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giveamadeuschohisownmovie · 7 months ago

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Ways I can think of that “DanDaDan” differs from other shonen series:

* Female MC is as important as male MC

* Canon romance gets consistent development through the series. I think that’s part of the reason why the MC ships with the rivals (Aira, Jiji) aren’t as popular with the fandom for once. The main ship is actually getting good development, so the fanbase doesn’t have to make up headcanons to fill in the space.

* Flips the found family trope on its head by having the main group despise new people whenever they show up and they even actively try to kick them out. The new people only end up staying because they keep lingering around to the point that the main group just gives up and lets them stay.

* The rivals aren’t emo or angst-ridden. Aira is a delusional tryhard popular girl while Jiji is a himbo drama queen. I’d even go as far to say that the MCs are the ones who are emo and angst-ridden.

* Supporting cast is more than just important, they become integral to the story. I’d say that the further you read into DanDaDan, the more it becomes an ensemble cast where everyone is a protagonist in their own right.

* World-building is all over the place, but in a good way. Most other shonen are pretty consistent with what kind of world their characters live in. MHA is superhero-based, Naruto is ninjas and magic, Bleach is spirits, and so on. DanDaDan feels like the author just throws whatever cool shit they can think of into the story. That’s actually the reason why I wrote in a different post that DanDaDan reminds me more of Marvel/DC than any other shonen series, it manages to capture the catch-all insanity of those comics.

* Doesn’t rely on hidden power-ups. The main characters either have to outsmart the villains or they have to train to get better with the powers they already have.

* The pervert comic relief guy is actually endearing for once. Not because of his pervert tendencies, but because he’s so oblivious to how socially inept he is that it’s kind of funny. This is gonna sound strange, but he sorta reminds me of Thor in Thor Ragnarok. Full of himself and oblivious to how dumb he can be. He’s Thor without the good looks lol.

* Flips the “nerdy outcast loser somehow gets a harem” trope. Instead of making Okarun cooler than how he actually is, the story emphasizes that the women who fall for Okarun are as weird as him. Momo is a weird outcast, Aira has main character syndrome, Vamola doesn’t understand how to human because she’s literally not one, Rin thought Okarun was a vampire (and wanted him to be).

* Flips the “elderly figure in charge of the teenagers” trope. I don’t really get motherly figure vibes from Seiko Ayase, I get more “cool wine aunt who is stuck with her niece” vibes. In fact, there was the arc where Okarun showed up to her in spirit mode to get her help with fighting off the alien invasion and Seiko’s response was, “Well, I’m not in the area and I have other shit to do, so you kids figure it out.”

* The series takes the piss out of the trope of mystical/magical items that the group acquired to get their powers. I mean…the main mystical MacGuffin in the series are Okarun’s balls.

* Okarun was about to go into an “I’m weak / I wish I was stronger / I want to get stronger for my friends” breakdown, but Turbo Granny told him to shut up and keep fighting.

* Not afraid to put the “cool girl” in as many funny situations as possible. Off the top of my head, the series built up Momo as this cool, tough girl who doesn’t take shit from anyone…then several chapters later, Okarun found out she got a job at a maid cafe.

(Feel free to add to the list!)

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ay0nha · 1 month ago

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How Many Miles to Babylon? | Remmick (i)

SUMMARY: In the bible, "Babylon" is used as a symbol of sin and rebellion. Based on this request.

"How many miles to Babylon? Three score miles and ten. Can I get there by candlelight? Yes, and back again ... If your heels are nimble and your toes are light, You may get there by candlelight." Nursery Rhyme, Unknown, 1801

PAIRING: Remmick x f!reader (human)

WORD COUNT: 2.1K

WARNINGS: Canon-typical things, tension-filled enemies to lovers, heavy on the religious themes (mentions of god, prayer, sin, bible verses, devil mentions, etc.), mentions of blood, inner turmoil, ANGST, inspo from Margaret Atwood, James Baldwin, Jennifer Johnston (Irish writer of 'How Many Miles to Babylon'), and Nosferatu quotes, etc.

A/N: Lowkey really enjoyed writing this, might have to do a part two! Thank you so much for this request. I incorporated similar requests into the story as well, so I'm not ignoring my inbox. Comments HEAVILY encouraged, it makes writers' hearts full and encourages me to continue writing. Enjoy.

part ii

“You again.”

You were a master of speaking silently—you've spoken silently all your life, and you’ve had to live through entire tragedies because of it.

Yet, your tone was sterile. It left little room for interpretation or defiance. The statement came without hesitation but held pent-up sentiment veiled by familiar poise.

“Miss me?” Remmick vetted your blank gaze for the proper determination of your upset. He nodded mockingly. “...Thought you might.”

The bliss had been idyllic.

Your wrist balanced on the rocking chair’s arm as you lazily tapped the ash of your cigarette. The humid air caressed your arm and gave you goosebumps that reminded you that you were still alive. Human.

Your senses had been perked, knowing a disruption was overdue.

“Cicadas warned me you’d be comin’ tonight.” Your vexation was pointed, always honest in the distaste you held for the man before you. “Have I not made myself clear?”

The cracks behind your exterior were so deeply concealed you hadn’t thought anything could slip between. Yet, standing before you, his presence was the ice-pick that’s pressure had threatened to shatter you.

“Oh, no, ma’am, you have.” Remmick's posture was playful as if he held control of the situation. “Just reckon you’d change your mind by now.”

You hummed. It wasn’t thoughtful, but a placeholder. You were slow to anger; your patience could outwit Remmick.

