apollo

they/them - 19 posting my works from ao3

[apoll0ssss]

݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ - hi lovelies! i'm apollo - .☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆

| 19 | they/them ᣟ𐚁˳ | pansexual!! | filo + irish |.ೃ࿔

જ⁀➴°⋆ i write on ao3, for the pitt (will mainly be huckleabbot moving forward)

current WIP fics;

revolver and a bible

jeremiah 8:20

bit of a film nerd | letterboxd | ☘︎ | visual inspo on my pinterest!

⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ - i'm always excited to hear feedback and requests so don't be shy!! - . ݁₊ ⊹

dividers 𑣲⋆

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pop-punk fucking sucks reaching 5k hits...kisses u all on the mouth

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Dunk | Duncan the Tall/Aerion Targaryen (Son of Maekar I) Characters: Dunk | Duncan the Tall (A Song of Ice and Fire), Aerion Targaryen (Son of Maekar I) Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, 1980s, Crime Scenes, Detectives, Graphic Description of Corpses, sorry they're homicide detectives, Classism, Aerion Targaryen (Son of Maekar I) Being a Brat, Mutual Pining, is it pining if u still hate each other a little, Jealousy, Conflicted Dunk | Duncan the Tall (A Song of Ice and Fire), Flirting, Smoking, mentioned targcest, Aerion Targaryen (Son of Maekar I) is a Little Shit, Fighting as Foreplay, Kinda, Workplace Sex, Desk Sex, Anal Sex, inappropriate use of a homicide investigation office, Nipple Play, Mild Blood, Creampie, Rough Sex Summary:

“I could’ve- I was the one questioning her, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh I noticed, pet,” He sneered, stopping to perch just beside the car as he shot Dunk a rather sharp look, arms crossed over his chest. “I never thought you’d be so shameless as to flirt with a victim’s widow. Low even for you, I have to admit.”

“I wasn’t flirting with her, you sociopath, I was comforting her.”

Aerion rolled his eyes, a scoff escaping his lips. “Yes, comforting your way into her knickers.”

-

September 1986; detective constables Dunk and Aerion investigate a string of murders in London. Hate sex ensues.

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i am still working on my huckleabbot sequel...slowly but surely i promise....

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if anyone on here is interested in it, i have my first akotsk fic coming out (hopefully) soon! it's a one chapter fic set in 1980s london where dunkaerion are two homicide detectives investigating a string of murders

i say investigating very lightly, theyre mostly pissed off at each other because they want each other so bad

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unfortunately i have in fact been watching the world cup instead of writing as of late

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writing my huckleabbot fic and also writing my first fic for the akotsk fandom i feel like when patrick ate the big ice cream in spongebob

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teaser :p

i'm currently in the middle of writing a little epilogue?? sequel??? to my huckleabbot fic Pop-punk Fucking Sucks where dennis visits jack at university, and i just couldn't keep this cute little snippet all to myself

Jack’s chest was just as warm and solid as it was two months prior, though he had traded his thin band tee for a thicker, dark brown Carhartt jacket. The light dusting of stubble across his jaw scraped slightly against Dennis’ slightly chilled skin as he tucked his head into the crook of his neck. 

The older man let out a soft laugh at the content sigh that left Dennis’ mouth, his arms thick and heavy and absolutely perfect around the slightly narrow jut of Dennis’ waist. 

“Missed you,” He mumbled into the brown fabric, shamelessly drinking in the scent of him with a deep inhale. “Missed you so much.” 

Jack hummed, his nose buried in the soft curls on Dennis’ head as he left a soft kiss there. He was sure that the younger man could tell that his heart was beating fast enough to make him feel a little lightheaded, and how he would be perfectly content holding him in the middle of the arrivals hall until one of them withered away into dust. 

“Missed you too,” He settled on, “How was the flight?” 

It was met by silence, and he was ninety-percent sure that if he was taller he would have been able to see an embarrassed flush painted over the boy’s ears. 

“That good?” He joked, yelping as one of Dennis’ thumbs pressed into the sensitive space under his ribs. 

“Pretty sure the lady next to me wanted to smother me with her jacket,” Dennis admitted, pulling away for a split second to flash an awkward smile up at him, burying his face back into his chest soon after. “Couldn’t stop fidgeting.” 

“I’d want to smother you too.” 

Dennis snorted. “Dick,” he grumbled, even as he lifted his head to silently ask for a kiss. 

