drifted to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing softly along the hairline, anchoring him there. Jack shivered. Not from cold—never from cold.

"Thank you," you admitted. "For taking care of me while I was busy taking care of everyone else."

His grip on your waist tightened, grounding himself, and then he leaned in again. This time it was slower. Less frantic. His lips found the curve of your neck, warm and reverent. You gasped—quietly—but it was enough. He kissed lower, just beneath your jaw, and your hands curled in the fabric at his shoulders.

"Always." The word left his lips like a prayer.

His fingers traced the hem of your scrub top, ghosting up your sides like he was overriding any and all memories of anything else other than you. No dissonance. Just Jack, desperate to feel something real in a world that never gave him space to.

You pressed closer, kissed the corner of his mouth. "You taste like that godawful spearmint gum."

He grinned against your skin. "You love it."

Another scoff. "If throwing myself in front of a raging frat boy was all it took to get you to shut up and kiss me, I would've done it ages ago."

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, smug. "If you do that again, I’m going to make you do my charting for a week."

You snorted. "With pleasure."

He didn’t argue. Just dipped his head and kissed you again.

—

You woke in the on-call room, a mess of tangled limbs and haphazardly strewn clothes. Your cheek pressed to the rise and fall of his chest. The storm had long passed, but its echo lingered in the hush around you. Jack’s arm was slung low around your waist, fingers drawing lazy, absent-minded shapes against your hip like he didn’t know how to stop touching you now that he’d started.

"For what it’s worth, I still think you’re a pain in the ass," you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

His chest rumbled beneath your cheek. "Likewise," he said, but it came out softer than usual.

You shifted just enough to look up at him, your hand brushing gently across his ribs, then settling over his heart. "Don’t get used to this."

His brow arched. "This?" If you looked hard enough, you might have seen worry flash across his face.

"Me being nice."

Relief painted his expression. He smiled, full and rare. "You’re the one curled into me like a particularly mouthy cat."

You buried your face in his chest. "Shut up."

His fingers tightened slightly at your hip. "Not complaining. Just saying... I could get used to this."

You looked up again, caught the vulnerability flickering there before he blinked it away. Your thumb brushed his jaw, and you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth, a smile blooming in its wake.

"Yeah," you whispered. "Me too."

—

A few weeks and an undetermined number of shifts later, you walked through the double doors of the ER wearing a black hoodie—oversized and unassuming to anyone else, but unmistakable to anyone who knew him.

Robby and Dana spotted it from a mile away. The frayed drawstring, the hole near the front pocket, the faded cuff seams—the one he always reached for when the weather dropped below 60 degrees, too tired to bother, or too raw to pretend. Jack’s favorite and now second most prized possession.

The first being the shirt you wore when you stayed the night for the first time—oversized and soft, probably older than the first year med students—borrowed without asking. He never washed it. Claimed it smelled like you now and he'd keep it that way.

No one said a word.

Except Robby, who walked past and muttered, "Finally." Then, as you and Jack strolled side by side toward the nurses’ station—still bickering, now with smiles tucked behind every jab—he held out a fist to Jack.

Jack bumped it without hesitation.

Robby grinned. "Took you long enough."

"Shut up," you and Jack muttered in unison, but neither of you stopped smiling.

Jack's hand brushed yours between steps, a casual touch that lingered just long enough to say everything he couldn't say out loud in front of witnesses. You let your pinky hook around his for a second before letting go—just a flash of something soft beneath the usual snark.

"Didn't know we allowed pets in the ER," Dana remarked from her chair before looking up through her glasses. "Or are those lovebirds I hear?"

You smirked. "We’re just evolving."

Jack raised a brow. "Into better people?"

"No," you replied. "Into slightly better-functioning disasters. I am, anyway. Jack’s still somewhere between disaster and cryptid."

He bumped your shoulder gently before giving you a playful wink. "Speak for yourself. I was already perfect."

You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue. A smile crept up like second nature. You'd get him next time.

Robby snorted. "God, you two are insufferable."

You turned just enough to shoot him a smug look. "You love it."

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I do. But if I walk in on you making out in the supply closet, I’m blackmailing both of you. With photos."

Jack didn’t even flinch. "Make sure you get our good angles."

You could definitely get used to this.

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duskidolsmut · 3 months ago

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"Betrayed and Fucked"

Irene, a battle-hardened lesbian secret agent with a razor-sharp desire, endures a nightmare of handcuffs and brutal sex that tears through flesh and soul. Betrayed and pushed to the edge, she turns violence into power, vowing a revenge as savage as the pleasures that scarred her.

Tags: DarkFic, EnemiesToLovers, BDSM, LesbianForcedSeduce, SexualRevenge, DirtyTalk, SizeKink, AfterSex, BrutalSex

W: 4.533

Irene, a secret agent who leads a double life. At 33 years old, she is pure elegance and danger – a predator who hides a breathtaking body under impeccable suits and a smile that disarms and dominates in equal measure.

Her long, silky black hair falls over delicate shoulders, framing that doll-like face – full lips that have already drawn sighs and moans, eyes that capture you with a look and hands that know exactly where to squeeze, loaded with a magnetic glow that has already made women writhe in moans of ecstasy, legs trembling under her touch. Her reputation in espionage circles is legendary: a mind as sharp as her tongue, capable of deciphering codes and bodies with equal ease.

Away from missions, Irene lives for the forbidden. Her encounters with lovers—always women—are intense and clandestine, a refuge where she surrenders herself without restraint, her fingers tracing damp curves, the salty taste of female skin ingrained in her memory. But at work, she is relentless, a shadow that glides among the powerful, collecting secrets like trophies. Her current assignment has taken her to the heart of a criminal organization that traffics sensitive data between governments and cartels, a network as slippery as the sweat that runs down the back of her neck on hot nights. Undercover for months, she has built a perfect facade—until the betrayal.

The blow comes from an ally, a familiar face she never suspected, and now Irene is vulnerable. She wakes with a snap in her mind, her body heavy, the damp, fetid air of an underground room invading her nostrils. The dim light of a pendant lamp reveals stained concrete walls, the cold floor beneath her torn boots. Her wrists, thin but strong, are bound by icy steel handcuffs, the metal biting into her white skin and leaving red marks that burn with every movement. The sound of the chains clanking echoes like a warning. She lifts her chin, her disheveled hair falling over her face, and stares at her captor.

Before her stands Levi, a mountain of a man, nearly seven feet tall, his muscles defined beneath a dirty T-shirt that barely contains his broad chest. His hands are rough, calloused like sandpaper, thick fingers that seem made for breaking bones—or gripping flesh. His short, disheveled hair frames a rough, scarred face, and his eyes, small and dark, devour her with a raw, almost animal hunger. He stares at her as if she were a banquet, his heavy breathing filling the air with the smell of tobacco and sweat. Irene feels the weight of his gaze sliding over her body—from the curve of her breasts beneath her torn blouse to the firm thighs squeezed by her leather pants.

The basement stank of mold and dried blood, an acrid smell that clung to the nostrils like a rotten memory. The light from the single hanging bulb wavered like a dying heart, casting quivering shadows on the damp walls—slender, twisted shapes that looked like hungry fingers crawling over Irene’s body, tracing the contours of her exposed skin. She was on her knees on the rough floor, the concrete scraping her soft flesh through her torn stockings, but there was no defeat in her posture. The tight black latex dress—the last vestige of her identity as the seductive undercover agent—clung to her like a second skin, glistening in the dim light, every curve of her body outlined in sinful detail. Her pert breasts strained against the fabric, her hardened nipples marking the latex like a silent invitation, while her hips lifted in a promise that Levi devoured with his eyes, the saliva almost visible in his half-open mouth.

“You’re going to die here,” he growled, his voice rough as concrete being dragged, low enough to vibrate in her chest. Levi stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing on the floor, the smell of sweat and metal rising from him like raw steam.

Irene laughed, a low, wet sound that dripped from her throat like poisoned honey, reverberating in the claustrophobic space. She lifted her chin with deliberate slowness, her black hair falling in sweaty strands over her shoulders, framing her pale face where her swollen lips—bruised from biting down to contain her moans as he dragged her here—gleamed a wet red. Her thin wrists twisted against the handcuffs, the cold metal creaking, but it wasn’t an attempt to escape—it was a spectacle. She wanted him to see, to feel the power that still emanated from her, even in chains. His eyes locked on the movement, and she felt the heat of his gaze slide down her skin like a dirty caress.

“Are you sure?” Irene let the words escape like smoke, slow and heavy, each syllable a thread of desire wrapped in threat. Her eyes met his, a glint of defiance dancing in them, while her tongue slid subtly over her lower lip, leaving a wet trail that caught the light.

Levi was brutal, yes—a wall of bone and muscle, the kind of man who crushed before he thought. But Irene knew creatures like him: brute-force machines with small brains and hungry dicks, with no imagination beyond what they could grasp. She, on the other hand, was made of more refined vices, of pleasures she shaped into weapons. Her fingers, still stained with traces of red lipstick from a past lover and dried blood beneath her short nails, slid up her thigh with torturous slowness. The latex cracked beneath her touch, the sound cutting through the silence like a whip as she spread her legs slightly, the black fabric stretching against her firm flesh, revealing the damp contour between her thighs—not from weakness, but from a game she was mastering.

“I can give you something better than information…” Her whisper was a razor’s edge between her teeth, sharp and seductive, laden with a promise that made the air between them grow thick. She leaned forward, enough so that the scent of her skin—a mix of expensive perfume and fresh sweat—hit him like a slap.