You’d grown so accustomed to how he worked, his body language became predictable, and so did his actions. Especially, with the banjo strapped across Remmick’s back.

Even in the dark, you could see how his fingers itched to toy with the instrument. You’d learned he couldn’t sit still in silence, even if the night itself always buzzed. Remmick would twist the banjo’s strap, settling the instrument in his lap, and persuade the night to succumb to him and his song.

You drew in another crackling breath, “Tonight’s no night for pickin’ that thing.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” Remmick’s hands were joined behind his back.

He swayed back and forth on his feet, waiting with a childlike enthusiasm. His smile wasn’t foreign on his face, but something was off.

Different.

There was an odd sense of pride you felt with his presence. It confirmed the distant admiration that Remmick held for years. You respected his drive, but your desires fell elsewhere. He carved space for you despite your protests, but you could never be the one to fill it—you could never be his.

Something swirled in your chest, but you brought the cigarette to your lips to suffocate it.

“Those’ll kill you, ya know…” Remmick gestured to your vice.

You flicked the roach onto the dirt before his feet.

“So will you.”

Another smile, sinful this time. You never had to say it aloud, nor did he. You knew what he was. To you, it was obvious his desires; he was an open wound rooted to his devotions. You, another thing in his path.

“Heard what you did to those clan folk…” You prodded. Apparently, you were all heart tonight, carrying the conversation. Something rare and in between.

“You sound impressed.”

“Your massacre will fall on the shoulders of the undeserving.” You shook your head with wry sympathy. “You ain’t a hero.”

“To some, I am.” He shrugged. “I’ve had many titles, but I know to pay no mind to ‘em. Can’t let the bullies win, right?”

You tutted lightly. “Peace be upon you for what you have so mightily endured.”

Remmick talked to you about suffering. He had said it in passing, in riddles that took a few visits for you to realize what he wanted. He wanted a home, but too much time had bastardized the sentiment.

Instead, his suffering became one very long moment. You learned it could not be divided by seasons. You could only record their moods and chronicle their return—his return.

Remmick wagged his finger at you, hand on hip, teasing. He inched closer to your porch, but you knew he’d never touch the steps unless you said so.

“You almost got me thinkin’ something dangerous—” He cocked his head, musing a buried thought. Then, he clicked his tongue against his teeth with ridicule, “Careful—you’re getting awful sentimental these days.”

You tracked Remmick’s movements. You envied how he filled the space better than you. Perhaps it was the smugness in his presence. Regardless, you felt like a guest outside your own home.

You felt caught, exposed. So, you stood, leaving your shadow with the rhythm of your rocking chair.

The weight of your footsteps made the rotting wood of your porch groan, as if warning you not to move further. But you continued down the steps until the last, giving you enough height for Remmick to tilt his chin up to reach your eyes.

“Thinkin’ bout me often?” You cooed. “That why you always lurkin’, waitin’...for me?”

“Ain’t never said that, lass.” Something sparkled in his eyes, but they remained dark and curious. You wouldn’t stop until they shone red. “Some of us appear out of habit, guided by some blood-orchestral pulse—”

“Is that why you keep coming back to me?” You considered. “That’s not a comfort.”

“Ain’t meant to be.”

You hummed. “Nothin’ you say will shake me, there’s a devil in this world, and I’ve already met him—you ain’t him.”

Remmick’s tongue sat on the roof of his mouth in thought, eyes mulling over your expression.

Then, he smiled, the shadows of the night elongating his teeth’s point. “Should I be jealous?”

“Yeah, I reckon so.” Provoking him, you dangled a foot off the step. You kept your eyes on his, waiting. “Just remember he who sups with the Devil should have a long spoon.”

Remmick could pull you forward before you could blink. Sink his teeth into your neck, but you knew he wouldn’t. You knew it wasn’t out of kindness.

He liked to play with his food. He liked it when his food talked back.

“Easy.” His warning highlighted his drawl.

“Isn’t this why you haunt me?” You followed his eyes, not letting him break the contact. “Seems not every one of your hauntings is for horror; sometimes it’s just for company, huh?”

You taunted him with a claim you never let him forget.

You waited for Remmick to lunge with anger. You’d been far more liberal with your words than usual.

Remmick watched you with something close to admiration, but his hands stayed firm in his pockets, and so did his posture.

“Trick question, that is.” He pushed against the physical boundary, his nose looking to touch yours. “I told ya, down in the Delta, never trust what you see. I’m an appetite, nothin’ more.”

Your foot finally landed, and you stood chest to chest with Remmick, past the threshold of safety.

“You think I’m afraid of you?” Fear was like a pet to you: something you’d pick up to get a better look at, but that you’d soon grow tired of. And now, fear was your ally. “You must be starvin’.”

You traced his face with your half-lidded eyes. He looked proper, shirt tucked in, suspenders tightened perfectly, necklace sticking to the sweat of his skin. What skin you could see was dirty, like his clothes. It had clearly been some time since he last tidied his appearance.

All an act of deception.

Meeting his eyes again, you smiled at his very human-like reaction; his pupils were blown wide and resisting something coveted.

The night was silent, holding its breath in hopes of saving you. You should have heeded its warning.

“If only you’d listen.” Remmick continued, filling the quiet. Your breath fell on his lips. It was a push and pull, your mouths ghosting each other, but never quite making full contact. “Look at what you’re doing, playin’ like this. Your revelin’ in my torture—”

“No.” You insisted half-heartedly. Remmick thought this was another lie, a deception to get him pliable. “You’re sorely mistaken.”