Jack tilted his head down to meet him, and it was like sinking into a warm bath - Dennis’ lips plush as they pressed to his own. He had half a mind to save it until they got to the privacy of his car, but the sweet little breathless sound that reached his ears when he tilted his head slightly was enough to crumble any sense of shame he had in his body. 

Yes, he had been thinking about Dennis practically at every waking hour since he had left the farm, but he hadn’t realised how much he had missed him until that moment - until he had his arms around him and was able to breathe in the soft milky scent that seemed to linger under whatever deodorant he wore. 

It hit him like a punch to the gut, and he tried to pull him impossibly closer to his body, his jaw relaxing to try and coax Dennis’ little pink tongue from its home between his lips. His mouth tasted like hours-old toothpaste, and yet it was possibly the only flavour that Jack ever wanted to taste for the rest of his life. 

He had a distinct flashback to the moment everything had happened; having Dennis pressed up against the chipped lip of the gross dive-bar sink, those wide blue eyes rimmed with eyeliner and adorably confused until Jack - with the courage of three beers and a couple shots of whatever Daniel had pushed into his grip - finally gave into his urges. 

“-ack,” Dennis mumbled as best as he could around the tongue in his mouth. “Jack,” He repeated, a little firmer than before, one of his hands coming up to physically pry their mouths apart with an airy laugh. 

“Fuck, sorry,” Jack muttered, feeling embarrassment swirling around his skin with a flush. He rubbed at the back of his neck before he leaned down to grab Dennis’ long forgotten bag from the epoxy airport floor, his other hand tangling with the other man’s to begin the walk to Jack’s car. 

He really hoped that they hadn’t stayed long enough to warrant a parking fine.

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Hii ! I just finished reading Pop-Punk Fucking Sucks and it was amazing ! Do you still plan to writing Dennis visiting Jack in august ?

thank you!! i can confirm that i have started writing the visit but i cant give a definitive answer on when itll be finished :)

but yes i am farrrrrrrrr from done with my little guys

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not a lot of huckleabbot writing is being done rn akotsk has me in its grasps </3

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jeremiah 8:20 [1]

priest!abbot x recently turned vampire!dennis

.ᐟ wc: 3,148

summary: struggling with existence and guilt after becoming a vampire, dennis seeks solace in a local church and their newly welcomed priest

warnings: vomiting, self-hatred, non-traditional self-harm (being inside a church brings dennis physical pain)

board for this fic can be found here!

part 2 soon!

It made him tremble, more than anything. It wasn’t like the movies - he didn’t scream, or cry, he didn’t have enough time. 

December was cold, piercingly so if all you had to shield yourself from it was a thin maroon zip-up, not even zipped all the way because the zipper had jammed enough times to become permanent. He was making his way back to the shelter - the nicest one he had stayed in since leaving home - when the hairs on the back of his neck had stood up. 

He had done the classic glimpse over the shoulders, had told himself it was nothing even if his feet picked up pace slightly, the worn down soles of his shoes doing nothing to cushion against the concrete which sent a dull ache up his shins. He shifted his backpack up slightly, taking solace in the street lamps that made him feel slightly less alone. 

The hands that grabbed him were not clawed or dirty, not even particularly cool. He registered making a sound of confusion, or maybe protest before he was shoved into the dark, preyed upon by the shadows until the unmistakable feeling of something sank into his throat. 

It made his body feel like television static, freezer burn from the inside-out as he began to shake, wide-eyed and frightened like a new fawn. There was the noise of swallowing behind his ear, though he didn’t even dare to look, too afraid of what he would find if he did. 

He hated that he didn’t do anything else - kick or call out for somebody. In a strange way, it was almost like he knew it was already too late when he stepped out into the street, even if he was screaming at himself to just do something. 

He is twenty-six, or at least he was, and forever will be. 

The next morning, he woke up in the shelter on his unofficial bed in the far corner, his belongings safely tucked under the flimsy wire frame. It was almost enough to convince him that he had simply been dreaming, that his brain was fucked up from how little he was eating and how long he was awake. 

Almost. 

He had to scratch the itch to just…check on himself. He couldn’t ignore how stiff his joints felt, how internally cold he was, as if he had drunk ice cold water after sucking on a mint. Then there was the hunger that seemed to flicker and burn like a fire within him - he tried to quell it with the small amount of breakfast that the shelter offered, but the toast tasted like ash on his tongue and seemed to do nothing but make him hungrier. 

He ducked into one of the bathroom stalls, backpack on the perpetually damp floor so he could hunch over the toilet, the toast that had only just touched his lips a moment before tearing out of his throat and splatting into the porcelain bowl in a horrific inky sludge. What the fuck. 