Levi spat on the floor, a clumsy attempt to maintain control, but his dark eyes already betrayed his facade. They lowered to her mouth, to those swollen lips that seemed to beg for something crueler than words, and Irene saw his pulse quicken in his exposed jugular, a vein pulsing beneath the rough skin of his neck. He was hooked, even if he didn’t know it yet. His chest rose and fell faster, the growing bulge in his pants betraying what she already knew: he might be her captor, but she was the poison that would kill him from the inside, one bite at a time.

Levi’s first move was brutal—a savage tug on the latex collar that made Irene gasp, the sound escaping hoarsely from her throat as the material stretched to its limit, giving way with an obscene snap that echoed in the basement like a muffled scream. The fabric tore in jagged strips, revealing Irene’s pale skin, now flushed with a mix of cold and adrenaline, her pores standing out as if begging for touch. Beads of sweat glistened on her exposed collarbone, trickling slowly down to the valley between her breasts. Levi paused for a second, his eyes glazed over the newly discovered flesh, his chest rising like that of a starving animal.

“You think you’re too smart, don’t you?” — He growled, his deep voice scratching the air, full of contempt and something dirtier.

Irene didn't respond with words. Her abdominal muscles contracted reflexively, defined under her smooth skin, when his rough hand grabbed the torn fabric and pulled harder, the sound of the latex breaking mingling with the jingling of the handcuffs. Her black lace bra appeared like an exposed secret—the last vestige of her real self, a delicate piece that contrasted with the brutality around her. Her nipples, betrayed by the biting cold of the basement, hardened under the thin lace, pointing like accusations against the almost transparent fabric. She hated that reaction, the heat that rose from her chest to her neck, but she couldn't help the tingling that snaked across her skin.

—You're enjoying it, are you? — Levi laughed, a hoarse and cruel laugh, while his calloused fingers, rough as stone, crushed her waist with enough force to leave purple marks. He lifted her off the ground in one rough motion, slamming her against the wall with a thud that reverberated in her bones. The cold concrete scraped against her bare back, and the handcuffs cut deeper into her wrists, the metal biting until she felt the wet heat of blood running down in thin rivulets.

Irene smiled, her swollen lips parted, the bright red shining like a fresh wound. “You only know how to use force… what a shame,” she said, her voice low and sharp, dripping with sarcasm. And then, with deliberate precision, she lifted her thigh, rubbing it against his groin. The rough denim brushed against her skin, and she felt the hard bulge pulsing beneath the fabric, hot and insistent. Levi held his breath, a growl caught in his throat, his eyes darkening even further.

She hated touching him—his scent, a mix of stale sweat and raw testosterone, invaded her nostrils like an affront. But her body, trained by years of missions and pleasures, reacted on instinct. It was a machine she had perfected on other bodies—feminine bodies, soft and moist, that yielded beneath her fingers with delicate moans. Now, he betrayed her with this brute. Levi thought he had control of everything, that he had her in the palm of his hand, until Irene leaned in, her lips brushing his ear, her breath hot against his rough skin. “Do you want to see me beg?” Her voice was a sweet, lethal poison, while her hips moved in a slow, undulating rhythm, a ballet of seduction that she had always mastered.

Heat rose up her thighs, where his thick, muscular leg pressed her against the wall, his jeans scratching her exposed skin like a rough promise. The remaining latex clung to the sweat that trickled between her breasts, the shiny fabric catching the wavering light in wet reflections. Levi couldn’t resist – his hand came up, his calloused fingers gripping one of her breasts, squeezing the nipple through the lace with a force that was almost painful. Irene clenched her teeth, the air hissing between them, but the shock of pleasure and pain shot like electricity through her body, making her legs tremble against her will. Her clit throbbed, a hot, wet betrayal that she felt growing between her thighs, the fabric of her panties soaked through what was left of the latex.

"Looks like the little slut got wet…" Levi growled, his tone full of mockery and triumph, as he thrust two thick fingers into her mouth, forcing them against his tongue. She closed her lips reflexively, her sharp teeth brushing against his skin, the salty taste of dirt and power invading her. Irene wanted to spit, but her body was already arching on its own, her back curving forward, her hips seeking friction against his thigh as if they were a separate entity from the mind that screamed no. The heat between her legs was unbearable, a throbbing that made her clench her fists in the handcuffs until her nails dug into her palms. She knew how to play this game - even when every fiber of her lesbian soul rebelled against the desire he was tearing from her.

The sound of the latex tearing to the end echoed like a gunshot in the basement, a dry and final crack that reverberated off the damp walls, marking the end of the last barrier between Irene and Levi's brutality. He didn't uncuff her – he wanted her immobile, he wanted her at his mercy, her wrists tied above her head, the metal of the handcuffs digging into her flesh until blood dripped in dark drops onto the floor. But Irene wasn't at the mercy of anything. Even chained, her body was a weapon, and she knew how to use it.

Her breasts sprang free of the destroyed fabric, her swollen pink nipples throbbing from the friction against the latex, sore and sensitive in the cold air that licked them. Her pale skin shone with a thin layer of sweat, the muscles of her abdomen trembling subtly as she took a deep breath. Levi spat directly on her, the hot, viscous liquid hitting the space between her breasts, dripping slowly like a dirty caress down to her navel. He laughed, his husky voice cutting through the air. “The spy queen, now she’s just another grinning slut.”

Irene didn’t moan. She arched. Her body formed a perfect curve, a living sculpture of desire and defiance—her wrists bleeding from the handcuffs, her hips lifted like an offering, her soaked black lace panties clinging to her nether lips, the sheer fabric revealing every swollen, wet contour. Levi saw it, his dark eyes widening with hunger, and she knew he saw it. She felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, moving down her trembling thighs to the heat that betrayed her facade.

— Do you want to break me? — She repeated, her voice now blurred, hoarse with someone who wanted to be forced to like me, each word dripping with a desire she despised feeling. — Then break me.

Levi didn't need any more invitation. His hand descended like lightning, thrusting under her panties with brute force, his calloused fingers finding slick heat, resistance and a moan that Irene trapped between her teeth, her lips trembling as she fought the sound. He rubbed his fingers against her lips, parting them, his thumb brushing her swollen clit with a pressure that made her hips rise involuntarily. She hated every second of it – his smell, his weight, the invasion – but her body vibrated, her nerves on fire, betraying her with a pulse she couldn't control. HER SMILE, HOWEVER, NEVER FELL, a thread of defiance shining on her swollen lips as she stared at him.

He ripped off his shirt in one swift movement, throwing it to the floor, the fabric falling with a wet sound. Irene looked away for a moment – ��he was huge, a mountain of sculpted muscles, his broad, toned chest covered in a layer of dark hair, his shoulders broad as if they could crush her with their weight alone. She swallowed hard, her mind spinning: Would he kill her? But then he finished undressing her, tearing off the remains of the latex and panties with his hands, leaving her completely naked, exposed, her goosebumps contrasting with the heat emanating from her core.

Levi knelt, his lips brushing her navel, his thin beard scratching her sensitive skin as he left a hot, wet trail. Irene felt her knees give way, her body weakening against her will, a low moan escaping her as he moved higher, his mouth tracing a torturous path down her abdomen, between her breasts, until it grazed the base of her neck. He opened his mouth and licked, his rough, wide tongue sliding over her skin, the salty taste of sweat and arousal filling him. She moaned loudly, pleasure ripping through her body like a knife, her thoughts spinning: What was this feeling? Why was he making her feel this way?

Suddenly, he gripped her thighs tightly, his nails digging into the soft flesh as he spread her legs, exposing her dripping slit to the cool air. Liquid ran down her inner thighs, glistening in the dim light, and Levi groaned, a guttural, ecstatic sound, his hungry eyes fixed on her arousal. He descended upon her like a predator, his mouth crashing against her swollen, wet lips, his tongue invading her without hesitation. Irene pulled at the handcuffs, the metal cutting deeper, her body writhing as he licked with animalistic voracity, sucking on her lips, diving as deep as he could, his nose brushing her clit as he drowned in her taste and smell—a sweet, musky scent that drove him wild.

Her body was on fire, pulsing all over, the heat rising in waves that made her fingers curl in the handcuffs. She writhed, but fell weakly under his tongue, the muscles in her thighs trembling as he controlled her in every way. Irene closed her mouth, trying to stifle her screams of pleasure—he didn't deserve to hear her, didn't deserve this victory. But the sounds escaped muffled by her closed lips, the pleasure building like a storm she couldn't stop. He moved his tongue in and out, licking her clit in quick circles as he left, and she arched her back involuntarily, her entire body reacting to his whim. Why this? Why him? She didn’t know, didn’t understand – she could only feel it, the moans tearing from her throat: “Uhhnnnhhh… N-n-no!” she tried to say, but the words were lost in a hoarse scream.

Then, suddenly, her entire body exploded in an overwhelming orgasm. She screamed, the sound echoing in the basement as he licked and sucked her with a roughness that prolonged each spasm. Her thighs shook violently, the liquid dripping harder, staining the floor as she came undone. Levi stood up, his lips glistening with her, and looked down at her sweaty, heaving body – her breasts rising and falling rapidly, her skin marked with redness, her eyes half-closed. She stared at him, her chest heaving, and saw the corner of his mouth lift in a crooked, satisfied smile. Irene swallowed hard, the bitter taste of defeat mixing with the ecstasy that still pulsed through her veins. Exhausted, she slumped against the wall, her body limp.