“You know, lyin’ doesn’t suit you.” Remmick sounded dangerous, his voice deep and coarse in a way you’d never heard before, every word he spoke seeming to rumble out of him. A hand snaked its way up to your throat. “Oh, to freeze this moment forever, where you are so warm and your heart is going so deliciously fast.”

You felt thin, sharp nails prick against the tender skin. Remmick nosed at your cheek, taking in every scent you offered. He trailed down your jawline, his ragged breath falling on your pulse point.

“I’m charmed.” Your remark fell on absent but not deaf ears.

“I’ve beheld a thousand faces, made purple with cold; whence o'er me comes a shudder, and evermore will come, at frozen rivers.” He spoke like a song, lilting his words as if reading a poem. “Yet, at the river’s bend, I see you as you are—”

You watched how his eyes flickered with a red gleam. There it was.

“—here you are.” Remmick continued, mouth searching for yours. “Changin’ right before my eyes.”

Your features were accentuated by an internal glow. There was no modesty in your gaze; it shattered any notion of strength. There was no insight into your emotions.

Yet, it highlighted something else, something deeper. It was subtle but powerful, like the way a garden seemed to breathe life into a space.

Something shifted in Remmick’s eyes; a baptism in fire. You missed how his eyebrows furrowed in conflict.

Fear clawed its way up Remmick’s throat, determined to make itself known. It fought with another emotion he was too proud to name. He wasn’t unfamiliar with loss. But this. The feeling was wild—sentimental.

The shadows were still pressed thick against the night. Morning was there, but hadn't been announced. Suffering had yet to spot you, though you heard it hunting. No one, yet, had spoiled the dark by singing. The air outside was too cold, even for the birds.

Remmick felt his skin prick. It was electric. Cold. Warm. All and nothing combined. A centuries-buried question revealed itself:

Do you not deserve to be somewhere that brings out the softness in you, not the survival?

Remmick’s hand tightened on your neck. You felt drool pool on his lips and drip down your neck. He pressed his lips there, teeth ready to puncture your flesh.

It was what he wanted, you thought. All this time he’d haunted you, you’d finally given him what he wanted.

However, you felt nothing but warmth. Remmick’s teeth were replaced with his lips, providing a wet, open-mouthed kiss. He lingered there, breath ragged through his nose as if testing his own limits.

“Fuck.” Remmick’s grip lightened. An act of submission, of failure, of self-consciousness. He rested his forehead on your shoulder, cursing in a language foreign to you.

Anger wouldn’t settle outside his chest, so he pulled away from you like you were sunlight. He avoided your gaze as if you were a mirror; he had no interest in learning what it felt like to meet his own eyes.

Remmick paced against the dissonance of conflict that filled his ears. He was supposed to devour you, turn you towards blood and music.

“...and how odd is it to be haunted by someone that is still alive, Remmick?” Even with a low tone, your voice carried throughout the open air. “You dangle on the leash of your own longing; your need grows teeth.”

“Stop—” Remmick’s confusion manifested physically; he pulled at his hair trying to think clearly, rubbed at his cheek and chin to rid himself strife, and almost fell to his knees to beg for mercy.

Remmick stepped backward just as you moved closer. The only evidence you’d been standing in front of him at all was the pounding of your heart and a sick feeling in his stomach.

“Those colonizers took your father’s land, forced prayer upon your people, and you still recite His word for comfort.” You spat, stepping further from your forgotten home. “O, turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted. Relieve the troubles of my heart and free me from my anguish!"

You were something volatile and authentic. You didn’t mock religion, you related to the way your lips moved on instinct to verses as old as time. Comfort was needed when the world was on fire, when the world forgot about you.

You remember that once, Remmick had told you: We’re all dying, slowly, every day. But even you knew there was no use in prayers.

Remmick looked at you with manic agony.

Then, disappeared.

#remmick sinners #sinner remmick #remmick #remmick x reader #remmick x f!reader #remmick angst #remmick fanfic #sinners movie #jack o'connell #remmick sinners x reader #remmick sinners x f!reader #request #sinners request

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thesewordsareallihavetogive · 25 days ago

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Life imitates art - Dr. Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: 2.6k words. Jack is sent into a tailspin when the woman he’s been eyeing for months at his amputee support group arrives at the Pitt in a gurney. Based on this request by @seasiren212!

Warnings: canon-typical depiction of wounds and medical situations, cancer in remission, some medical jargon, reader’s history of BKA, Jack’s history of BKA & accident, age gap, angst, etc. The most unrealistic part of this fic is a doctor spending this much time with one patient (live laugh love the U.S. healthcare system).

a/n: ugh I cried a little bit while writing this. I’m so passionate about oncology care mwah. Abbot is working day shift in this fic. Surrender yourself to the plot and pretend he’s covering for Robby if you must. Divider credit!

At 23 years old, your leg was amputated just below the knee. You’d been fighting bone marrow cancer for a while now, and you were running out of treatment options. To mitigate the risk of significant metastasis, your oncologist recommended an amputation.

So it was off with your leg.

Before the amputation, you’d spent months in and out of the hospital. Somehow, despite the fatigue, aches, and genuine existential crisis over whether this reality was a fate better than death, you graduated with your Master's degree in art history after completing most of the program virtually from your hospital bed. You got special permission from the dean of your university’s college of the arts to defend your thesis from the hospital. Your nurses arranged for you to use a conference room on the floor and made sure everything was thoroughly cleaned to prevent the risk of secondary infection.