Dennis would have screamed if he hadn’t gagged again, more black slurry forcing its way past his lips. It left him breathless, the backs of his teeth coated in a grainy film of whatever had just left his body. With a shaky exhale, he pushed himself back onto his feet and flushed the liquid, watching it swirl until all that was left was the slightly grey-tinged water it left behind. 

He was sweating, clammy and disgusting as he rifled through his bag to find his toothbrush and toothpaste. He would probably be late for work, meaning that he had to find an excuse to give Robby that wasn’t ‘I vomited a strange slime into the toilet’. 

Dread flooded his body as he positioned himself in front of the bathroom mirror, his form blurred at the edges and translucent where a solid mass of flesh and being used to reside. He began to panic, his hands shaking as he brushed his teeth, pleading for his reflection to return to normal. 

That was two months ago, which equaled four feeds. He had only ever seen his fangs three times, two horrific pairs of pointed teeth tucked into his gums that slid in front of his lateral incisors and his canines whenever he had prodded hard enough. He hadn’t fed on anything living up until that point, managing to survive on blood bags that he could grab without being seen. 

For those two months, he had been disgusted with himself. It got to the point where he only looked in the mirror long enough to shave in the mornings, opting to throw his now bloodstained hoodie over the mirror in the shelter bathroom instead of having to look at his reflection as he brushed his teeth. 

His stomach growled and the sunlight on his skin burned slightly as he walked back to the shelter from the hospital. He had switched over to night shift after he had unfortunately discovered that while he did not set alight in the sun,it gave him nasty sunburn. So, he figured that it would be better to work nights and avoid questions of why he was burnt in the middle of winter. 

Every time his stomach made a hungry noise, it drove him further and further into the cave of self-hatred that he had carved out for himself. He loathed every second of being what he had become, and he wished that whatever had bitten him had just ripped out his jugular and snacked on his body like a hungry vulture so there was no chance of him coming back the way that he had. 

He pushed open the doors to his almost-but-not-quite home, eyes and lips impossibly dry, the latter cracked and spattered with his own dried blood. He wished that biting into his own flesh satisfied his cravings - or did anything other than fill his mouth with the most unpleasant taste that had ever touched his lips - perhaps it would make him feel more at ease with what he had become. 

But he had never been that lucky. 

Whenever he finished a shift, he always made a point to check the little cork board in the entrance way. Sometimes they put up flyers for rooms that people were renting out locally, usually older people who didn’t understand how to post listings online. Even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to afford one until he had received another paycheck or two, it was still nice to look and see which ones were still available. 

This time, his eyes were drawn to a rather mundane advertisement for a local church. Black and white, plain text on paper that spelled out how they had recently welcomed a new priest and were eager for ‘fresh faces’ at their weekly mass. Dennis took a picture of the flyer on his phone, making a mental note to drop in one of the coming Sundays. 

He hadn’t been to church in years, having distanced himself from it just before leaving home, but his heart longed for something familiar. It would be a distraction, he could go whenever biting at his nails until dark red bubbled to the surface didn’t feel like enough punishment. Absolvement from the guilt that he felt for just existing the way he was through no choice of his own. 

He had already sat through services as he tried to come to terms with his own sexuality, so he figured that he could sit through them as a fucking…whatever he was. 

You see, Dennis wasn’t quite sure what he was. Obviously, the first thing to pop into his mind was that he had been turned into a vampire, but the finality of that title would have shattered the small amount of sanity he had left, so he chose to work through literally every other possibility before he settled on that one. 

Even though, deep down, he knew that he was ignoring what was true. 

Maybe he was sick, or in a state of psychosis where he was completely normal and not slightly see-through in the mirror or in the reflection of windows. The teeth were just a byproduct of that, and the hunger was a phantom sensation. 

Yeah, everything was in his head. He didn’t know which option was worse. 

That Sunday, it was cloudy enough outside to not send prickles of pain rippling across his skin, so he figured that he could sit in for a mass. He was sure that it had already started, but he could easily slip in and sit on one of the back pews so as to not draw too much attention to himself. 

As he walked he kept his head down, staring at the rhythmic pattern of his feet against the ground. 

He was hungry, the gnawing feeling in his stomach a constant in his new life. He never let himself eat until he was full, drinking only half of a blood bag whenever he had one. He had to savour it as he never knew when he would be able to get the next one. 

His footsteps slowed as the church came into view; slightly smaller than he had expected considering the size of the other churches dotted around the city. Stomach turning, he began to climb up the brick stairs and noted that with every step he took closer to the open doors, a dull ache settled in his body. It reminded him of how he felt after a day of heavy farm work, grounding and almost letting him know that he was real. 