He leaned down to kiss her jaw and neck, his warm, moist lips brushing the sensitive skin just below her ear, a cruel contrast that made Irene's hair stand on end in anticipation of the chaos she knew was coming. His breath, heavy with tobacco and raw desire, warmed the curve of her neck, and for a moment she almost gave in to his false tenderness. But then he pulled away, his dark eyes shining with something wild, and he began to remove his pants with quick, sloppy movements. Irene gasped, her breath catching in her throat—he was grotesquely large, a menace of swollen, pulsing flesh that hung between her legs like a living weapon. Thick veins snaked beneath the taut skin, their length and width defying any logic of resistance. For a brief moment, desperation shone in her eyes, a flash of vulnerability that she hated to have missed.

Levi gripped her thighs with hands that didn't ask for permission, his calloused fingers digging into the soft flesh like claws, opening her with a force that made her muscles protest. He held her like a book he wanted to rip open, the pages of her body exposed and vulnerable under his hungry gaze. His tip—hot, thick, already dripping with a translucent drop—pressed against her lower lips, brushing them with torturous slowness, teasing her as he watched her every reaction. His eyes fixed on her expression, on her furrowed brows, her parted lips, on the way her chest rose too quickly.

"Stop…" Irene moaned, the word escaping weakly, almost a whisper, but her body already betrayed the lie. The heat between her thighs pulsed with raw need, her swollen, slick lips opening slightly for him, begging against every fiber of her mind.

And then— He entered her in a single brutal movement, a blow that tore through the air and her body at the same time. Irene screamed, the sound tearing through her throat as the handcuffs clanked violently, the chains slamming against the metal table he had thrown her on. He was too big, too deep—every inch of him stretched her to the limit of pain, her inner muscles giving way under his relentless invasion. She felt him throb inside her, hot and solid, filling her in a way that seemed impossible, the pressure against her inner walls eliciting ragged gasps from her lips. Moisture dripped down her thighs, her body surrendering even as her mind fought.

“You’re tearing me apart…” She gasped, her voice shaking, her eyes half-closed as she tried to process the mixture of agony and pleasure coursing through her. She no longer knew whether to beg for him to stop or for more, her words dissolving into moans as her hips reflexively lifted to meet him. Levi gave her no choice. He began to move, slowly at first, each thrust calculated to slide deep, making her feel every bulging vein, every hard curve of him brush against her. The friction was unbearable, a fire that burned and ignited at the same time. Her eyes widened, her mouth parted as hoarse moans escaped her, echoing in the basement, the sound mixing with the creaking of the table beneath their weight. He watched her, his teeth bared in a sadistic smile, as he controlled the pace, savoring the way she writhed beneath him.

And then the pace changed. Fast. Brutal. Uncontrollable. Levi gripped her thighs tighter, his nails digging into the skin until he left purple crescent-shaped marks, lifting her with each thrust as if he wanted to break her in half. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the basement—a wet, rhythmic slap that mingled with his guttural groans, low as thunder, and her short, sharp squeals, escaping against her will. The table creaked beneath the violence, the cold metal biting into her back as he fucked her with a ferocity that knocked the air from her lungs.

“You’re so fucking tight…” He groaned, his voice broken, his eyes fixed on the place where they connected. He watched, mesmerized, as she swallowed him whole, her lips stretched around him, liquid dripping in shiny strands that stained the table and her thighs. The wet heat enveloped him, squeezing him with every movement, and he growled like an animal, lost in the sensation.

Irene wouldn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her orgasm hit her like a runaway train, a burst of white light that burned behind her eyes and tore her body to shreds. She screamed wordlessly, without control, a primal sound that reverberated off the walls as her thighs shook violently, her inner muscles squeezing him hard enough to draw a grunt from him. Pleasure tore through her, brutal waves that made her writhe, but Levi didn't stop—he kept fucking her through the climax, each thrust prolonging the waves until she was gasping for air between ragged moans, her wrists bleeding more beneath the handcuffs.

Only then, when she was limp and trembling, her exhausted body hanging from the chains like a broken puppet, did Levi allow himself to fall into the abyss. He buried himself all the way in, his hips pressed against hers, a guttural growl escaping his throat as he poured himself inside her. The thick, hot heat gushed out in strong pulses, filling her to overflowing, the excess running in sticky strands down her thighs, dripping onto the floor in a wet, obscene sound. Irene felt every spurt, every spasm of him inside her, and she moaned softly, her body still pulsing around him, gripping him even as she tried to recover.

He remained there for what seemed like an eternity, his chest heaving, his cock slowly softening inside her, the viscous liquid continuing to leak in a slow, warm stream. When Levi finally pulled away, the wet sound of separation echoed in the silence, and he stared at her with a satisfied, heavy gaze, his lips curved in a smile of victory. Her body was marked—redness on her thighs, blood on her wrists, sweat and semen staining her skin—but Irene’s eyes, when they met his, were already clear again. Cold. Calculating. The pleasure had passed, but the game was only just beginning.

Levi was wet with sweat, his chest still rising and falling rapidly as he collapsed beside her on the table, his muscles relaxed. The flash drive slipped from his pocket, falling to the floor with a metallic click.

Irene watched.

And then, she laughed.

A cold, sharp sound, like broken glass.

“Is that what you called fucking?” — Her voice was hoarse with moans, but filled with a contempt that made Levi rise up on one elbow.

He opened his mouth to respond, but there was no time.

The handcuffs he thought held her were already in her hands—a piece of chain broken during sex, sharp as a blade.

— I'll teach you now. She moved like lightning—his legs still limp, his reflexes slowed by orgasm. The metal loop tightened around his neck before he could scream.

Levi grabbed her wrists, but Irene was already on top, her knees crushing his shoulders, her body still hot and marked by him now her instrument of death.

— This is how you fuck properly, — she whispered, coiling the chain until his knuckles were purple.

He struggled, his eyes wide, his tongue like a dog's. She watched. Every last tremor.

Every last breath.

The basement air still smelled of sex and mold, Levi’s viscous liquid running down her thighs in warm rivulets that dripped onto the floor as she stood, her legs weak but determined. She found the keys to the handcuffs in his shirt pocket, tossed in a corner, and freed herself with a click that sounded like a promise. Before she fled, Irene pulled on Levi’s coat—his scent still clinging to her skin—and grabbed his phone from the floor. She grabbed his phone, her fingers sliding across the bloodstained screen—not hesitantly, but filled with a fury that made her veins throb.

Then the last video opened.

Seulgi.

The cat-like eyes that Irene had once traced with her lips, the mouth that had whispered “I love you” against her bare skin. But there, on the screen, she wore a crooked smile, her eyes glazed and dilated with addiction, as she grabbed an envelope of cash from the dirty hands of one of Levi’s henchmen.

“Did you know she paid me with the profits from the sale?” said the note stuck to the video. “She bought that new shit that’s eating away at her. Pathetic, huh?”

The scene continued, cruel. Seulgi handed over the flash drive – the most secret parts of Irene, the moans that only she knew – and laughed, the hoarse voice of someone who no longer cared.

Irene felt something shatter inside her. It wasn’t the handcuffs – already broken. It wasn’t the flesh – already desecrated. It was something Seulgi had stolen and sold, something she would now pay to have back.

With firm fingers, she put away her cell phone. The basement was crackling with flames behind her when she left, but the inferno in her chest burned brighter. She imagined Seulgi on her knees, begging, her body exposed and vulnerable – and Irene would take her, not with love, but with the same brutality that betrayal deserved.

Two debts to collect.

And Irene always collected… with pleasure and punishment.

#kpop smut #irene smut #red velvet smut #girl group smut #resquestdusk

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omiomi · 4 months ago

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The Trauma Code: Heroes on Call

Baek Kang-Hyuk

Code Red: Unfinished Sutures

Genre: Medical Romance, Action, Drama

Tags: Light Angst, Slow Burn, Mutual Yearning, Slight Exes to Lovers

Warnings: Violence, Explicit Mention of Injuries, Language

Synopsis: In the heart of war zones and under the shadow of an elite underground medical organization, two brilliant doctors, Baek Kang-Hyuk and Y/N, once stood side by side—partners in chaos, reluctant allies turned something more.

Baek left Black Wings to fulfill a promise to his father, returning to Korea in search of a life beyond the battlefield. Y/N stayed behind, unable to let go of the only world she had ever known.

Years later, fate forces them back together. In the high-pressure corridors of the Operating Room, unfinished business bleeds into every exchanged glance and every suture stitched in urgency.

But old wounds don’t heal easily. When ghosts from Black Wings resurface, and the past demands answers, Baek and Y/N must confront the one thing they’ve spent years avoiding—each other.

Because love is like an open wound. And some sutures were never meant to be left unfinished.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

5 Reasons why Baek Kang-Hyuk Like Y/N, and 1 Reason why She Likes Him (One Shot)

#baek kang hyuk #baek kang hyuk x reader #baek kang hyuk x you #kdrama #netflix #the trauma code: heroes on call #x reader #baek kang-hyuk #ju ji hoon

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thevouofficial · 3 months ago

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Mastering the Black Tie Dress Code: A Gentleman's Guide to Formal Elegance

Ever found yourself staring at an invitation marked 'Black Tie' with a mixture of excitement and mild panic? You're not alone!

The traditional black tie dress code represents the pinnacle of men's formal attire, but navigating its rules needn't be daunting. From the classic tuxedo with its satin lapels to the perfectly tied bow tie, each element serves a purpose in creating that sophisticated silhouette.

Whether you're preparing for a summer gala (where an ivory dinner jacket might be your best ally) or a winter formal affair (when that velvet jacket in midnight blue could set you apart), understanding the seasonal variations can elevate your look from acceptable to exceptional.