Your IV was hooked up to some medications you couldn’t pronounce, but by now, you’d learned how to wave your arms around wildly without letting the tubing hinder you. The thesis committee didn’t go easy on you during your defense just because you were sick. Good. You didn’t want them to. You’d researched and studied your ass off, and earned the right to defend your thesis. The one you’d spent countless sleepless nights and nauseating days working on. So what if you were presenting at UPMC’s Cancer Center?

The oncology unit staff were the first to celebrate you as soon as you made it out of the conference room with happy tears in your eyes. In the time you’d been presenting, the halls had been decorated with streamers. Balloons surrounded your hospital room, and you were given an elaborate bouquet of artificial flowers. You did it.

The RN who’d been caring for you the longest was the one to push your wheelchair across the stage during your hooding ceremony. The oncology unit staff lined the front row of the audience and cheered louder than you’d ever heard.

“MA” looked pretty damn good after your name in your email signature. The Master of Arts degree hung proudly on the wall of your apartment, a forever reminder of your resilience through it all.

It took grueling months to find the right prosthetic and get it fitted properly, and even more years of physical therapy to allow you to be here today, giving narrated walking tours through the Carnegie Museum of Art.

Jack met you at his amputee support group.

At first, he assumed you were there as a student. You were quiet. Observant. Some of the local clinical psychology degree programs assigned students to attend open support group meetings. The large, structured tote bag that followed you to every meeting supported his theory. He imagined you had a laptop, a textbook or two, and a can of Red Bull in the bag, if he had to guess.

You didn’t take notes like other students Jack saw in the past, but you didn’t seem like the type that needed to take notes in the moment, anyway. You were a breathtaking wallflower at the meetings, it was hard not to notice you. The floor-length dresses that complemented your body and draped across you in all the right places were delicate and dainty. Jack was dying to know if your personality matched your exterior.

If Abbot had to guess, he’d say the mystery girl at the amputee support group was in her mid-to-late twenties, though she didn’t necessarily dress like it. Your wardrobe was all maxi skirts and long flowy dresses, cardigans and cable knit sweaters, statement earrings and small chain necklaces. Jack overheard one of the younger group members complimenting your clothing style one day, describing it as “serving cottage core meets coastal grandma chic.” Whatever the hell that meant.

At one of the meetings, you barely showed up on time. You were flustered and a bit disheveled, blowing a stray strand of hair out of your face, but still beautiful as ever. An intricately decorated lanyard and your employee badge hung out of the purse’s wide mouth.

Your name, MA. Art Historian, Curator, and Guest Guide. Carnegie Museum of Art.

Hmm. Jack wasn’t really one for the arts. He was most creative when figuring out how to perform complex medical procedures in unconventional situations. He was methodical and analytical in his life. He approached situations and his work with scientific precision, but he could be tempted to give the museum a visit if it meant he might run into you.

The Pitt’s ambulance bay was never empty for long. Gurneys rolled in and out of the ER all day and night. After all his years in emergency medicine, few things surprised Doctor Abbot anymore.

Until you rolled in.

Dana was the first to reach the EMTs, taking report as she guided them to an available room. Doctor Abbot watched from the provider desk, his mouth slightly parted as his eyes tracked you the whole way across the Pitt.

The charge nurse barely made it out of the room and assigned the patient to Abbot before he jumped out of his seat and bee-lined to room five. “On it,” he said, to no one in particular. Dana stood back and observed his uncharacteristic movements for half a second with her hands on her hips before returning to her millions of other tasks.

Doctor Abbot pulled back the exam room curtain to reveal you sitting on the gurney, fidgeting with your museum badge and shaking your exposed shoe back and forth.

“Hi, kid,” he greeted, donning gloves. He took note of the prosthetic leg covered in floral designs resting next to your hip. Not a student. An amputee. Abbot hummed inwardly.

“Oh. Hi, Jack,” you responded, surprise gracing your face. You knew he was a doctor; he mentioned working at the hospital a couple of times during support group meetings, you just didn’t know he was a doctor here. You took him in. Frustratingly, he was handsome as ever in his black scrubs with toned, muscled arms that threatened to burst out of his short sleeves, with a badge that read Dr. Abbot. Attending Emergency Medicine Physician. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

Despite the situation, you couldn’t help but notice that his gray curls were a little more mussed than usual, like he’d run his hands through them at least half a dozen times. You yearned to follow suit.

Mateo followed Doctor Abbot into the exam room not long after and glanced between you and the physician a couple of times, trying to decipher the dynamic. It was obvious the two of you knew each other, but he kept quiet and set up the WOW for orders in case Doctor Abbot needed it.

Jack sat down smoothly on a rolling stool and scooted close to your bedside. Maybe closer than was necessary, but no one in the room objected to it.

“What brings you in?” He swept his eyes over you analytically. You looked fine on the surface, sans the removed prosthetic accompanying you against the bed rails.

“Bum leg,” you sighed. This was embarrassing. Even when you leaned back against the gurney, unsuccessfully attempting to relax, you never broke eye contact with Jack.

“Figures. Mind if I take a look?” Abbot replied without missing a beat. He rubbed his chin, eyes darting between your face and the raised slope of your leg underneath your dress.

You hesitantly pulled up your skirt to reveal the angry red skin surrounding what was left of your knee joint. For some reason, exposing your thigh felt intimate, even in the hospital. It didn’t look good, and it admittedly had Jack concerned, but he wouldn’t let you know that. At least not yet. It didn’t look like cellulitis, at least not on the surface. There was no wound weeping or skin dimpling. He’d still run cultures just to be safe.

“Are you resting your leg often? Do you remove the prosthetic?” He ran through a slew of questions. Sure, he knew more about amputations and prosthetics than the average physician, but he wanted to know more about your story.

