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here2bbtstrash · 2 years ago

Text

it's sweet (explicit)

genre: a fluffy lil sickfic

pairing: taehyung x reader

summary: you forgot to call out sick from your dick appointment, but he stays anyway.

word count: 4.3k

contains: no smut just fluff????? new year new me 😎 but as this is fuckbuddies to maybe-lovers and there are certainly a few references in here to sex, because of who i am as a person, it's enough that i'm tagging it explicit anyway lmao. but this is all fluff! reader has the flu, tae is a sweet sweet boi and takes care of her, it's all a bit sappy~ 🤧

A/N: happy new year!!! and a very happy belated birthday to my capricorn prince 💜 this soft little idea got stuck in my brain and wouldn't let go, and i had a lot more fun writing it than expected. plus i feel like i only wrote tae as a menace in 2022 (sorry to tae 👹) so i had to right my wrongs with this one lmao. it was a nice interlude before i jump into LDOMLT ch11 (the final chapter 😭) - i hope you all enjoy and that your 2023s are off to a pleasant start!!!

read on AO3!

~*~

You genuinely enjoy being single.

With your last relationship officially in the trash, you’ve found yourself settled into a comfortable peace. There’s no man in your life to mess up your plans, to force you to have to compromise or share anything, to suck up your energy and domestic labor like some kind of emotional vampire. You can do what you want, whenever you want, and you have a reliable rotation of both sex toys and fuckbuddies to keep you physically satisfied when the need arises.

Being single, you have come to learn, is fucking great.

Except when you get sick.

A knock at your apartment door drags you out of your DayQuil-induced slumber. You move to sit up with a sniffle before letting yourself drop back into your veritable nest of blankets on the couch, struck with the immediate recollection: it’s just the food you ordered. You’d specifically put in a request that they leave it at the door, but maybe the delivery person is just being nice and letting you know it’s there.

Except then they knock again.

And ring the doorbell.

“Jesus,” you groan to yourself, aggressively enough that you’re nearly sent into a fresh coughing fit, but you manage to choke down the spasm in your lungs as you drag yourself to standing. You cross the short distance from your couch to the front door, sure you look like death warmed over, and swing the door open.

At first, you’re certain it’s the DayQuil fucking with you.

“Taehyung?”

The corner of his mouth pulls up as he blinks sweetly at you, expressive almond eyes peeking out beneath untidy dark hair— extra fluffy today, like he’s just washed it and waltzed out of the house without any styling. His clothes tell the same story, a plain gray hoodie and joggers, creased a little like he’d just pulled them off his bedroom floor, though everything looks fresh off the runway on him.

As your eyes trail down his frame, you take in the container of ramen you ordered, held easily in one of his large hands, his long fingers hooking over the side.

His presence is typically a welcome one, particularly on Friday nights like tonight, but those are circumstances where you tend to be a little more… put together. So why is he here tonight?

“When did you start working for D—”

The food delivery service name dies on your tongue as your thoughts finally catch up with your mouth. He’s here tonight because it’s Friday, and this is what you do on Fridays. He’s here because you didn’t cancel. You’d had the thought in a drowsy half-awake state between naps, then had promptly rolled over and pressed your face into the pillow, telling yourself you’d remember to text Taehyung when you woke up.

Which of course, you did not. And so here he is, having clearly intercepted your delivery. And, it now occurs to you, having to witness how absolutely godawful you must look in your stained sweatpants, your hair surely a mess from a day spent napping on the couch.

“Oh fuck,” you mutter, quickly crossing your arms over your baggy t-shirt, suddenly very aware of the fact that you’re not wearing a bra. Why that matters when you’re standing in front of a man who regularly leaves hickeys all over your tits, you’re not sure, but in this moment it somehow feels like it does.

“Tae,” you take a step back, trying to keep him out of your germ radius. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to text you. I’m super sick, I think it’s the flu. You should go.”

He frowns a little, his eyes jumping from you down to the takeout container in his hands. “This is like, barely warm.”

That makes you smile a little despite yourself. A very Taehyung greeting.

“Yeah, well.” You roll your eyes. “I pay twice as much so it can take an hour and be cold by the time it gets here. Makes sense, right?”

His dazzling smile at your sarcastic remark only heightens your own self-consciousness, and you quickly extend a hand for the container.

“Sorry to make you come all this way. Hopefully next week I’ll be back to normal.”

Taehyung nods, yet makes no move to hand over the soup he’s currently holding hostage. “You should rest. Let me heat it up for you.”

You can’t help but wonder what he expects to happen when he crosses the threshold, and that makes you heave a sigh, then quickly bury the cough that chases after it into the crook of your elbow.

Thankfully your voice doesn’t give out when you manage to answer him. “I’m serious, Tae. I’m not—” you pause, considering how to phrase it: desperate to be railed? “—you know, the way I usually am on Fridays. Nothing’s gonna happen tonight. Except maybe you’ll get sick.”

He shrugs, like there are worse things. “I get it. But you shouldn’t be alone.”

At least he’s been sufficiently warned, you think to yourself, and then you relent, leaving the front door of your apartment swung wide as you step back across the living room to promptly collapse onto the couch again. You bury your face in the blankets with a muffled groan as you hear Taehyung shut the door behind him, then make his way into the kitchen.