Our latest article breaks down everything from fabric choices to accessory etiquette, ensuring you'll never again wonder if your cummerbund pleats should face up or down (they face up, by the way, designed originally to catch crumbs at dinner!).

Have you encountered any black tie dilemmas? Perhaps you've discovered a clever styling trick that works brilliantly? Share your experiences in the comments - I'd love to hear your formal wear stories!

Click the link in comments to read our comprehensive guide and ensure you're impeccably dressed at your next formal occasion.

#menstyle #mensfashion #styling #fashionstylist #menswear #old money style #thevou #the vou

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twobluejeans · 2 years ago

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HEARTBREAK ON TOUR!

ex!charlesleclerc x famous!reader x aarontaylor-johnson!

summary: in which the lavender haze has been lifted. or in which america’s it couple splits.

part 12: not the poet, series masterlist

faceclaim: madison beer

ally’s radio 📻: PART 12! live laugh love atg!! also, follow my wattpad @twobluejeans. considering making heartbreak on tour on wattpad, or something similar 🤫

INSTAGRAM, July 25

liked by clairofan333, 90sicons, and 897,616 others

y2kcoded y/n l/n and aaron taylor-johnson spotted hugging each other in downtown LA, 7/27.

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andrewgarfield_mybbg the begging of a beautiful love story

user1 HE IS NOT MY STEPFATHER HES THE FATHER WHO STEPPED UP!!!

user2 she’s hugging her next album 💀

praday/n he’s so girl coded ugh

TWITTER, July 25

INSTAGRAM, july 28

liked by travisscott, tchalamet, and 6,522,156 others

yourinstagram good in goodbye, out now everywhere.

INSTAGRAM STORIES, july 28

yourstory 3h

viewed by carlossainz55, drewstarkey, and 4,682,982 others

TWITTER, july 28

ally's radio 📻 : womp womp. if u haven’t already, please follow my wattpad account @twobluejeans, im going to start being more active on there. i have a jude bellingham fanfic already out so if ur interested, pls read it! i would love to see it succeed as hbot is here on tumblr 😭💌

taglist:@incoherenciass@dakotali@405rry@topaz125@sassyheroneckgiant@hevburn@itsmytimetoodream@ivegotparticulartaste@crowdedimagines @asterianax @haydee5010@scenesofobx@christinabae@magical-spit@dessxoxsworld@myareadsbooks@honethatty12@hopefulinlove@diasnohibng@gentlemonsterjennie1@hummusxx@eugene-emt-roe@taestrwbrry @perjarma @cxcewg@chimchimjiminie16@glow-ish@allywthsr @millyswife@mrsmaybank13@black-swan-blog27 @stargaryenx@lilsiz@ohthemisssery@leclerclvr

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woodchipp · 9 days ago

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The Knight Is... [DELTARUNE CHAPTER 3+4 SPOILERS]

Carol Holiday.

And I believe there's quite a bit that hints at that.

The Knight has a black sword, with its fight theme named after it. The game establishes that whoever creates the Fountains needs a sharp object to pierce the earth with. Carol has two katanas at her house, one of them looking like a black sword.

Before Kris exits the Holiday residence, Carol places a hand on their shoulder, which is described as "something like ice." Such a pointed description suggests that Kris is scared of her; incidentally, a good chunk of the flavor text during their fight with the Knight is basically them shitting themself.

Your vision narrows. Your chest feels tight. You felt lightheaded. You saw golden stars… Your vision narrows… …Your head is spinning. You feel surrounded. You felt your chest twisting. You felt lightheaded. You felt a migraine coming on… Your vision narrows. … The world revolves around you. You feel cornered. Your heartbeat becomes twisted.

This would make perfect sense if Carol is the Knight, as well as explain why it fought the gang only at the end of the chapter - after Kris arranged the deal with Tenna to keep them and their friends distracted, Carol could’ve told them she’d intervene if the deal was broken. Now that it was, Kris is terrified that they’ve failed their employer.

The Knight is intentionally holding back when attacking Kris in particular during the fight - if the latter is knocked out, their HP stays at -80 instead of being lowered to -999 like Susie and Ralsei’s, and they are DOWNed instead of SWOONed. This, again, would make perfect sense if Carol is the Knight - why would she want to seriously harm her ally?

Hands seem to be a notable body motif of the Knight - Jevil references “THE SHADOW OF THE KNIGHT’S HAND” if pacified, states that “THE HAND OF THE KNIGHT IS DRIFTING FORWARD” if dealt with violently, and its hands “glow a strange color” when charging up its last attack. Carol’s first physical appearance in the plot is prompted by Kris calling her after seeing Susie take the guitar - by the need to take matters into her own hands. The motif is also reinforced by her placing her hand on Kris’ shoulder.

Carol collects heart-shaped pillows, which are referred to as “heart-shaped objects” at one point by Noelle - the exact term Spamton used to refer to the SOUL in Chapter 2. She is also the only Lightner (so far) who is aware of and acknowledges the SOUL.

A knight is usually a servant and protector of their lord. Carol’s mayoral duties would mean she’s serving the people of Hometown and protecting them from crime.

The Knight is fought near a snow-covered plain, and the stars it uses in its attacks heavily resemble snowflakes. Aside from Carol’s icy hands, Susie comments that she felt the living room’s temperature drop 5 degrees when Carol walked in. (also she’s literally dressed in blue clothes.)

Tying into the previous point, both the Knight and Carol are generally associated with ice while Dess is associated with fire instead ("Raise up your bat for the burning fight", the "badly-traced" drawing of a dragon in her room)

A significant part of Carol’s character seems to be her grief over Dess, which leaves her rigid and inflexible. She doesn’t allow guests to enter Dess’ room, preserves it exactly as it was before her disappearance, and a very likely part of the reason she was that pissed upon seeing Susie with the guitar (the shelter code aside) was the fact the latter had disrupted the room’s sacred stillness by taking said guitar. As Susie puts it, “[it’s] kinda like the [H]olidays just got frozen in place.”

With this in mind, then, isn’t it interesting that the Knight shows a similar inflexibility in its goals, to the point it doesn’t bother to respond to Ralsei pleading with it not to bring forth the Roaring? Isn’t it interesting, then, that it’s Susie, set up by the game as the narrative symbol of trying to move forward from a troubled past, who gets the major speaking role during the fight and taunts the Knight with the bonds she formed?

Building off the point about Susie being the symbol of trying to move forward, Chapter 4 introduces Gerson, an old man (and the chapter's superboss) who teaches her to be more confident in herself and her abilities out of a genuine desire to see her improve herself, which would directly contrast Kris’ dynamic with Carol - an old woman stuck in the past exploiting a scared young person for (most likely) the sake of getting that past back, with little to no regard for their well-being. Not only does the Knight replace the superboss fight in Chapter 3, its battle contains no references to freedom, with the flavor text instead noting Kris feels “cornered" and "surrounded." Which could mean nothing.

Tying into the point before the previous one, the Knight appears right after Kris and the gang defeat Tenna, the personification of Kris’ fear of change and nostalgia for stabler times, and kills Tenna shortly after he expresses hope that change may not be so bad after all.

Which could mean nothing.

What About December?

“B-but the baseball bat!” - it is a red herring. Simple as that. The bat appears roughly for a second or two, the weapon looks consistently like a sword after that and it doesn’t match the heap of evidence pointing to Carol. Given that the Knight seems to have been intentionally designed to reference every single theory about it possible (the Holidays’ antlers, Gaster’s hand holes, Papyrus’ body shape, vaguely looks like a Titan from Ralsei’s explanation of the Roaring), it doesn’t strike me as too far-fetched that the bat has also been included as a way to make people jump to the conclusion the Holiday behind the helmet is Dess specifically.

“It’s totally Dess because Black Knife contains the Lost Girl leitmotif!” - it doesn’t. Black Knife is an extended remix of The Chase.

“Carol isn’t the Knight because she was still back at the house scolding Noelle when the church’s Dark Fountain was opened!” - timing between events doesn't seem to matter much in Undertale and Deltarune. Susie and Kris discover the church has a Dark Fountain only when the player goes to the church, which they have the choice not to.

“Carol isn’t the Knight because the Knight is effortlessly cool and Carol has no charisma!” - the woman has two katanas at home and uses one instead of a regular knife to cut her husband’s fruitcake, along with collecting Santa toys and heart-shaped pillows. Those are pretty solid hints she does have some flair and whimsy that her limited screentime couldn’t afford to show.

If Susie was an asshole bully in the Light World but then significantly mellowed out after visiting the Dark World, I can’t see why Carol can’t be a cold and domineering woman in the Light World but go feral and aura farm upon letting loose in the Dark World. Those things don’t really cancel each other out, and I think it would be a very Toby thing to do.

“The Knight’s final attack references Asriel’s!” - and two of its other attacks reference Sans’ for no apparent reason. Until proven otherwise, I doubt that means anything other than, again, Toby trolling the theorists.

“It’s too obvious!”/”But Gerson said-” I know what Gerson said. That doesn’t change how much sense Carol’s candidacy makes. Besides, the fact everyone believes Dess is the Knight would mean Carol isn’t the “obvious” candidate anymore, now, wouldn’t it?

What Gerson said about predictability was that too much of it ruins a story. It’s not a bad thing in general; on the contrary, if the audience can piece together the hints to a plot twist and predict it, this means the twist fits into the plot well. If you need an example of a story with a predictable plot twist that manages to be brilliant nonetheless, look no further than Mother 3 and its Masked Man - the game screams at you that his true identity is Claus, yet the predictability doesn’t take away from the writing’s impact.

Everything I’ve said up until now brings me to my final point - as interesting as the idea may be, the Dess Knight theory doesn’t make much sense in practice and, IMHO, would be narratively unfulfilling.