“Well, I’ve given roughly 8 hours of walking tours through the museum every day for the past week, plus 2 hours today,” you rattled off your schedule. It was strenuous, but this was the life you worked and studied and fought to build for yourself. You had no regrets.

Jack gave you a stern look, and you shrank under his gaze. You almost reminded him that he was being hypocritical, with his 12-hour shifts at the Pitt, but decided against it.

“What else?” He pressed. You sighed.

“I can put my socks and sleeves on, but they’re tighter than normal. The prosthetic will fit on, but it hurts.” The a lot was silent, but you both knew it was there. “I was limping this morning, and I eventually fell while giving a tour,” you continued. Doctor Abbot immediately scanned you for signs of any other fall-related injury. No bruises or bumps as far as he could see. “But a guest caught me. And the museum director insisted that I get checked out. Even though I’m fine,” you finished, exasperated.

“You and I must have different definitions of ‘fine,’ my friend,” Jack exhaled and leaned back, just far enough to not topple off the stool.

A comfortable silence fell between you two while Jack weighed treatment options. This was more of an outpatient specialist matter, but he was glad you came in. He’d learned more about you in the past 15 minutes than he had in the past 3 months of staring longingly at you during the amputee support group meetings.

Mateo felt like he was intruding on a private moment. He cleared his throat and started preemptively entering orders in your chart.

“Cultures? For cellulitis rule-out, Dr. Abbot?” The physician nodded thankfully to the nurse. Jack didn’t miss the flash of fear that crossed your face. Doctor Abbot ordered an ultrasound as well, just to make sure there wasn’t an underlying abscess forming, potentially evidenced by the edema at the end of your limb.

You cleared your throat. “Could you also run a CBC?” you asked, wringing your hands together. Abbot nodded again and stood, dusting his hands on his pants to keep them busy.

“Why?” It wasn’t accusatory. He’d do it anyway if you asked for it; he just wanted to know why.

“I’m in remission. Bone marrow cancer. Doesn’t hurt to check for signs of recurrence when funky things happen,” you shrugged, though you were obviously tense as you gestured to what was left of your left while pulling your dress skirt back down.

The room went silent.

That definitely would’ve been added to your chart’s medical history if you hadn’t come in by ambulance and instead had the pleasure of meeting Lupe at registration.

Up until now, why you attended the support group meetings wasn’t Jack’s business. Now, you were his patient. Your health and history were absolutely his business now.

Doctor Abbot offered a small smile and agreed to the additional test. You didn’t want his sympathy, he knew that better than anyone. He knocked on the door frame on his way out with a promise to be back shortly.

For a minute, Jack pondered what it would’ve been like to know he’d be losing his leg before it happened. When he had his accident, the decision was made for him. The blood loss had been near fatal. He’d long since passed out when the military medics realized they were forced to decide between his life or his limb, the lesser of two evils. He wondered if he had the time to plan a new reality beforehand, if things would be any different. Any better. He didn’t think they would.

He thought you must’ve been young when you were diagnosed with cancer. You were young now, notably younger than him. He wondered when you had the amputation, how old you were—how young you were. The ‘stump’, as you called it, was healed. The multiple incisions left silvery scars on your marred skin. You had lived without the leg for quite a while now.

Mateo drew your blood panel and cultures. He carefully added the bottles and tubes into a stat biohazard lab bag with the promise that an ultrasound tech would be by soon.

“Good news and bad news,” Doctor Abbot strolled back into your exam room with results as soon as he could, true to his word.

“Good news: Blood cultures were negative and the CBC was all within normal limits. And the bad news,” he continued, scrolling through your chart on an iPad before looking up at you. You nodded with a sharp inhale and gripped the gurney’s side rail, prepping for whatever diagnosis he might deliver. His eyes softened.

“Bad news,” he said quieter, “is you’ll need to stay off that leg for a while. At least until some of the inflammation goes down. I’ll leave the specific guidance up to your prosthetist. But for now, doctor’s orders are to cut back on the 8-hour walking tours. You got a wheelchair?” He asked with his arms crossed over his distractingly broad chest. He was solution-oriented, but not convinced you would heed the medical advice. You were strong-willed, that much was evident.

You groaned and threw an arm over your face to cover your eyes. You thought of the wheelchair you’d shoved to the back of your closet years ago. After a few beats of silence, you nod. You’re not happy about the plan of care, but you agree to it nonetheless.

“Do you have someone to take you home?” Jack asked, shuffling your discharge paperwork to keep his hands busy. Otherwise, he might give in to the urge to reach out to you.

Everyone you knew was either working or busy. Internally, you felt like a burden. The people in your life didn’t feel that way, but it didn’t make the guilt go away. You chuckled inwardly. What doesn’t kill you gives you a dark sense of humor.

“I’ll figure it out,” you replied nonchalantly, already opening the rideshare app on your phone. Jack frowned. If he weren’t in the thick of his shift, he’d offer to let you hang around in the lounge and take you home himself, but that wouldn’t be for another 5 hours. At least.

“I’ll come check on you after my shift,” he resigned. It wasn’t a question or an offer.

“You don’t have to do that,” you looked up at him from beneath your lashes, shocked that he would even suggest such a thing.

“I insist. It’ll make me feel better knowing you’re okay,” Jack replied without missing a beat. So he cares about you. Hmm. His hands found his hips, only adding to his inherent sass factor.

“You don’t know where I live,” you retorted. The banter was fun. God forbid a girl take advantage of her amputation to flirt with a silver fox trauma doc.