As is typical with any man that enters your kitchen, you expect to have to walk Taehyung step-by-step through how to do everything. But, to your surprise, he asks no questions: he seems to find a good-sized pot and figure out how to work the stove all on his own, and you can hear him humming softly to himself as he goes.

Truly a credit to the male species, you think to yourself with a bitter laugh.

You collapse back against the cushions, a little too aware of the fuckbuddy in your kitchen to be able to drift off to sleep entirely. Nevertheless, you still find yourself slipping into a haze, your eyes dropping shut just to snap open again at the tap of a bowl being set down on the coffee table in front of you.

Your eyes widen as you sit up and stare down at your ramen, only to find two halves of a soft-boiled egg staring back up at you. You’d ordered from your favorite place in the city, which is easily the best ramen you’ve had in your life, but you know those fuckers charge extra for an egg. Which is why your cheap ass never orders one.

But here one is. So that means…

Taehyung drops down onto the couch next to you before you can even finish compiling the thought in your brain, but he must be able to read the look on your face. “Oh, do you not like eggs?”

“I— no,” you answer quickly. “I mean yes. I mean, I like them, I just… Thank you.”

You glance up in time to see him shrug, his mouth twisting a little, like he’s suddenly made shy by his own kindness. “Gotta get your protein in,” he offers casually, and you laugh over the steam rising up from your bowl.

He keeps a tentative cushion’s distance away from you, but you can feel his eyes watching as you take your first sip of the rich, warm broth. While you slurp it down, you tell yourself not to get greedy with Taehyung’s time: you expect this will be it, that with his act of kindness done for the day, he’ll get to his feet and be on his way. As soon as your front door slams shut behind him, he’ll probably be pulling up his text messages with one of the many other options that must be available to him.

You try to ignore the way that thought makes your stomach twist, to just eat your damn soup and not think about it. It’s fine. It doesn’t matter.

But to your surprise, Taehyung leans forward and snatches the TV remote off your coffee table with a triumphant sigh before slumping back against the couch, like he’s settling in. “Do you wanna watch something?”

You shake your head as you take another sip before answering. “You really don’t have to stay, Tae. I can appreciate that I’m not a lot of fun to be around tonight. And obviously you didn’t come here to watch me eat ramen.”

Already starting to scroll through your streaming services, Taehyung runs his free hand through his hair with a knowing, slightly horny smile. “Depends on what you mean by eat ramen.”

You nearly choke on a noodle, but he’s otherwise distracted, mouth dropping open a little as he clicks into one of the options.

“Oh, I know what we can watch.”

When he pulls up A Charlie Brown Christmas and promptly presses play, you can’t help smirking. “Christmas? You’re, what, five days late?”

Taehyung’s mouth opens again, like he’s going to say something, and then he just smiles that same self-conscious smile. “Ah, I just like the music.”

His long fingers splay out in front of him, miming along to the opening melody while he adopts the faux-cool expression of a jazz pianist. You hide a giggle in another sip of broth, and he quickly shrugs the impression off, crossing his arms over his chest as if to keep his limbs under control.

“And it’s cute,” he adds, voice halfway between shy and sentimental. “The little tree.”

It occurs to you now that you’ve never seen Taehyung so… your brain can’t find the right word. He’s just different tonight.

You nod as you slurp up a strand of noodles, and you can’t deny that he’s right as the movie plays on. It’s been years since you’ve seen it, not since you were a kid, but it’s just as enjoyable now, somehow timeless. You find yourself smiling softly as you finish your meal and settle back against the couch, tugging the blanket up to your chin.

All at once, Taehyung jumps up, and you watch dumbfounded as he silently scoops up your dishes and disappears off to the kitchen. When you hear the tap switch on, your jaw drops in sheer disbelief, and you sit up again, peeking over the back of the couch to get a glimpse of him: he’s pulled on the dishwashing gloves you keep tucked next to the sink and is making short work of not just the bowl and the pot, but the takeout container too, and your various other sick-person dishes you’d regrettably let pile up. Humming to himself along with Vince Guaraldi, like it’s something he does every day.

Your head spins as you drop back down against the cushion. What is happening? Did you take too much cold medicine?

That thought only reverberates louder in your brain when he returns, still humming the last few notes of the song. This time he chooses to settle in right beside you on the couch, as if entirely unconcerned about the contagious virus running rampant in your body— he just pulls you into his side, one arm wrapped over your shoulders, fingertips casually starting to play with the ends of your hair. Like it’s that easy.

You glance up at him, shaking your head a little, and Taehyung looks down to meet your gaze. “What?”

“This is just…” An incredulous laugh cuts off the end of your sentence. It’s hard to believe you’re looking at the same person. This can’t be the man who wraps his hand around your throat as he spits into your mouth, who will keep you in his bed for hours until you’re crying from overstimulation, who fucks you so good you can hardly walk the next day.

“I didn’t expect you to be like this,” you admit, pairing the words with a finger driven gently into Taehyung’s ribs. He squirms a little. “You’re… sweet.”