The most prevalent Dess Knight theories I’ve come across is that a) Dess somehow came back wrong, is in overwhelming pain and is struggling to hold her body together, necessitating Carol and Kris’ efforts to help her or b) Dess is somehow trapped within the Knight, commanded by someone else, usually Carol herself.

I find both of those theories implausible. Why? The person talking to us through the code, who is seemingly Dess herself.

What is this place, anyway...? How did I get here? ... as if I haven't asked that question a billion times already. I... I always did have that nightmare. Walking into the darkness, With the light shining from the doorway... Then the door slams behind me. And everything goes black. ... is this that nightmare? ... or was everything else a dream?

I'm starting to lose track of the time. Has it been days? Hours? If someone told me it's been years, I might believe them... Before, the sun came up, And so many wonderful things happened that made time meaningful. Things like breakfast, or late night TV... In this place, I don't eat or drink anymore. I can't tell if I'm awake or dreaming. I can't even tell if I'm dead or alive. It's just nothing but pitch black silence.

Looking at her musings about her predicament, she’s more confused than anything. She doesn’t understand what’s going on at all ("Is it that nightmare? Or was everything else a dream?", "I can't tell if I'm awake or dreaming. I can't even tell if I'm dead or alive.") If she is the Knight and is barely cognizant of anything that’s happening for either of the aforementioned reasons, how, exactly, would she have enough of an understanding of the situation to hold back and deal less damage to Kris, let alone follow anyone's orders? If she is the Knight and Kris is aware of that since they're working alongside her, why would they want to beat the shit out of her to the point their damage output increases after Susie and Ralsei are knocked out as opposed to holding back in any case? Moreover, Dess’ confusion doesn’t match the Knight’s generally collected demeanor and the intentional spite it creates the Titan with after Susie insinuates it isn’t a threat. Finally, the presence of a corkboard in Carol's room heavily implies that Dess is still missing and the former is still working to solve her disappearance, just like Asgore. And all of that’s not even mentioning how the narrative weight of Carol’s grief would be nullified if it turned out she’s had the person she’s grieving as her lapdog all along.

It is undeniable that Dess is shaping up to be important. However, as of now, we don’t know exactly how important she is, nor do we know much for certain about her in general. We don’t even know the reason of her disappearance. And I don't think it'd be a very good plot twist if a character as crucial as the Knight turned out to be a character anyone who isn’t a loremaster hardly knows about.

Carol being the Knight fleshes out the former, makes the latter an interesting antagonist and gives it a rock-solid motivation for creating Dark Fountains - she wants to see her daughter again, no matter the cost. Dess being the Knight solves nothing and falls apart upon scrutiny. I personally find the idea of an old woman embittered by loss and wishing to turn back the hands of time opposing the young people who fight to defy destiny and carve out a future for themselves far, FAR more thematically resonant and compelling than “hey remember the Masked Man? yeah I’m doing the exact same shit again lmao”

Oh, and one more thing.

Which could mean nothing.

TL;DR Carol is the Knight and I won’t be convinced otherwise until Toby himself roundhouse kicks me in the head with cold, hard evidence that she’s not.

#deltarune #deltarune chapter 3 #deltarune chapter three #deltarune chapter 4 #deltarune chapter four #kris dreemurr #kris deltarune #carol holiday #carol deltarune #deltarune knight #the roaring knight #susie deltarune #dess holiday #december holiday #dess deltarune

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allaboutlov3 · 1 year ago

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There is a key difference between making a choice willingly and one that is made out of free will.

You see, Reg decided to get the mark. He thought about it a lot. He weighed his options carefully. He knew about the consequences. Ultimately, he joined them.

The decision was his. And it was made willingly. But that doesn’t mean he chose freely.

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ducksido · 2 months ago

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Twst but mafia au headcannon?

Heartslabyul Mafia – The Red Court

Theme: Order, rules, loyalty, and execution Territory: Casinos, underground courts, and high-society clubs Leader: Riddle Rosehearts – The Red Judge

Known for strict enforcement of "The Queen’s Laws" (a literal written code).

Break the rules, lose a finger—or worse.

Ace and Deuce are his enforcers, often sent to “clean up messes.”

Cater handles info networks and social media manipulation. Trey manages cover businesses like bakeries and tearooms.

Savanaclaw Mafia – The Wildfangs

Theme: Strength, dominance, and territory Territory: Fight clubs, illegal betting rings, and scrapyards Leader: Leona Kingscholar – The Desert King

Ruthless and cunning. He doesn’t speak often—but when he does, people obey.

Has an entire underground fighting ring to test loyalty and skill.

Ruggie is the street rat who handles dirty work and extortion.

Jack is the "new pup" with a moral compass but deadly fists.

Octavinelle Mafia – The Abyss Syndicate

Theme: Deals, manipulation, debt, and secrets Territory: Luxury lounges, speakeasies, blackmail markets Leader: Azul Ashengrotto – The Merchant of Sins

Makes contracts with high interest. If you default, you belong to him.

Jade and Floyd are the twins who "collect debts" in their own twisted ways.

Their nightclub, “The Mostro Lounge,” is a neutral ground—but don’t get too drunk, or you’ll wake up in debt.

Scarabia Mafia – The Sun Serpents

Theme: Wealth, charm, and desert cunning Territory: Smuggling routes, artifact black markets, private villas Leader: Kalim Al-Asim – The Golden Smile

Kalim’s family is old money; he’s the face, but Jamil runs the operation.

Jamil handles poisonings, discreet assassinations, and laundering.

Their operation is flashy, but don’t let that sunshine fool you—one wrong move and you’ll vanish in the sands.

Pomefiore Mafia – The Glass Thorns

Theme: Beauty, perfection, and deadly pride Territory: High fashion, cosmetics, and assassination-for-hire Leader: Vil Schoenheit – The Poison Prince

Dresses his crimes in silk and scent. A clean kill is an art.

Rook is the eerie hitman who tracks targets like prey.

Epel is the underestimated “babyface” who snaps necks with a smile.

Ignihyde Mafia – The Ghostline

Theme: Technology, surveillance, and cybercrime Territory: The darknet, encrypted bunkers, digital weaponry Leader: Idia Shroud – The Phantom Executor

Doesn’t leave his bunker; he controls everything from screens.

Ortho is the AI/droid who enforces missions and wipes traces.

If your tech fails or your secrets leak, it’s probably Ignihyde’s doing.

Diasomnia Mafia – The Obsidian Court

Theme: Legacy, terror, and immortal rule Territory: Ancient castles, arcane weapon trafficking, elite rituals Leader: Malleus Draconia – The King of Thorns

Feared across all territories. Few dare speak his name aloud.

Lilia was once a deadly assassin—now he mentors the young bloods.

Silver protects Malleus like a shadow. Sebek is a loud, loyal enforcer.

Their power is mythical, and their reach is endless.

👻 Ramshackle Mafia – The Outlaw Union

AKA: The Hollow House, The Stray Pact, or The Neutral Syndicate Theme: Found family, chaos, cleverness, and impossible alliances Territory: The forgotten zones between dorm borders—neutral land, black market roads, the shadows of the walls

Leader: Yuu – The Phantom Boss

The backbone of this misfit empire.

They didn’t just survive NRC’s chaos—they recruited the forgotten, abandoned, and rogue players.

They lead with sharp instincts, mad charisma, and a knack for turning enemies into allies.

Every major dorm sees them as a threat now—not just because of power, but because they’re unpredictable and loyal only to their people.

Grim – Their "guard dog" with a short temper and big fire. Basically the mafia mascot and bodyguard.

Crowley (ugh) – Might be funding them under the table to keep balance between dorms, but is ultimately useless. Claims to be “advisor.”

Ramshackle’s territory is small, but everyone passes through it eventually. It’s a neutral ground for forbidden negotiations and secret alliances.

The house itself is a trap-laden fortress disguised as a falling-apart mansion. No one invades twice.

Chenya – The Cheshire Blade

A wildcard spy and info broker who left RSA and the Heartslabyul underworld.

Appears and disappears at will—no one ever knows whose side he’s on (except Yuu’s).

Master of illusions, sabotage, and surveillance. He’s everywhere and nowhere.

Keeps the others laughing—right before he slits someone’s throat mid-sentence.

Neige LeBlanche – The White Lie

Publicly still a "darling" singer and model—secretly Ramshackle’s social smokescreen.

Handles PR, public image, and propaganda for the family. Butter-wouldn’t-melt aura hides a manipulative mastermind.

When he's not smiling, he's pulling favors, blackmailing media execs, or sweet-talking other mafia heirs for intel.

Rollo Flamme – The Viper Bishop

Formerly an anti-magic radical. Now? He realized the system itself was the problem.

Handles information control and religious contacts—he runs the cult underworld, no biggie.

Cold, calculating, and eerily calm. Uses fear and righteous speeches to demoralize opponents.

Some say he joined Yuu to balance them; others say he's waiting for a perfect betrayal. Either way, he's useful.

Fellow Honest – The Trickster Boss

Old-school mafia type with showman flair. Originally neutral, now Yuu’s inside man for old money trade routes.

Handles weapon deals, smoke-and-mirror diplomacy, and nostalgic criminal connections.

Thinks of Yuu as a “young boss with real moxie.”

Keeps Gidel on a tight leash (most of the time).

Gidel – The Cannery Butcher

Extremely unhinged—used to work with the mafia as an executioner-for-hire.

Now works as Ramshackle’s interrogator and "cleanup guy."

Think chainsaw, bloodstains, and a sense of humor that makes Floyd look tame.