“I’m literally two taps away from finding your address in your chart,” Abbot smirked. He wasn’t lying. A couple of gestures on the iPad later, he was parroting your address back at you.

“Fine. But you better bring food with you.” It was your turn to leave no room for argument. You eyed him up and down, watching the way he squared his shoulders with confidence.

“It’s a date,” Jack replied easily, without thinking. You couldn’t tell whose cheeks were more flushed, yours or his. He didn’t dare take it back, though. Either way, you agreed.

“It’s a date.”

a/n: At the risk of sounding desperate, I'm begging y'all to leave comments and interact with my work. The likes are so super duper appreciated but I kind of feel like I'm posting into a void when 99% of the engagement is likes with no comments. anyway!! COMMENTS ARE REALLY APPRECIATED!! They keep me motivated to write more <3

Find more of my writing on my master list.

Turn on post notifications @thesewordsxupdates to get notified when I release new fics.

#The Pitt #Jack Abbot x Reader #dr. abbot x reader #Jack Abbot #Dr. Abbot

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justwinginglife · 4 months ago

Note

hello hello Hannah! Hope you’re having a great timezone!

So I read your fic for Jinshi since I finally started watching Apothecary Diaries the show has a tight grip on me now and I was wondering if maybe you could do something for Jinshi again if you feel up for it?

Can be whatever you want, full fic, head canons (although my one request would be to ask if it could be smut?) even that if you don’t feel like it then fluff is perfect too.

Thank you if you do and no worries if you don’t want to!

Helloooooo! I'm so happy you've discovered Apothecary Diaries! I apologize in advance, I know this was supposed to be smut, but I had too many good laughs writing this and it ended up lowkey being comedic material lmao. I love Jinshi. Anyway, thanks for the request, and welcome to the Apothecary Diaries fandom!

NSFW Warning

The Missing Piece

He had a dick.

He had a dick, he had a dick, he had a dick. Oh fuck, Jinshi had a dick. He wasn’t supposed to have a dick. But he had one. He had one and it was very big and it was very hard and it was pushing up against your butt at this very moment. You’d tripped and he’d caught you -at the cost of his secret- and now you were both planted firmly on the ground, one with a raging boner and one with a soaked cunt. And, GOD, was it embarrassing. You’d never once questioned that he was a eunuch, even with all of his flirting and flouncing around, but now you were very much aware that he was not, in fact, a eunuch AT ALL.

You quickly pulled yourself off of him, cheeks flushed and underwear stained. You hurriedly excused yourself, spitting out a quick thanks for him breaking your fall, and then booked it the fuck out of there. You could hear him laughing behind you, but you paid no mind. You were too busy overthinking every encounter you’d ever had with him. All the times you’d poked fun at his lack of a member. All the times you’d whispered innuendos into his ear, teasing him with what you knew he couldn’t have. And now you’d been one cloth away from reaching home base with him after one stupid fall. And your stupid body had the stupid nerve to be soaked.

If you could’ve avoided him for the rest of your life, you would’ve. Alas, a week was the best you could do, and even that was pushing it. In the rear palace, Jinshi was in control of anything and everything, and it was near impossible for anyone, least of all you (he liked to keep you close in particular) to take a step without him knowing about it. You could only plant so many obstacles to keep him busy, but you knew eventually he’d find you. Besides the fact that you were his closest confidant and most useful informant, reporting on all happenings within the palace as one of its court ladies (ranking high enough to have access, but low enough to be virtually invisible), you were also just his favorite form of entertainment and he’d damn near lose his mind if he didn’t have your company to cure his boredom. So it was only a matter of time until he caught up to you; the only real question was, when he finally caught you, did you ignore the massive elephant in the room or did you poke it with a stick?

“You know I pay you to report to me, right? And I’ve not had a report for almost a week now. Wonder why that is.” A voice chimed out from behind you and you could almost hear his smirk. He was having too much fun with this situation.

Your brow twitched. So the bastard was going to be smug about this? Fine. If he was relishing in the discomfort this was causing you, you might as well even the score. You plastered on a faux smile and turned to face him, giving him an obligatory curtsy. “Jinshi, to what do I owe the grand pleasure of your presence?”

He chuckled, amused at your fake show of manners. “Drop the formalities. It’s just us. You can speak freely.”

“You have a dick.” There. Now you were both uncomfortable.

He choked on his own spit. He did say you could speak freely but you never failed to surprise him with just how freely you spoke. “...I suppose I can’t convince you it was nothing more than just my tunic bunching up?”

You snorted. “Jinshi, does your tunic have a tip? And does that tunic’s tip pulse?”

He let out a short laugh. “It appears I’m caught. Alright, I concede. I have a dick.”

You blinked. You hadn’t expected him to outright admit it. You’d expected to dance in circles with him, make him sweat a little, before finally wringing the confession from his throat.

He could tell you were struggling with his sudden admission. It made him grin. “And before you ask, yes, I’ve had it since birth. I didn’t just glue it on.”

“Well, duh!” You spit out. What, now he had jokes?? Didn’t he know this was the stupidest thing to be joking about?? God, he drove you crazy.

He seemed to be enjoying your reactions. He took a step closer to you. “Wanna touch it? Confirm its existence?” He teased.

If he wasn’t the most high ranking official here, you would’ve slapped him. You gave him a pinched smile. “Sure. I’ll touch it with my shoe, just let me wind up real quick-”

His eyes widened. “Wait, wait, wait! That’s not what I meant.”

Your brow twitched again. “Oh, I know what you meant.” PERVERT. You didn’t say it but he knew you were thinking it.