Taehyung’s lips part, and then he pauses, clearly considering how exactly to answer you. His mouth turns up soft at the corners, hesitant, as if he’s embarrassed to say what comes next. And then he says it. “You didn’t seem like you wanted sweet.”

The words settle over you, offered quietly in the low, rich tones of his voice, and as you keep gazing up at him, it strikes you: he’s not wrong. If he’d pulled this cozy domestic housewife act on you any earlier, on a normal Friday, you would’ve sent him packing without hesitation.

That thought makes you a little sad.

You tuck back in against Taehyung’s side, trying to refocus on the TV screen as you snuggle in under the blanket. Pressed close like this, you can feel the sturdy thud of his heartbeat in his chest, at a rhythm not dissimilar to yours.

“Well, I won’t tell anyone,” you breathe, and you swear you can hear him smile.

His touch lingers as the last few minutes of the movie play on: slipping from the ends of your hair to trace over the fabric of your shirt, then sliding further up to dip beneath the collar of it. The talented fingers you’ve become well-acquainted with work their magic in a new way, pressing firm circles into the muscles of your shoulders, muscles you didn’t realize were pinched so tight until he starts to work them open.

“Fuck,” you murmur, shifting a little to allow him better access as he continues. “That feels so good.” You can’t quite help the laugh that flutters out after your words; it’s certainly not the first time he’s made you say them.

There’s a small huff of breath from Taehyung beside you, and then his hand moves up to cup the back of your neck and give a gentle squeeze. It’s a comforting motion, and just arousing enough to make you sigh a note, your eyes briefly dropping shut. When they flutter open again, you realize the movie has ended, that he’s looking down at you, a knowing smirk toying at his lips.

“Don’t start,” you warn, unable to keep your voice entirely serious. “I meant what I said, I’m tapped out for the night.”

Taehyung raises his palms in the air, as if to claim his innocence, and you find yourself instantly missing the heat of his hand on your skin. “All I was thinking is that I kinda want dessert. Too tapped out for that?”

“I’ll never say no to dessert,” you admit with a soft smile. “I think I have ice cream in the freezer.”

Something glints in Taehyung’s eyes at your words. All at once he untangles himself from you and, rather than standing up and walking the long way around like a normal human, chooses instead to vault himself over the back of the couch, as if to get your freezer as fast as possible. You tip back against the cushions, momentarily overcome with laughter, and thankfully, it doesn’t trigger a cough attack.

After a second, you cocoon the blanket around yourself, then get up to follow after him, dropping unceremoniously down onto one of the barstools tucked on the far side of your kitchen island.

Taehyung glances up, clearly surprised, then continues trying drawers until he finds the silverware and retrieves two spoons.

“Just want to keep you company,” you say by way of explanation as he hands you one, and you reach down to pry off the lid of the pint of chocolate ice cream he’s set down on the counter. It’s only as you glance up again that you realize he’s grabbed something else, too, and is continuing to rummage through your cupboards. “Wait, what are you doing?”

There’s an innocent look on Taehyung’s face as he rights himself, the handle of a pan clutched in one hand. “I found something when I was looking for the ice cream. It’s my favorite. And I thought it might make you feel better, too.”

“Uh huh,” you intone, though your mouth is already starting to tick up, endeared. “A completely selfless act, I’m sure.”

“Of course it is,” he answers with an over-exaggerated wink, flipping the pan cooly in his grip. You squint at the bag as he thuds it down on the counter beside him, then sets the pan on the stove and flips on the burner beneath it.

Hotteok. You’d completely forgotten you’d even picked the bag of frozen sweet pancakes up a few weeks ago, that you had purposefully tucked them into the back of your fridge for a particularly good— or bad— day.

“Chef Kim,” you ask, feigning the tone of a journalist conducting an important interview as you fish your phone out of the pocket of your sweatpants. “Can I interest you in some background music, or do you prefer to cook in absolute silence?”

Taehyung glances back over his shoulder at you, his grin nearly too big for his face. “How about Sinatra?”

You raise one eyebrow at the admittedly unexpected suggestion. “Frank or Nancy?”

He pauses for a moment, as if considering. “Either.”

It’s only a few taps, and then Come Fly With Me is floating out of your Bluetooth speaker, and Taehyung is singing along to himself as he drops a frozen disc onto the heated pan, occasionally turning back to deliver lines to you with an extended hand.

You roll your eyes as you drag your spoon through the top layer of softening ice cream, sucking it into your mouth in an attempt to hide the grin that’s spread over your face.

By the third song you find yourself humming along too, trying not to put too much strain on your still-weak throat. The kitchen has started to smell of sweet, toasted dough as Taehyung works diligently at the stove, and he finally flips the burner off before turning back to you, a plate in each hand and a thick pancake stacked atop each plate.

“Sous chef, will you please apply the ice cream?” he asks, eyes wide and blinking as he sets the dishes down.

Quickly playing along, you nod as you begin to scoop a healthy amount onto each plate. “Yes, chef!”

“And sous chef, do you, uh… have any chocolate sauce?”

You bite back a laugh as his roleplay falls apart as quickly as it began. “It’s in the fridge.”