Yuu is the only person who can tell him “stop” and live.

Skully – The Phantom Enforcer

Quiet, hulking presence. Doesn’t speak much, but when they do? It's with fists or a cold death glare.

Bodyguard, smuggler, demolitions expert.

Comes from a cursed bloodline—people say they’re immortal. No one’s tested it twice.

Their loyalty to Yuu is absolute. When Skully stands behind you, you’re safe.

Dynamic as a Mafia:

Not bound by dorm politics.

Deals in everything: black market goods, intel trades, bodyguard contracts, “favor-for-favor” diplomacy.

Known for sudden, chaotic moves that disrupt the careful balance between dorm mafias.

The other dorms see them as an unstable alliance, but that’s what makes them terrifying. No rules. No limits. Just loyalty and survival.

(I accidently made ramshackle's bigger)

#twst x reader #twst #twst wonderland #twst yuu #twst headcanons #mafia au #twst au #twst mafia au #oops i made ramshackle bigger

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 1 year ago

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book 7 part 8 thoughts!!

***THIS POST CONTAINS MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR BOOK 7 PART 8 OF THE MAIN STORY!!*** Please note: this is NOT meant to be a summary or a translation; these are only my initial thoughts on the events that roughly unfold. There may be details overlooked or misunderstood in this post, so PLEASE do not use this as a translation.

Right off the bat, we're starting off strong with a video presentation from Idia!! He uses many MMORPG terms and analogies to better explain his concepts, even referring to allies as "party members".

The video is ~3 minutes long and the artwork used are Takashi Mifune-sensei’s LINE stickers. Yana says she is particular about functionality like Idia is, so she is pleased that they were able to implement this video. “Please watch Idia’s debut as. YouTuber!”

AGKVTIUOD8VQFVE IDIA SHROUD ASKS US TO LIKE AND SUBSCRIBE IF WE LIKED HIS PRESENTATION....... . . .. ...... .. . . . . .. . . . . I'LL GIVE IT TO YOU, IDIA... You popped off on the editing fr...

Idia tells us that there the population of Sage’s Island is roughly 20,000!

He basically explains his plan to defeat Malleus. Idia's going to fuck around with stuff in his own dream to make cheat codes to debuff Malleus (ie remove his invincibility). The others shall distract Malleus so he doesn’t catch onto what Idia is up to. Yuu, Grim, Sebek, Silver, and Ortho will infiltrate the dream worlds of classmates, "wake" them, and then recruit them to their cause. They will then lure Malleus into Idia's dream, at which point all the recruited students will JUMP HIM 🤡 Truly, the power of friendship but the NRC way…

Idia grants everyone the ability to DREAM FORM CHANGE!! By saying that phrase, it opens up a menu where you can magically change your outfit in an instant. The NRC boys are becoming magical girls… ✨

akjlfabidfbefeqof Grim has fun changing into his various Anniversary outfits! Ceremonial Robes, Labwear, Apprentice Chef...!

Silver and co. hop into Epel's dream! (Idia keeps in touch with everyone via his tablet while he stays behind in his own dream.)

Everyone at NRC seems to speak in the same Harveston dialect as Epel. And, well... here's apple boy...

IS THAT EPEL’S HEAD ON JACk’S BODY????????!!!!!?!?!?!!!?!?

THIS IS LITERALLY THE BUFF NATSUKI DDLC MEME 😭 I MEAN I WAS KINDA EXPECTING THIS BUTNIT FLOOKS SO FURGINGNGGGF GS CURSED

Anyway, the group just casually walks up to Epel and tells him everything is a lie??? And when Epel's world starts to go all wibbly wobbly, a dream!Rook and dream!Vil show up to praise him. Rook says he has heard rumors that Savanaclaw wants to recruit Epel for their own dorm, while Vil praises Epel as being both strong and beautiful, a perfect fit for Pomefiore.

I like that the implication is that while Epel still has a desire to be in a "tough" dorm like Savanaclaw, this dialogue seems to also say that he now also finds value in Pomefiore. This is why dream!Rook and Vil are tugging Epel in opposite directions; his soul must like BOTH options. Further proof is that Epel is still a Pomefiore student in his dream, he is not in Savanaclaw. To keep him under the sleep, the dream is trying hard to appeal to both sides of Epel's wishes.

So we battle the fake Rook and Vil!! Then Epel's memories come flooding back to him; the cracking glass effect is so pretty and calls into mind a mirror shattering as Epel gains his lucidity.

(Rook and Vil get similar "glass breaking" scenes upon waking, so I'm only going to comment on Epel's here and leave it at that!)

Cut to black to explain the situation to Epel!

Ortho invites Epel to join their "party" in Idia's dream! Then I believe he uses Epel's dream data to project a hologram of buff!Epel to remain in the dream while Epel joins the gang to hop into the next dream.

Next up is Rook's dream, and--

YUP, THAT'S A YEEHAWING ROOK HUNT IF I'VE EVER SEEN ONE 💀 I thought for sure his in-game 2D model would have larger arms (like, at LEAST Leona-sized arms, if not Jack-sized)... I guess not though, because we cannot have nice things/j

I love the extra detail of the leaves being stuck in the brim of his hat!! dfhlbafbiapia and bro just walks around with a quiver of arrows and a bow strapped to his back at all times...

ahbfg8yoadf9pbaegpb ROOK JUST DROPEPD A FUCKING BOMBSHELL ON US???????? Apparently Vil is a student at RSA and is besties with Neige???????????? BRO'S HEAD IS FR WRITING OUT FANFIC ABOUT HIS TWO MOST BELOVED IDOLS HOLDING HANDS AND GIGGLING TOGETHER

Uhhhh long story short, Rook runs off to his room and we chase him. What we find is--

YEAH THIS IS ROOK'S ROOM??????? It's probably what is depicted in his Savanaclaw Dorm Uniform SSR too. Note the split bed and the completely different carpets in the SSR artwork.

AEBFYVQEVYOFBQB THE WAY THE ROOM IS PERFECTLY SPLIT DOWN THE CENTER AND IS JUST STACKED WITH MERCH (including Tsum Neiges and Vils????????!????!?!?!?!?!??!!!!)

Rook starts to chuckle menacingly and pops off about his hyperfixations to us???? Then he wrangles us all to sit down and watch DVDs with him for the next *checks notes* 5 HOURS?????? AM I READING THIS CORRECTLY????? Rook... HONEY... THE WORLD IS ABOUT TO END, WE DON'T HAVE TIME TO DO THIS...

We keep trying to talk to Rook, but he isn't quite waking up yet. So we have an aside with the gang and Epel suggests... RECREATING OUR VDC PERFORMANCE??????? ? ?? ????? He shows Silver, Sebek, Grim, and Ortho the dance moves and the show goes on!

Rook is lured to the VDC stage and we get a new Absolutely Beautiful rhythmic with our current squad! Unfortunately, the vocals are the same as book 5, so we do not get a new variation with Epel, Sebek, Silver, Ortho, and Grim singing.

I love Love LOOOOVE that Epel is the center here!! He took the initiative to suggest the idea as well as teach everyone, and now he's REALLY walking the talk by serving as the "leader" of the group.

Watching the NRC Tribe makes Rook's head hurt and he starts to remember...!!

Well, wouldja look at that... Here comes dream!Neige and RSA!Vil to distract Rook. They say they are inspired by the NRC performance and start to perform Everyone Yahoo! This entrances Rook, making our task of "waking" him all the more difficult.

aihfboyfpie LMAO THEY'RE SO DRAMATIC?????? Vil steps up to defend Neige, and Neige is all like, "Nooo, Vii-kun! If anything were to happen to you, I'd be crushed by sadness :((" ROOK... IS THIS WHAT YOUR MIND COMES UP WITH...

Rook points an arrow at them and cries about how he betrayed Epel... (AYO LIKE THE HUNTSMAN????) and now he has to destroy Vil and Neige, who are "proof" of his betrayal. It makes him cry even more because he can't think of harming them, even if it's just a dream...

Anyway, time to pummel the sparkly duo! You can see from the battle sprites that RSA students seem to use REAL ASS SWORDS to channel their magic instead of magical pens. Man... Imagine being handed a writing utensil and then glancing over at the next guy and seeing them holding an ACTUAL WEAPON.

If you look closely, you can tell that Neige and Vil's pommels, grips, and rain guards are slightly different. Apparently, every RSA student has a unique one? WOW, I feel like NRC got ripped off then??? Cuz only the dorm leaders get unique items or staves to channel their magic and everyone else has the same standard issue magical pen but with a different magestone color. The only exception to this for the average student seem to be Diasomnia kids, who have baton style magical pens in their dorm uniforms.

Rook fully awakens and we rinse and repeat what we did with Epel (cut to black to explain things to him, make a hologram Rook to leave behind, and invite him to join us).

The last part of the update has us venturing into Vil's dream.

OMG, WE'RE IN FAIREST CITY??? AT QUEEN'S FILM STUDIO???? We just visited this place in a recent event! What perfect timing... I see you, clever TWST devs!

I swear that Vil's outfits are getting worse with each new one I see him in, but that's probably just my fashion sensibilities clashing with his 💦 I thought from the initial silhouette that we would be getting a slightly older Vil to show us how his values have changed since book 6, in which Vil declares he is always beautiful no matter what. Him being older would truly drive that point home; I feel this was a missed opportunity but maybe it wasn’t possible because these dreams don’t seem to be taking place in the “future” but mostly center on the present or past? Something, something, magic limited to what can be imagined and maybe the magic can’t reach that far “ahead”?

aefyeyovfyvqvf HIS NEW HAIRSTYLE KINDA LOOKS LIKE CROWLEY'S, DOESN'T IT...