Just as Dennis thought, the service was already underway. The ache in his body increased as he stepped into the building, his footsteps deafeningly loud to his heightened sense of hearing when they would be almost impossible to hear to everybody else. 

He tucked himself into the furthest corner of the back pew, backpack by his feet and body sore like his skin was one big healing bruise. He supposed he deserved it in a way - divine punishment for his nature like the old pastor back home had said, though now it was for a different reason. 

His eyes scanned the interior of the building, the backs of people’s heads, his gaze drifting to where he could hear the faint whisper of a pulse under the skin of their necks. Shame burned in his chest, digging its cruel little claws in his internal muscle and marring the tissue with deep scratches that would never heal. 

His thumb automatically came up to his mouth, even though there was no dead skin to bite due to how quickly his flesh knitted together after injury. Nothing but smooth, pale skin and permanently pink-tinted knuckles. He had never wished to be able to be hurt as much as he did at that point. 

So instead he suckled at the side of his thumb, throat working to mumble out the appropriate responses to the versicles called out, his brain working on autopilot as he stared into the distance. With his eyes caught on the baptismal font to his right, it took Dennis a while to feel the weight of someone watching him. 

When he did, his skin prickled and he dropped his thumb back into his lap, automatically searching for the source. 

It took him a second, but his eyes eventually found the source. Grey curls, scruff of slight stubble on his jaw that disappeared into the freckled skin of his neck - freckles that no doubt extended past the clerical collar around the base of his throat. Dennis noted that he was not wearing the green vestments like the other priest was, instead opting for a black clergy shirt and black slacks. 

He was sitting off to the side of the altar, posture probably too casual for a mass with his head tilted back the tiniest amount as he seemingly scanned every part of Dennis that he could with his eyes, his brows furrowed. 

There was something different about him, Jack had decided. It wasn’t just because he had skulked into the back of the room, curled in on himself, but it was the way his wide blue eyes seemed to dart around, never fully settled. The kid was deathly pale, as uncomfortable in his own skin as a newborn fawn. 

When those sad little eyes met his own, his heart kicked up a notch. Realistically, he knew that he should have been focussing on the service instead of some random kid in the pews - he assumed that he was going to be introduced, and it would be mortifying for the both of them if his name was called and he was completely lost in thought. 

The man broke their eye contact when a name was called, and Dennis watched as his eyelids fluttered, like he was snapping himself out of a daze before he stood up and walked over to the lectern. His steps were uneven, and he cleared his throat slightly before he dipped his head slightly to speak into the small microphone in front of him. 

“First of all, I would like to thank you for the wonderful service today, Father,” He said, his voice low and rumbly like a crackling fire. “I’m Father Jack Abbot, and I’m eager to get to know you all.” 

He paused, meeting Dennis’ eyes for a second, making sure not to linger. It still made heat shoot through his body - real, genuine heat that he hadn’t felt for months. “I’ll be here if you need support, just knock on my door.” 

As soon as the closing hymn started, Dennis was out of the door. They both knew that he would be back. 

“You okay?” Shen asked, sidling up next to him where he was standing at the hub, his lips downturned as he stared at the patient screen. 

He was still hungry, and his body ached from sitting inside the church for so long, even though it was Wednesday. He’d had a close call; a woman had come in with a nasty cut on her finger that was worse than they had expected, a sliced artery that only made itself known after he had returned to the room to clean the wound to see her entire hand dripping blood. 

She had been rushed into surgery to try and stop the blood loss before she lost her finger, but not before his gums had begun to ache and he had to duck out of the room to rush into the staff toilets. 

He locked himself in one of the stalls just as his teeth slid down, everything in his body screaming at him to go back out there, to force his way into one of the trauma rooms and drink all of the whole blood in the refrigerator until he was full. Finding himself with no other way to force his fangs back into his gums, he sank them into the meat of his forearm. The taste of his own blood seemed to make them recoil, and he was able to step back out onto the floor. 

“Huh? No I’m just…” Impossibly starving, and probably also a reanimated corpse. “Tired.” 

Shen nodded in understanding, “Yeah, tell me about it,” He stretched his arms over his head, hissing in satisfaction when his shoulders popped. “We’re going for breakfast later if you wanna come with.”

God he missed normal food. “Nah I’m good, thanks though.” 

He gave him a look, as if he was trying to pick him apart and figure out what was wrong with him, like he was a mystery patient. “You sure? Haven’t seen you eat anything all shift.” 