Taehyung promptly turns and pulls the door open, eyes searching the shelves before he finally spots the dark brown bottle and lets out a triumphant hum. He nudges the fridge shut again with his hip before striding back toward you.

“Plating is key,” he muses. You answer with an appreciative nod and a giggle when he uncaps the sauce, then leans down close to the plates, feigning intense focus as he drizzles each dollop of ice cream with stripes of chocolate.

Once his artful design is complete, he steps back, his tongue toying at the corner of his mouth as he spins one plate to admire his handiwork.

“What do you think, chef?” you tease, and he nods once, decisive.

“It’s perfect.” He glances up, shooting you a grin that knocks the breath from your lungs, and you try to collect yourself as he nudges a plate toward you, encouraging you to take a bite.

You carve your spoon through the pastry, right down the middle where it’s stuffed full of sweet brown sugar syrup. The flaky layers pull apart at the impact, warm enough that you can see steam rising off of the golden dough. You pair a small piece of pancake with a wedge of ice cream on your spoon, then bring both into your mouth at once, and the contrasting mixtures linger on your tongue: hot and cold, sticky sugar chased by rich chocolate. It’s so good that you can’t help but make a soft, appreciative noise as you press your hand to your mouth and chew.

“Do you want to know something?” Taehyung’s voice pulls your attention back, and you look up at him.

“What?”

“Today’s my birthday.”

There’s a split second where you wonder if this is another imagined scenario, and then your eyes widen as you take in the look on his face and realize he’s entirely serious.

“Wait, Taehyung, really?”

He nods once, bringing a spoonful of ice cream to his lips.

“I-I had no idea,” you stammer, suddenly feeling like an asshole. His birthday, and he’s here waiting on you hand and foot, while you haven’t so much as said a word of felicitations. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”

As soon as the words leave your mouth, he’s waving away your apology with his spoon, then proceeding to answer around his bite of food. “It’s not like I expected you to know. I don’t really make a big deal of it.” He shrugs. “I tend to… I don't know. I get sort of melancholy this time of year. The holidays, my birthday. It’s a lot all at once. A lot of pressure. To be happy. To have everything figured out.”

Nodding slowly, you let his words fully wash over you before you respond. “I get that,” you finally murmur, working off another piece of hotteok. “Nobody ever talks about it, but I feel like birthdays are kinda weird as an adult. You have enough of them and it just starts to feel like a day, you know? Not special.”

“I usually find myself just hiding out, waiting for it to be over,” Taehyung admits.

You take a second to think back. “Yeah. I didn’t even do anything on my birthday this year.” A self-pitying laugh rises up before you can stop it. “Honestly, this whole year was such a flop. I’m glad it’s nearly done.”

Taehyung makes a face like he can’t disagree. “Hey, sometimes that’s life.” He pauses, brow furrowing slightly, then reaches a palm across the table. “Can I play a song?”

“Go ahead,” you offer, pushing your phone into his hand. You scrape your spoon along your dwindling dessert, and haven’t even managed to bring the assembled bite to your mouth before the music changes— from one Frank Sinatra song to another, this one with a driving blues rhythm.

Taehyung is already on his feet, hips starting to sway. “Ah, come on. You have to dance with me.”

He’s closed the distance between you before you can even protest, his hands smoothing across the blanket still wrapped over your shoulders.

“Let me take your coat, ma’am.”

You shift off the stool and onto your feet with a smile as he unwraps the blanket from around you and tosses it toward the back of the couch, missing by at least a foot.

“Why thank you,” you tease, feigning some kind of Transatlantic lilt to your voice that makes him really laugh. “Such a gentleman.”

Taehyung turns to face you again, and then you feel his large hand pressing to the small of your back, warm even through the fabric of your shirt, and your heart stutters a little. You take his other hand in yours and let him lead, let him pull you all the way in until you can turn your head and press your cheek to the firm plane of his chest.

Frank Sinatra croons on about how you can’t let life get you down, and suddenly there’s a weight settling in the pit of your stomach.

“I feel bad, Taehyung,” you admit, and when you glance up at him, he’s looking right back down at you. “That you’re here with me tonight.”

“Why?” he asks, like he really doesn’t know.

“Because,” you shake your head. “I don’t know. There’s a million better places you could be. I can’t even give you birthday sex.”

“I wouldn’t have stayed if I didn’t want to,” he answers simply, then leans back, guiding you under his arm for a spin.

A little giggle bubbles up in your chest, catches on the first syllable of your reply as you twirl. “A-are you sure?”

Taehyung nods, thoughtful, when you come back to center again. “This is a good reminder that… I like taking care of people. It’s been a while since anyone’s let me.” The hand holding yours gives a gentle squeeze, and you can’t help but squeeze back.

“Well, thank you for taking care of me,” you answer softly. “You did a good job. Pretty sure I’m on the mend already.” You blink up at him through your lashes, and the way his eyes are fixed on you makes your heart squeeze, too.

It’s nearly overwhelming, taking him in like this, close enough that you can see every stray beauty mark kissed over his handsome features. Fluffy-haired, big-dicked Kim Taehyung— who would’ve thought?