He exhaled. “Okay, I think we got off on the wrong foot here. I’m just messing with you. How about we both just go back to the way things were before you found out? Yeah?”

You wanted nothing more than to do that. Buuuut…. You couldn’t. How were you supposed to go back to falling asleep at his desk when you were too lazy to go back to your room, after a daily report turned into a lengthy strategy session? How were you supposed to go back to ripping the blankets off of him after he’d overslept and tugging at his clothes to try and change him yourself? How were you supposed to not overthink every time that he touched you, wondering if maybe he wanted to touch you longer, to touch you lower?

You bit your lip. Did you even mind when he touched you? It’d never been an issue before. He was always fidgeting, always needing to play with your pinky under the table at a meeting, or needing to tug at your bracelet while he poured over paperwork, or needing to nudge your foot with his, and you never minded before, but would you mind now? Would you mind if he wanted to touch you differently, if he wanted to touch you urgently? Your cheeks began to grow warm. How had you never seen how you’d felt about him until he suddenly had a dick? Were you that shallow? God, you hoped not. Of course, you’d always thought he was attractive objectively (though you’d never tell him or he’d gloat for ages), and his company was at times pleasant to enjoy (and you’d never tell him this either or he’d never leave you alone), but maybe you’d never seen him as a love interest before because he wasn’t someone you could settle down and start a family with. But now, what if he was?

And it didn’t help that he wasn’t taking this seriously. He was teasing, he was taunting, he was downright torturous. It seriously made you want to slap him.

But right now, he was looking at you like you held the world in your hands. Like his world might collapse if you didn’t agree to going back to what you were before. Like he might lose something precious to him if you didn’t. And you didn’t want to overestimate your own worth to him; after all, you might just be a useful pair of eyes to him at the end of the day, but the way he was looking at you now made you feel like something to him, even if it was barely something. Did you want to be something to him?

He broke the silence. “You’re not going to ignore me for another week, are you? Please don’t, I can’t take it.”

God, he couldn’t just say stuff like this. It made you want to kiss him and stay by his side forever. “I won’t.” You said finally.

He exhaled. Then he grinned. “Good, cuz I need my favorite plaything.”

Oh, this asshole. “You know what? I’ll touch it.”

His smile dropped from his face. “Wh-what?”

You smirked, stepping dangerously close. “You asked me earlier if I wanted to touch it, right? Sure. Let me cop a feel.”

He swallowed and backed up a few steps. “I was j-joking. I wasn’t serious…”

“Oh come on. Pretty face like yours. I’m sure you must’ve done it tons of times before; it’s not like this is anything new to you. And you must be pretty pent up, working in the rear palace. I’m sure you need to let off some steam, right?” You purred, trapping him against the wall with your next few steps.

His eyes widened when his back hit the wall.

You almost wanted to stop, you weren’t even sure where you’d found the nerve, but it was like he’d lit a fire within you and it was too late to back out now. “Jinshi…” You murmured, before trailing a hand up his thigh.

“Wait! I’m a vir-” Your hand trailed up his length and brushed across his tip. In an instant, the front of his tunic was soaked. He slid down the wall, gasping for breath as he collapsed on the ground. “gin…” He finished through panted breaths, head arching back to rest on the wall as he rode out his orgasm. It wasn’t like he’d never touched himself before, but you touching him was something completely different.

You pulled away suddenly. “You’re a what??”

He laughed, half exhausted and half ashamed. “Caught me. I’m a virgin.”

Oh shit. You dropped to your knees in front of him, and bowed low to the ground. “I’m so sorry! I was only teasing, I didn’t know you were a virgin. And I sure as hell didn’t think you’d…you know…”

“Come on my clothes?” He offered weakly.

Your cheeks filled with crimson. “Yeah. So did I… I mean was that your first… did I take your…?” You swallowed, completely unable to finish your sentence.

He laughed again and you were glad he could laugh because you certainly couldn’t. “I hardly think brushing across it counted as my first time. At least, I’m not counting it. So you didn’t take anything. And it’s not like I haven’t touched myself before, you know.”

You scrunched up your nose. “Ew- okay, I did not need to know that.”

He grinned and leaned in close to your ear. “In fact… I’ve done it a couple times to you.”

Your breath hitched.

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Don’t think you’re the only one who can play the teasing game. I bet you wanna know what it’s like when I’m touching myself to you, yeah?”

Before you could protest (you weren’t sure how you’d protest anyway; it was suddenly very hot in here and your throat was suddenly very dry), he had his cock in his hand, precum drizzling over his fingers, mixing with his previous messy release. If you hadn’t just seen him come a minute ago, you would’ve thought he’d never gotten off a day in his life, with how painfully swollen it looked, veins engorged along his rigid length.

Your previous assessment of him from the few seconds you’d spent in his lap turned out to be completely correct. He was huge. And you were drooling. Without even realizing it, you’d reached a finger out to dance over his tip. He hissed and bit down on his lip to keep from coming again.

“You’re such a tease,” He groaned.

Before you could pull away, he seized your wrist and pulled you into his lap. You landed exactly where he wanted and exactly where you hoped you wouldn’t. But there was no denying how good it felt. Especially when he began to thrust his hips upwards to meet you with delicious friction.

You let out an involuntary moan.

He inhaled sharply. “God, the sounds you make…” His hands found your hips, holding you tightly in place, like he thought you might try to make another escape before he could get off again. You wouldn’t, not this time. Not now that you knew how good he felt.

You matched his rhythm, grinding against his erection in a similar fashion.