“I’ll grab something from the vending machine.” 

“Okay,” He dragged out, eyes flicking back to the screen in front of them. “Go do that and grab Ellis - see if you can reset that dislocated shoulder in twelve.” 

Dennis nodded, his lips pressed in a straight line. He moved towards the stairwell where the vending machines were and scanned his surroundings before he briskly walked straight past the machines, taking the stairs two steps at a time. He had no choice but to try and swindle a bag of whole blood from the blood bank and try to sneak off to the bathroom to drink half the thing. 

As he tore off the corner of the bag with his teeth and tipped his head back to finally fill his stomach, he found himself unable to stop drinking. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t eaten in two weeks, or maybe it was the fact that he had almost jumped a patient, and his need only got worse when his fangs descended and nothing dripped down his throat to soothe them. 

Either way, he could feel the cold liquid escaping the corner of his lips to drip down his jaw and neck in a single, tiny rivulet. If his heart were still beating, it would have been roaring in his ears as he lost himself in the nearly orgasmic relief, even if the blood had a slightly stale taste from sitting in the fridge for a couple of days. 

His eyelids slowly slid closed and he cradled the quickly draining bag against his chest like it was the most precious thing in the world. He was tucked up on top of one of the toilet lids in the bathroom stall, his knees pulled up so that anybody who came in would think that the stall was empty and the door was just jammed. 

Before he knew it, the steady stream of blood had trickled down to pathetic little droplets, leaving the shame that he always felt after feeding to creep into the corners of his brain, causing the pleasant darkness behind his eyelids to give way to something else. Something familiar; hazel eyes and a crucifix. Dennis could imagine him now, leering over him and condemning his disgrace, even though he had only seen the man for maybe two minutes at best. 

He forced his eyes open, skin around his mouth growing stickier and stickier as the blood dried and he squinted against the bright fluorescents. Fuck, they were probably looking for him - he had been gone for well over ten minutes, and he hoped that Nazely had been sent to reset that shoulder in his place. 

His translucent form in the mirror was marred with red, dried between his fingers and streaked down his neck. Disgust curled in his stomach as he began to scrub at his skin, leaving his hands raw and his lips tingling. 

He flashed an awkward smile at the mirror a couple of times to check for flecks of particularly stubborn blood between his teeth, stuffing the now empty blood bag in the pocket of his scrub pants so he could put it in his backpack before he went back onto the floor. 

[apoll0ssss]

more huckleabbot cowboy au is coming i promiseeeeeee

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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

WOOOOOOO finally finished!! i loved writing this fic so much <3

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forgot how much i liked writing vampire fics dennis whitaker u will be the most miserable vampire in existence

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Jeremiah 8:20 - WIP :3

im currently working on a vampire!dennis x priest!abbot fic (will probably be published on here after i finish my current ao3 work) and just wanted to share a little teeny tiny bit of it

please let me know if this is something you'd like to see more of!! <3

It made him tremble, more than anything. It wasn’t like the movies - he didn’t scream, or cry, he didn’t have enough time. 

December was cold, piercingly so if all you had to shield yourself from it was a thin maroon zip-up, not even zipped all the way because the zipper had jammed enough times to become permanent. He was making his way back to the shelter - the nicest one he had stayed in since leaving home - when the hairs on the back of his neck had stood up. 

He had done the classic glimpse over the shoulders, had told himself it was nothing even if his feet picked up pace slightly, the worn down soles of his shoes doing nothing to cushion against the concrete which sent a dull ache up his shins. He shifted his backpack up slightly, taking solace in the street lamps that made him feel slightly less alone. 

The hands that grabbed him were not clawed or dirty, not even particularly cool. He registered making a sound of confusion, or maybe protest before he was shoved into the dark, preyed upon by the shadows until the unmistakable feeling of something sank into his throat. 

It made his body feel like television static, freezer burn from the inside-out as he began to shake, wide-eyed and frightened like a new fawn. There was the noise of swallowing behind his ear, though he didn’t even dare to look, too afraid of what he would find if he did. 

He hated that he didn’t do anything else - kick or call out for somebody. In a strange way, it was almost like he knew it was already too late when he stepped out into the street, even if he was screaming at himself to just do something. 

He is twenty-six, or at least he was, and forever will be. 

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i miss my wife (s1 dennis whitaker)

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new chap! - Pop-Punk Fucking Sucks

https://archiveofourown.org/works/82843441/chapters/222080031

sorry that this took a while and its short, but my writing brain is back on now :p

also idk why the link wont embed properly ive tried like five times :')