Here, Vil seems to be highly popular + considered fairest of them all. Additionally, a certain SOMEONE has been relegated to being his mere assistant (and uh, Vil is somewhat demanding of them):

VIL... THIS ISN'T HELPING YOU BEAT THE MEAN GIRL ALLEGATIONS, SWEETIE...

On a more serious note, I think this raises an interesting point about Vil’s character. Try as he might to get over his envy of Neige, it’s clearly still something so deep-rooted in Vil, right up to the end of booo 5. Now this element also permeates in his dream world. Neige “has” to be demoted in so Vil can stand on top—but is that really “fair” to Neige?? Is it truly Vil’s jealousy that informs the dream of this, and thus the dream is spinning this shallow, easy victory for Vil’s satisfaction??? Because the noble Vil I know of in book 5 wouldn’t consider this a real “win”. Very fascinating topic to ponder!

Vil has Neige toss us out, which Neige does. The dream is preemptively acting this time, with dream!Neige coming at us. We make a getaway and somehow whack the head of the announcer + have Rook usurp his role.

As Vil is walking down the red carpet, Rook announces the various sins that Vil has committed. Vil panics and demands that someone shut Rook up, but then he starts to realize things aren't quite right.

We try to intervene, but Neige gets in the way and ultimately Vil is pulled deeper into his own darkness. Everyone else plunges into the dark with Vil?? I was worried that we'd have another battle map segment but thankfully there was none!!

We're back in the VDC backstage hallway area and stumble across a horrifying sight. Neige is on the ground (next to an empty bottle of apple juice) and all Seven Dwarves are surrounding him and sobbing. Ortho runs a scan on his vitals and Neige... FLATLINES...

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?????? THAT VIL ACTUALLY INTENDED TO KILL NEIGE IN BOOK 5????? 💀 Dude... No wonder why Vil was feeling so guilty and screaming that his actions were so "ugly"...

Epel uses his UM to encase Neige in a magical glass coffin to keep him safe. Then they run out onto the VDC stage and hear the announcer declaring that NRC has won. Vil is there soaking up all the attention and praise until we confront him.

Just as he is starting to "awaken", the darkness comes back and Vil alone is taken.

What I find really adorable here is that both Epel and Rook rush to his side and try to pull Vil out of the darkness. They're... OFFERING THEIR HANDS... TO HELP HIM OUT OF THE MIRE... OFFERED HANDS... A MOTIF THAT HAS BEEN IN TWST SINCE THE PROLOGUE... 👁️

Vil finally faces off against his Phantom. Like Idia in the last update, Vil willingly assumes his OB form to do battle. These fights seem very symbolic in the grand scheme of things. Idia and now Vil, confronting the worst, most unsavory parts of themselves, their inner demons, and rising victorious, proving that they have become better people… It continues the little bits of character growth that we’ve been seeing in each of the past books!!

He rises from the darkness and joins up with everyone else after conquering the fight!! The update ends here.

Okay, there's a LOT to talk about????????

The highlight for me was definitely Idia's presentation. It was very fun to watch because of the slick editing and it was a silly way to lay out the plans. I appreciate that we get to see Idia's strengths on display here; he can get long-winded and throw in lots of eccentric gamer slang, but you can also see how quickly he's able to tailor a complex plan together while accounting for many variables. adfhlboafoiyebif I UNDERSTAND THE IDIA HYPE NOW, I UNDERSTAND IT ALL...

(Side note: I did not know where to insert this, so I'll do it at the end! BONUS POINTS TO IDIA FOR RIGHTFULLY CALLING MALLEUS SHALLOW 💀 because his understanding of constitutes as happiness truly IS shallow. Once again, Idia slays with his brutally real words...)

I already said my parts about Epel and Rook's dreams when they happened. It was great seeing how their characters have developed, especially Epel! I never much cared for him, but I really appreciate all that he has done this update.

This pretty much confirms that future updates will have us visiting every remaining classmate's dreams and "waking" them. Admittedly, I'm both excited and worried??? Because that's a TON to cram in, and I worry that not everyone will get proper screentime or development. On the other hand, I'm hype to see what their dreams are like and what other limited SSRs the game might throw at us.

I feel like with the reveal of Vil OBing to fight his Phantom/"inner demons", we'll get similar scenes with the other OB boys coming to terms with what they've done and where they can go from here. This... might lead into the highly desired and speculated about Overblot series of SSRs, which I theorize will be the limited SSRs for each of the OB boys. I'll definitely be keeping my eyes peeled for those, TWST... I wonder if we'll get a Neige card eventually too??? Since we did see his battle assets exist this time. Will Chenya get one too, assuming he comes in a futureHeartslabyul update??

Aaaaaah, next time... Scarabia... 🤡 I'm so hype for that, Scarabia is like my second favorite dorm next to Octavinelle!! (SPEAKING OF, WILL WE FINALLY GET EEL FORM CARDS FOR THE TWINS...)

I’m sliiiightly concerned for Silver because bro used his UM no less than, what? 4 or 5 times this update alone??? He used his UM to enter Yuu’s dream and then Sebek, Lilia, AND Idia’s. Presumably, he also has to use his UM no less than 13 more times (12 more for the remaining boys + 1 more time to return them all to Idia’s to ambush Malleus). And even worse, he has to transport an increasing number of people each time. HOW TF IS SILVER NOT OVERBLOTTING????! 😭

bxjsgwjwnwkcbjsbs This update was nonstop WTF moments sandwiched between genuinely heartfelt moments. It’s been really rewarding to follow along and see how the Pomefiore boys have changed since we first met them all the way back in late book 4, early book 5. Looking forward to seeing how the other boys play out!! (… Book 7 is fr about to be 200+ parts long 😭)

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sloanesallow · 7 months ago

Text

tell me

Sebastian doesn't want to be married, but he's always been known to make the best of a difficult situation. (A little different than what I usually write, as this is technically an unnamed MC...though it's still very Sloane coded.) Sebastian Sallow x F!MC (Unnamed) Tags: MDNI, NSFW! Sexual content, arranged marriage trope, first time, stupid sexy Sebastian. 2.7k words [Ao3] | [Wattpad] | [Tumblr Masterlist]

There was only one semi-formal introduction between Sebastian and his betrothed after the engagement was announced, awkward glances exchanged as their families bartered over the marriage contract and dowry. She is a stranger to him, and will likely remain one—it’s rare for these types of arrangements to blossom into anything meaningful. As much as he wants to resist and run, Sebastian honors his familial duty and begrudgingly agrees, observing the way his wife-to-be holds back tears.

Poor girl.

The wedding ceremony isn’t any better.

Sebastian spends the night before in a haze of firewhiskey and denial, blacking out with the hope he’ll wake up and it’ll be a bad dream. Instead, he wakes up with a splitting migraine that worsens his already sour expression. The only reason he decides not to drink more is because of her, the anxiety and fear radiating off his bride as they exchange meaningless vows in front of a handful of guests. They are in this charade together, for better or worse—best not to alienate his only potential ally by making a drunken fool of himself.

He sits through the reception with disinterest, worried more about her fiddling with the golden ring on her finger, and how she hasn’t touched her food or wine. Sebastian isn’t stupid—he knows she is terrified of the inevitable when they retire to the wedding suite with the expectation of consummation. There’s very little he can do to calm her nerves, but that doesn’t mean he won’t try.

As soon as the door to their bedroom closes, he sighs, tugging loose his collar before crossing over to the decanter on the nearby table. He glances at her—his wife—watching as she stands in the middle of the room, fidgeting like a trapped animal. Sebastian fills a shallow glass with whiskey, the amber liquid sloshing as he brings the offering to her. She flinches, even as she shakily takes the drink without meeting his gaze.

“You’re trembling,” he states the obvious, studying the curve of her lips as she takes a small sip. “No need to be so damn frightened. I’m not going to devour you.”

She gasps, snapping a hand to her mouth as the whiskey nearly sputters from her lips. Sebastian would find her reaction humorous if the circumstances were different. He removes the glass from her grasp, setting it down before looking at her again. She’s a delicate thing, petite and fair, in stark contrast to his looming presence.

“Husbands take what they want,” she whispers as if it is fact.

Sebastian frowns, wondering what other falsehoods she’s been brainwashed into believing.

“Look at me,” he says, gently lifting her chin with the softest touch. Her eyes are wide and glossy and beautiful. “I’m not a monster. I would never take what isn’t offered.”

She sucks in a breath, gaze darting across his face as if she is seeing him for the first time. He’s being honest—if she were to refuse him, he wouldn’t force her—but they both know failing to consummate the marriage will lead to ruin.

“We’re strangers,” she says in the same quiet voice as before.

“Strangers,” Sebastian repeats, pulling his hand away but remaining close as if to test if she will dart away at the first chance. For a moment, he weighs his options. “It doesn’t have to stay that way.”

Her expression shifts, ever so subtly into curiosity as he takes a step back. He keeps his movements slow, not wanting to startle her as he starts to undress, unclasping the heavy belt around his waist. It falls away, along with the heavy fabric of his wedding kilt, a pile on the floor that he soon adds his boots and socks to. Sebastian smirks when he notices his blushing bride’s eyes scanning his physique, fixating on the hem of his linen shirt that rests against his thigh.

“Trust takes time to build, darling,” he croons, watching the quickening rise and fall of her chest. He gestures to her wedding dress. “Let me help you.”