Taehyung’s adam’s apple jerks in his throat as he swallows, and you feel a sudden rush of heat all over, one you don’t quite think you can blame on a fever. It hardly even occurs to you that the two of you have come to a complete standstill now, barefoot in the middle of your kitchen, Taehyung’s palm pressed to your back, the fingers of your joined hands now shifting to lace together.

“Taehyung,” you’re breathing his name before you even realize it. “Would you… want to stay here tonight? Like, sleep together, literally?”

The smile that flashes over his face is nothing short of brilliant. “Yeah, okay.”

Your voice dips a little lower, teasing, as you smile back. “I really do think I’m feeling better, so. Maybe in the morning I can take care of you, too.”

Taehyung’s fingers brush the length of your jaw, then reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear as you continue.

“I’ve got this spray that makes my throat totally numb, so.”

He pauses, his mouth so close to yours that you can feel his breath ghosting over your skin, but he can’t quite keep a straight face. “Fuck, why is that so sexy?”

You’re laughing against his lips when he kisses you.

#taehyung fluff #taehyung x reader #taehyung x y/n #bts fluff #bts x reader

2K notes · View notes

custardcrazy · 2 years ago

Note

i have a Ted logan request! it’s kinda inspired by the tutor piece you wrote but instead of being Ted’s tutor she’s Deacons tutor (or babysitter) instead and she comes over to the Logan household and Ted sees her there and is immediately head over heels for her and is constantly trying to find an excuse to go to whatever room she’s in and stay there much to the annoyance of Deacon and their father on occasion

sorry if i got to specific but you’re my fav Ted Logan writer and I’m happy his requests are open!!!

young as we are

summary: you're deacon logan's new babysitter. it doesn't seem like it'll be anything too special -- until you meet his cute older brother, that is. (gn!reader)

wordcount: 3.8k

A/N: okay so I might've changed around the prompt a teensy bit, but hopefully it still fits what you wanted. i'm no good at writing slow stuff so i got kinda impatient lmao (also. i'm?? your favorite?? you have no idea how genuinely happy that makes me. i'm smiling like an idiot. thank you so much.)

You checked the note you'd written the address down on to make sure you hadn't gotten the wrong house -- okay, all good -- before ringing the doorbell.

The house itself was pretty nice, just looking at the exterior. One of the perks of babysitting in a somewhat well-off area like this one was that you usually got paid decently for your troubles; and it wasn't nearly as bad as working retail, if the stories you'd heard from your friends were anything to go off of. And kids could be sweet, unlike food service customers.

It was only half a minute before the door was answered by a balding middle-aged man with a stern expression. Mr. Logan, you presumed; it was probably his voice you'd heard on the phone.

"You must be the babysitter," he stated directly, not giving you time to answer, "come in, then. I have some things I have to inform you of." He didn't wait, disappearing into the house and leaving the door ajar behind him. Feeling slightly awkward, you followed.

Once you entered the foyer, he began speaking again. "Deacon's probably in his room right now. He has to be in bed by nine P.M., and he knows that, but I don't doubt that without me being present he'll try to stay up." Indicating some bills on the counter, he continued, "there's some money for a pizza. The number to call is on the refrigerator. Dinner should be at six."

"Oh, and my … eldest son, Ted." If it was even possible, his tone became more snide. "He should be back in an hour or two. Don't let him bother you at all -- if he gets too annoying, just let me know when I get back later in the evening, and I'll deal with him."

You barely got out an "uh, okay, thanks" before Mr. Logan was yelling for Deacon.

He was maybe around twelve, you guessed. It was obvious that he was reluctant to come downstairs, but did so after a look from his father. You smiled at him, but he didn't return it; you didn't really mind. He was at that awkward age, after all. And if your instincts were correct, an overbearing father could inflict a number on any kid.

It wasn't that you weren't familiar with strict parents -- but it was near-impossible to get entirely used to them. Being in charge of their children meant that you had to be extra careful. You couldn't trust a young kid to not tell on you if you were a little lenient when it came to bedtimes, and you couldn't trust an older kid to not try and put the fact that you were more easy-going than their parents to the test.

Still, once Mr. Logan had left, you immediately relaxed.

And so did Deacon, by the looks of it, because suddenly his tense demeanor all but disappeared.

It was almost frightening how abruptly he turned his attention from his father's car pulling down the driveway to you.

"You ever watched RoboCop?"

He asked, with a certain bluntness only preteen boys were capable of.

"No, I haven't." Encouragingly, you smiled again. "What's that?"

"I have the tape," and already he was turning away, "gimmie a sec."

You had the sneaking suspicion that his father didn't have the same enthusiasm for science fiction movies.

And you were right; even during the movie he spoke up now and then to tell you stuff about the characters or the plot. About how "RoboCop could probably take down an entire army by himself". You thought it was kind of spooky how the titular protagonist was a reanimated guy forced to follow cyborg programming to uphold "justice" in an already-corrupt city, disregarding any humanity he once had.

… Or something like that. Deacon just found the guy "badass".

By the time that you'd nearly reached the ending of the movie, you were invested.

But not too invested to not look up when the front door opened, and thus you made eye contact with probably the prettiest guy you'd seen in a while.

He froze midway through his path to the stairs.

For a moment, both of you just looked at each other. He looked familiar.