His eyes widened when he realized you were giving in to him. “Fuck…” He pulled you in for a kiss. It was sloppy at first, desperate. Too much tongue and then too much teeth, like he didn’t know how much time he had before you wanted to stop. When you wrapped your arms around his neck, sighing against his lips, and settling yourself closer to him, he finally relaxed, realizing you wanted this just as bad as he did.

His lips trailed a bruising path down your neck, painting his desire for you in pinks and purples across your skin.

“Jinshi…” You murmured, arching your head back in pleasure.

“I don’t think…” He pressed another hungry kiss to your collarbone, “My name has ever sounded so good…”

When his hands began to undress you as his kisses made their way lower and lower on your body, you finally stopped him. “Wait, wait.”

His brows furrowed. “What is it? Change your mind?”

You shook your head quickly. “It’s just… do you really want your first time to be with me?”

His gaze softened when he realized what your concern was. “And why wouldn’t I want it with you?”

“Don’t people usually save their first time for someone special?”

“They do. So I guess I’m in the clear.”

“I-what?”

“You are someone special-” His lips found the curves of your breast and you shivered, “-to me, you’re special. You’ve always been special.”

“Jinshi…” You whispered in awe. You’d hoped to be something to him, but you never would’ve dared to dream you’d be this.

“If you want to stop, we can stop. But tell me now, or I won’t be able to hold myself back.”

Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging his head away from your chest. When he looked up at you in surprise, you pressed a deep kiss to his lips. “Do I look like I want to stop?” You gasped out.

He chuckled. “Whatever you say, princess.”

He laid you back on the floor, resting you on top of your discarded dress. For a moment, he just stared at you, taking in your beautiful, naked form beneath him.

“Don’t tell me you’re all talk.” You teased.

He scoffed, but his eyes were sparkling with amusement. “Can’t I just look at a gorgeous woman for a moment?”

“Not if she’s naked and cold. Better warm me up quick, Jinshi, or I’ll find someone else to take my first time.”

His eyes widened. “Wait you… you’re a virgin?”

Your cheeks darkened. “Well, I’m about to not be a virgin in two seconds, so hurry it up please.”

You thought he’d laugh at you but all he could do was smile like a kid on Christmas. He smiled like you held the world in your hands and his heart right beside it. It made you want to kiss him. So you did. You pulled him towards you and buried him in your lips. And he lost himself in you, tongue finding yours eagerly, like he wouldn’t stop until he couldn’t tell your taste apart from his. You were so love drunk and sky high, you almost didn’t realize he was lining up to your entrance.

But your lungs nearly collapsed when you felt him spear through your eager entrance.

You groaned, loudly.

He stopped abruptly. “Did that hurt?” He started to pull back out.

“Don’t you dare.” You hissed, wrapping your legs around him tightly and yanking him back to you.

He gasped as he sunk deeper into you, your cunt swallowing every hardened inch of him greedily. “Princess…” He whined and it nearly killed you.

His head rested on your chest as though he didn’t have the strength to both hold himself up and thrust into you at the same time. His thrusts were carefully measured, like he wasn’t sure how much you could handle. Like he wasn’t sure how much he could handle.

“Jinshi, look at me.”

He lifted his head slightly, innocent eyes meeting yours. You’d never seen his eyes so pure before. So in love. It was like looking into your own eyes. Because you were sure you were looking at him the exact same way.

“I can take it.”

He looked away.

“Jinshi. I’m serious, I can take it. I need you.”

His head whipped back up to you, eyes darkening as he took in your words. “You need it, huh? I suppose if you need it…” He spread your legs wider, and before you had a chance to breathe, he snapped his hips forward, driving himself balls deep inside you. You yelped and it only encouraged his speed. One of his hands braced itself on your hip, while his other hand reached up to intertwine with yours, pinning it to the ground. For how roughly he was fucking you, you found the gesture strangely romantic.

Sweat and arousal drizzled down your trembling legs as he continued his assault, and he took it as a sign of your satisfaction.

You could tell he was getting close, because he started murmuring the sweetest nothings to you as he pistoned in and out of your dripping cunt.

“I… fuck… I love… I love you…fuck…” He panted as his pace quickened.

“I love…you too…”

His eyes widened as though he hadn’t expected you to reciprocate. Suddenly he yanked his cock out of you and keeled over to the side, hips bucking wildly at the air as hot ropes of milky cum shot out of him in wild spurts, staining the ground.

As he rode out his orgasm, you suddenly felt the urge to cover your mouth with your hand. He raised a curious brow at you. Then he heard your muffled laughter and his cheeks flushed red.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just… it’s awfully romantic that my love confession made you come.” You teased.

He pouted slightly but then a devilish look crossed his face. “I wouldn’t be so cruel to the person who holds your release in his hands. You still haven’t got off yet, right? I could just hover you on the edge of an orgasm all night.” To prove his point, he spit on two fingers and drove them deep inside you.

You inhaled sharply. “Jinshi!”

He smirked and curled his fingers, hitting your g-spot in a teasing manner before quickly withdrawing, opting to play with your clit instead.

“Fuck!” You groaned, exasperated at the absence of his fingers.

He grinned deviously.

“I said all night, didn’t I?”

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"I'm calling in sick tomorrow."

"Well, I hear your boss is exceedingly handsome and even kinder too, so I'm sure he can make an exception for his favorite employee."

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Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @ouiouimochi @inkytypewriter @minasfwoopyponytail @ectopodl3 (just tagging you cuz we were talking about this fic)

#jinshi apothecary diaries #apothecary diaries jinshi #jinshi x reader #jinshi #the apothecary diaries #apothecary diaries smut #jinshi smut #anime fanfic #han's library

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