She hesitates before turning around, a visible shiver running through her when he brushes his fingers against the nape of her neck. He toys with the ringlets that have escaped her elaborate updo, plucking free iron pins without a care for where they land in the room. Only when her hair cascades across her shoulders does he continue, tracing the path of her spine down to the fastenings that bind her. He deftly loosens them, listening to her soft exhale when the fabric slips away from her form. Beneath is a simple chemise that does little to hide her femininity.

“T—thank you,” she whispers and Sebastian is struck with the wicked thought of what she’d sound like moaning his name.

He lets out a quiet, mirthless chuckle. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Her skin prickles with goosebumps beneath his touch as he caresses her shoulders. The softness of her is distracting, causing a stirring inside that he did not entirely anticipate. He would be an idiot to not find her attractive, but this is not a fling or passing fancy he can easily bed without thought—this pretty little creature is his wife.

Sebastian continues his gentle massage, thumbs working free a knot of tension between her shoulder blades. It’s a simple but intimate gesture, one that he hopes settles her nerves. He leans in, catching the way her eyes flutter closed and her lips part with a soft sigh. “How does that feel?” he asks, breath fanning across her neck. “Better?”

She barely nods, still trembling as he slides his hands down her arms before resting them on her waist. He feels the curve of her body beneath the chemise, fingers flexing against the cotton before loosening his grip. The heat in his gut grows. Sebastian is well aware of the complexity of the situation and knows perfectly well that this night—their first as husband and wife—will set the tone for the rest of their marriage.

“Tell me what you want,” he encourages, daring to ghost his lips across her skin.

“I—” she falters, breath hitching. “I don’t want…” she trails, and he listens carefully to her tone. She isn’t refusing him. “I don’t know,” she clarifies, turning her head to look at him. “I’ve never—”

Sebastian arches his brow at her confession, though he isn’t shocked by her virginity. Most brides of her upbringing are. What surprises him is the idea that she’s never explored her own body, provoking a devilish curiosity.

“Never?” he repeats in a husky drawl. His fingers twitch at her sides, teasing at what he could teach her. “Well, there’s a first time for everything, darling.”

“And there’s no need to rush,” he murmurs, this time pressing a soft kiss beneath her ear. She shivers and he grins. “We have all night…and every night after that to…explore.”

Sebastian is fully aware of the effect he’s having on her, feeling the way she tenses and yet leans into him, caught between societal expectations and the natural yearnings of her body. But he doesn’t want her to feel obligated—no—he wants her to want him. He makes his offer, “I can show you, if you’d like. Help you discover all the things that bring you pleasure.”

He moves one hand up to cradle her chin again, deciphering the shimmer of her eyes. She lets out a shaky breath. “Y—yes. Please.”

Please.

The corner of his mouth twitches up at her tentative consent.

“Good girl.”

He spins her around to face him, drinking in her flushed cheeks and the way her eyes darken at his words. It’s thrilling, but as hungry as Sebastian is for her, he reminds himself to savor the moment, if only for her sake. He cups her cheek, brushing his thumb across her bottom lip.

“Breathe, love,” he instructs in a whisper before kissing her. It’s soft—she’s soft—and he tugs her closer, hands tightening around her waist just enough to elicit a gasp. He takes the opportunity to lick into her mouth, swallowing the tiny, surprised sound she makes. Her hands find his shoulders, but instead of pushing him away, she melts, head lulling to the side when he breaks away from her lips to kiss down her jawline to her neck.

Sebastian spends some time there, alternating between little nibbles and soft, open-mouth kisses across her clavicle. He pulls the sleeves of her chemise down to expose more of her beautiful skin, capturing her lips again as he slowly lowers the hem some more until the cotton slides off her body completely. His eyes scan over bared flesh, an appreciative groan echoing in his throat as he gently cups her breasts.

“Are you sensitive here?” he asks, thumbs teasing her nipples that pebble beneath his touch. Her only answer is a sharp inhale and a brilliant blush. Sebastian lowers his head to wrap his lips around a taut peak, humming at the taste of her and how she arches, pressing closer. He lavishes her chest with attention, alternating from one breast to the other until her breathing is labored and she lets out a tiny mewl that makes his cock throb.

“I bet,” he muses against her skin, trailing his kisses as he lowers himself to the ground to kneel before her like the goddess she is. He lingers near her hip, one hand sliding from her waist to her thigh. “You’re sensitive here, too.”

Sebastian glances up at his wife through thick lashes, gauging her readiness before he dares to touch her. All he sees is desire, all her attention focused on his next move. He advances, watching as her eyes flutter closed and the most sinful sigh escapes her parted lips. His fingers trace through her sex, opening her to his exploration.

“Do you want me to kiss you here, darling?”

This time, she moans, and Sebastian takes that as a yes. He pulls away, softly chuckling at her little whine as he coaxes her to lie down on the bed. Starting at her ankles, his hands glide up her calves, over her knees, and across the smooth expanse of her inner thighs as he parts her legs, settling himself between them. His lips follow, and he looks up at her again as she trembles in anticipation.

“Tell me,” he breathes, right where she needs him most. “Tell me what you want, Mrs. Sallow.”

She whimpers, and it’s like he’s activated some secret part of her that’s lain dormant until now. Her pupils dilate and she eagerly nods. “Y—your mouth,” she answers, desperate as she furrows her brows in frustration. “Please…”

“Well,” he cheekily replies, suddenly realizing how much fun he will have corrupting her with lessons in carnality. “Since you asked so nicely.”

His mouth finally meets her warmth and the sensation is electrifying. Sebastian savors the taste of her, swirling his tongue against her entrance before focusing on the tiny pearl of nerves that make her cry out in pleasure. She grips the sheets tight as her hips buck up, and he grins at the reaction, one hand steadying her as the other moves to join his feverous ministrations.

“Do you like that?” he asks between laps of his tongue, gradually pushing one finger into her heat. She’s tight, and her body clenches even more at the intrusion, but she’s so wet and so ready for him that the digit slides in with little resistance. Sebastian groans, suckling on her clit as he withdraws before pushing in again, each time a little deeper until she is moaning with every labored breath. He adds a second finger, curling them until he finds the sweet spot that makes her back arch and thighs quiver.

“Yes,” she moans, and it’s so enthusiastic that Sebastian grinds his hips against the mattress to provide himself some temporary relief. He’s hard, straining almost painfully as he imagines himself sheathed inside her, how she’ll look with her legs wrapped around his waist, neck tossed back in ecstasy.

He steadily increases the pressure, finding a rhythm that has her writhing and keening for release. And then she tenses, her core clamping and fluttering around his fingers as her body trembles. Sebastian’s chest swells with pride, that dark, possessive thrill coursing through him again as she spirals.

“There you go, love.” His voice is ragged as he eases her through her first climax.

It won’t be her last.

Sebastian slowly leans back on his heels to take in the sight of her, flushed and wild-eyed, struggling to catch her breath as her eyes fixate on him. He peels off his linen shirt, allowing her a moment to ogle his naked body, smirking when her gaze continues to linger on his cock.

“Do you want more?”

“Yes,” she answers before he can compel her to.

Sebastian nods, settling back between her thighs, his hands sliding up to grip the back of her knees as he spreads her a little wider, exposing her slick center to his gaze. He’s momentarily transfixed, fighting back the urge to plunge forth and ravage her like a man starved. With one hand guiding his length, he positions himself at her entrance, both sucking in a breath as he slowly, slowly pushes in.

“Fuck,” he breathes, repeating the curse over and over as he watches her body swallow him, the tight, velvet heat of her threatening to unravel him before he can even start. “Just relax,” he manages to say, half for himself as he clenches his jaw. “Breathe for me, love.”

He gives her time to adjust to the fullness, even as his resolve wavers at the heavenly sensation. Only when he sees her expression soften does he move, shallow thrusts that gradually deepen, hands bracing her thighs as he watches his cock disappear inside her over and over. Her tiny whimpers morph into heady moans, and he switches his focus to her face.

“You take me so well, darling,” he praises, near-delirious with the pleasure coursing through his veins. “I knew you’d be perfect.”

Sebastian barely manages not to lose himself, rolling his hips in a steady cadence that promises them both an exquisite end. He wants—needs—to feel her come around him, come with him. The sounds she makes tell him she’s climbing that precipice once more, on the verge of another shattering orgasm.

“That’s it,” he moans, leaning over her as he braces his weight on one arm, his other hand sliding beneath her to tilt her hips. The new angle produces a new kind of friction that he chases, his body colliding with hers in urgent, needy thrusts. “I’ve got you, just—fuck—come with me.”

And she does, brilliantly so, a broken cry that he swallows with a devouring kiss. Sebastian follows her over the edge, snapping his hips forward one last time as he spills himself deep, a shudder running through his entire body. The tremors take a long time to subside, but he eventually slumps, barely managing to keep his body from crushing hers as he collapses against the mattress. In the post-coital haze, he glances over to find his wife with a similar, blissed-out expression.

“Are we still strangers?” he jokes, rolling to encircle his arms around her limp form. He smiles, heartbeat fluttering as she softly giggles. Sebastian thinks he likes that sound the most.

“No,” she replies, though it’s obvious that she’s still bashful despite—or because of—their newfound intimacy. “Acquaintances, perhaps.”

Sebastian laughs, and the dangerous thought that he could fall in love with this woman crosses his mind. Instead of allowing the idea to take root, he closes the distance between them to kiss her, languid and unhurried.

“In that case,” he starts. “I should tell you about all the wicked things I want to do to you,” he murmurs against her lips, grinning when she moans. “Tell me, wife,” he says. “Do you want me to worship your body?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, please.”

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x f!mc #hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow fanfic #sebastian sallow smut

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