Oh, yeah, you'd seen him at school a couple times. Passed by him in the hallways or in the cafeteria, maybe. You hadn't really noticed him before, but maybe that was because you hadn't gotten a good look at him. Like now.

And then Deacon took notice, coughing in an awfully non-subtle way into his fist, and you realized that maybe you shouldn't stare like a creep.

"Uh, you must be Ted, right?" You laughed semi-awkwardly. "Hi. I'm just gonna be babysitting Deacon until your dad gets home."

Hopefully you remembered his name correctly. From the way his father had said it, you had expected him to be some flavor of delinquent -- piercings, leather jacket, all that stuff that an uptight man like Mr. Logan would disprove of. A high school dropout who was bumming around in his dad's basement without a source of stable income.

That couldn't be further from the truth; the Ted you were seeing now was a slightly gangly, floppy-haired boy your age who was looking at you like he'd seen an angel.

It took him a moment, but he nodded vigorously in response to your question.

"Yes. Yeah. I'm -- that's me." Ted glanced away, finally breaking away your gaze. "Um. What's your name? I - … I don't think we've been introduced before, dude." Even from your position on the couch, you could pick out spots of rose pink on his cheeks. Even as he focused determinedly on the ground.

You couldn't help but be hopelessly endeared, so you gave him your name.

He gently repeated it once, as if trying out how it felt on his tongue. "Oh. Radical."

There was another brief moment, in which the movie still playing on the boxy television faded into the background. Then, his eyes were back on yours; they were a warm brown, you noticed.

Apparently, Deacon had enough of his older brother interrupting his sacred movie, because he spoke up again, breaking the silence. "Ted, don't you have stuff to do?"

You wanted to reprimand Deacon for his less-than-polite tone, but didn't have the chance, because Ted responded first.

"Oh." Seemingly snapping back to reality, he glanced away. "Yeah. Sorry 'bout that."

Before you could tell him that you were going to order food later, he'd bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. You heard the far-off shutting of a door; and then a little later, muffled music that had a lot of distorted electric guitar and drums.

Deacon scoffed to himself, but settled further into the couch cushions.

You didn't see Ted again that night. He didn't even come downstairs to snatch a slice of pepperoni pizza, and just remained in his room. Maybe he didn't want to bother his little brother anymore, you thought, trying your hardest not to feel disappointed; even if you'd barely had any sort of conversation with him, there was something … Something very magnetic.

Mr. Logan was back at around eleven, and by that time you were seated by the television once more. Alone, because you'd miraculously managed to get Deacon to go to bed.

"I'm guessing everything went fine," remarked Mr. Logan, taking off his cap. You were beginning to get used to his clipped tone, and shut off the terrible sitcom you'd been killing time with.

"Yeah, I left the change for the food on the counter."

He pulled out his wallet, counting out crisp bills.

"Did Ted give you any trouble?"

Taking the money, you made sure it was the correct amount -- why'd you even bother, a man like Mr. Logan must've been specific about everything. "No, not at all. He barely said anything to me, actually."

He only gave you a noncommittal hum in response to that, not even looking in your direction as he headed for the counter; probably to make sure you weren't stealing any of the change. "Well, good night."

It wasn't a thank you -- not even close, but you'd take it. You'd been paid, after all. "Good night."

Ted's face upon seeing you still was fresh in your mind as you made your way home. And during the next several days that passed. It wasn't surprising, really. Nobody had ever looked at you like that; nobody had ever looked in awe of you on sight. At least, not anybody that had really caught your attention.

Eventually, Mr. Logan called again. Apparently he had another work thing to do -- not that you were listening closely when he mentioned it. Your heart jumped at another opportunity to see Ted; it was a little embarrassing, really. You weren't some boy-crazed lunatic, pining after a guy you barely knew.

Well, pining was a strong word. But you did pay extra attention when walking around at school, trying to catch a glimpse of him on your way to your classes.

(You didn't.)

This time, your pulse picked up when you walked up to the house. You even hesitated before you rang the doorbell again. But when you did, you heard some general commotion from within the house before Deacon answered the door, looking a little annoyed.

"Hi," he said, "Dad's getting ready or whatever."

He stepped aside to let you in. "I thought Ted was gonna answer the door. But he ran off as soon as he heard the doorbell." Sighing, he flopped down on the couch. "Lazy ass."

As if on cue, Mr. Logan entered the living room, fixing his hat. You idly wondered if he wore it to hide the fact that he basically lacked all of his hair except for on the sides and back.

"Deacon, watch your language."

"Sorry." Even though his voice was muffled into the cushions, he didn't sound apologetic in the slightest.

Mr. Logan turned his attention to you. "You don't need a refresher on anything, right." It sounded more like an order than a question, but you chose to look past it. At least he had offered to jog your memory if needed. The bare minimum was nice sometimes.

"Yeah, I'll be fine."

He gave you a curt nod. It wasn't until you heard the garage door shutting behind his car that Deacon sat bolt upright, suddenly energized.

You looked at him expectantly.

"Let's watch Ghostbusters," he declared. "Dad thinks it's stupid."

And so, with little fanfare, you were basically doing the same thing as last time. But instead of dystopia, the setting was mildly less disturbing this time. And the main protagonists were human and likable. No offense to cyborg cops, but he didn't offer much in the way of personality -- so nobody could blame you.

You were sure you'd seen this movie before, but the memory was vague enough that most of the events were new to you. However, even though you were focused on watching the film, there was something else on the back of your mind. An underlying antsiness; and you had a good idea why.

Said antsiness was confirmed when, about half an hour into the movie, you heard footsteps coming down the stairs. It took all of your willpower not to look, but you knew who it was.

It was only until he breached your peripheral vision that you allowed yourself to smile.

"Hey, Ted."

Today, he was wearing all loose clothes -- a baggy tee shirt with BLACK SABBATH printed on it in slightly distorted purple font, and what looked like sleep shorts. All in all, it made him look very soft. Like he was planning to do nothing but lay in bed for the entire day. Even his hair was kind of mussed up, a curl or two (or three) sticking out from the rest.

He returned your smile tenfold with a near-blinding grin. "Hey."

Deacon, unlike you, didn't have to hide anything.

"Are you just gonna stand there and stare at the babysitter?"

Delightfully, Ted flushed, hand flying up to fiddle with his hair. "Uh. No. I was just wondering if I could -- " he hesitated, before continuing, "if I could watch the movie too, y'know. I think Ghostbusters is a totally exceptional example of cinema." You didn't catch the way Deacon narrowed his eyes at his older brother.

"Okay. Just don't interrupt too much."

" 'Course."

You were mildly startled when Ted sat down in the middle of you and Deacon -- you'd expected him to sit on the other side, but apparently that wasn't the case. The younger Logan let out an audible sigh and scooted further away.

True to his word, Ted didn't speak up for the majority of the movie. But you were aware of his presence in a way that was almost comparable; since you were mere inches apart. He didn't sit still, and adjusted his position every so often, but you had the feeling that was the norm since Deacon didn't mention it.

However, it seemed by the near-ending Ted reached his limit on not making at least one comment.

"Dude. I forgot how impressive the special effects are," he mused in his best attempt at a hushed tone. "Must've taken them ages to do this stuff."

"Yeah," you agreed, glancing over, "it's pretty cool. Slimer really gives me the creeps."

Ted opened his mouth to respond, but shut up when a loud "shhh!" came from Deacon's general direction.

For a moment, you and him just looked at each other. Then, not able to stifle it in time, you snorted; he lapsed into a fit of giggles, and as a result of that so did you. It wasn't really your fault -- his laugh was very contagious, even muffled like this.

Somehow, you managed to get through the rest of the movie without much more incident. Even if your heart lurched every time Ted's arm or leg accidentally brushed up against yours with the way he was fidgeting.

By the time it was over, it was around six, and so you called to order a pizza. Ted didn't retreat back upstairs, much to Deacon's disappointment, and pretty much hovered around you as you all waited for dinner to arrive. Not in a weird way, not at all -- he just resembled a puppy trying to get attention, really.

"What'd you think of the movie?" He asked, just after you'd gotten off the phone with the pizza place.

"It was pretty good," you hummed, putting down the receiver. "A couple moments were slow, but overall I enjoyed it. What's not to like about some guys capturing ghosts and defeating otherworldly entities?"

"An excellent way to phrase it," grinned Ted, "and I agree most wholeheartedly. The ghost-buster dudes are impossible not to root for."

You chatted a little more about it with him; his way of talking was a bit unique, but somehow you found it just as attractive as everything else. Sadly, your conversation was cut short by the doorbell. As soon as you'd taken a single step in the direction of the door --

" -- I'll get that!" declared Ted, with an enthusiasm that was a little frightening, already moving to grab the pizza.

"Hey, wait, there's money on the counter!"

"... Oh."

Backtracking, he grabbed the cash and resumed his course to the door, covering the distance with long strides.

It wasn't long before the food was gone; and you unceremoniously stuffed the ripped-apart cardboard box into the recycling bin like last time, hoping Mr. Logan wouldn't take issue with how you'd basically just jammed it in. After Deacon had wolfed down maybe three slices, he'd disappeared somewhere. Probably to his room -- you reminded him to be in bed in time, lest Mr. Logan stop letting you babysit, and he'd only replied with a dull "okay".

You were practically alone with Ted now.

"So, uh." He broke the silence as soon as you returned to the living room. "... Wanna go upstairs? There's not much to do down here 'sides watching more movies."

"I don't see why not," you said without thinking.

For a second, he looked caught off-guard just as much as you were, (seriously, what) but recovered quickly. "Cool. C'mon, dude."

Beaming, he motioned to you, and you were helpless to do anything but follow.

His room was a bit messy, but you would've found it strange if it wasn't. Posters were all over the walls, Metallica and Van Halen and other assorted bands and movies. In the corner was a shelf filled to the brim with various memorabilia; action figures, guitar picks, markers and books that looked kind of dusty. His laundry bin was overflowing a little, but at least it was confined to another corner. Everything was just so Ted and that was probably the best way to describe it.

He made his way over to the window, opening it just a crack. "Let's just keep the window open so we can hear Dad pulling in the driveway. His car is super loud -- I think he'd go ballistic if you were hanging out with me."

You knew he was right, but it still struck a minor chord on your heartstrings -- which you attempted to move past as fast as possible. "Oh, yeah. Good thinking."

At your compliment, he was all smiles again.

You felt yourself melt a little, and sat on the bed before your knees gave out or something.

Before long, you were both sprawled out on the carpet playing a serious game of Uno. For a guy who you were learning wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box, he was pretty good at making you question your own abilities; either that or he was just extremely, ridiculously lucky. He did have an awful poker face, after all.

He snickered every time he drew a plus four or plus two card, and blanched whenever he didn't have a playable card. Which was cute, but also pretty advantageous for you.

After a frustratingly long time of going back and forth; of him denying you every single time you dared call Uno, you finally won.

"Dude!" Ted exclaimed, throwing down his hand as if deeply and truly offended, but you could see that he was grinning again. "That was totally 'cause I let my guard down."

"I don't know," you teased, "or maybe it was because of my great and unbeatable card-game skills."

He hung his head in mock-shame. "You're right. I suck."

You were conflicted between bullying him a little more or comforting him to lessen the blow of your victory, but before you could decide, you both heard the tell-tale sound of tires crunching on the pavement and the whir of the garage door opening. Ted scrambled over to the window, peeking through the small opening he'd left earlier.

"He's back," he announced, turning back to face you.

"Okay," you said, getting to your feet and making sure you hadn't dropped anything. "See you later, Ted."

" 'Bye!" He called after you.

Thankfully, you managed to make it down to the living room, jump onto the couch, and fumble for the remote just in time to turn on the television a good minute before Mr. Logan entered. During that brief time, you felt strangely like you were a spy, a double-agent -- that if you were caught fraternizing with the enemy, you'd be given grave consequences.

It was hilarious, you had to admit.

Mr. Logan didn't ask you about Ted this time, just cutting right to the chase and taking out his wallet.

"Is the change on the counter again?"

"Yeah," you answered, giving him a "thanks" as he handed you a couple bills. You marveled again at how clean they were -- it almost felt criminal to stuff them in your pocket, but what else could you do?

Once more, Mr. Logan turned away, going for the counter. "Good night." If he was as disinterested as he sounded, it was no wonder why he didn't try to make small talk with you at all. And you were grateful for it; you were sure that it'd just be awkward and nothing else. You rushed a little to leave.

But just as your hand turned the doorknob, you were stopped in your tracks by a shout.

"Wait!"

Apparently, you and Mr. Logan were both equally shocked, because he also whipped around mid-action.

In Ted's hasty descent down the stairs, he nearly tripped over himself, but regained what little composure he'd been holding onto, and jogged over to you. Either he didn't notice his father standing there, looking utterly baffled; or he just didn't care. In his hands he was holding a cassette tape.

He held it out to you, still catching his breath. The color in his cheeks could be attributed to his rush downstairs, but you had a sneaking suspicion that wasn't entirely the case. "Here. Sorry. I was gonna give it to you earlier," bashfulness showed clearly in his expression, "but I forgot."

It was only a second before you realized that you'd have to exit the situation to avoid any questions from his father -- whose eyes were darting between the two of you in an extremely worrying manner. So you took it from him, even whilst having absolutely no idea what it was.

"Thanks."

And with that, you were out the door.

The second you got home, you got a good look at the tape.

On the outside, written in an untidy scrawl in black Sharpie, was your answer. It was a mixtape. How much time had he spent making this for you? Your mind conjured up an image of him sitting by the record player you'd seen in his room, painstakingly selecting his favorite songs to record.

Flipping it over, you realized there was a scrap of paper taped to it -- a note.

You hardly had to think about the question hastily written on it with a bright pink marker, with little stars doodled around the edges.

It was the only thing that was running through your mind for the rest of the night. They were agonizing, the few days that passed before you finally received a call from Mr. Logan again. It was probably the only time ever that you were glad to hear his voice.

Deacon was a little disappointed when you told him to wait a minute to watch Raiders of the Lost Ark.

"Don't start loudly making out or anything," he said, sulking as you quickly ascended the stairs. You wanted to scold him for the sake of preserving your own dignity, but you had more pressing matters to focus on at the moment.

"So," Ted began sheepishly, after you entered his room. "You got my note, right?"

"I listened to the tape, too," you answered near-breathlessly. "Yes. I'd love to spend more time with you, Ted." You smiled broadly. "You're really sweet, you know that?"

He went bright red in response.

And then ducked behind his bangs.

It took him a little while to speak, but you were patient.

" … thanks, dude. I'm really glad," he finally murmured. "I spent ages making that tape, but it wasn't until I was gonna give it to you that I realized that. Like. Just hanging out like this wasn't gonna be enough. At all."

Right now, the main emotion your brain was registering was giddiness.

"I'm really glad, too."

#ted logan x reader #ted logan x you #ted logan imagine #ted logan imagines #keanu reeves x reader #keanu reeves x you #bill and ted imagine

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vodika-vibes · 1 month ago

Note

Hi Vodika! I think you might know why I'm here..

Fox and reader, a camping trip with a fire pit and shimmersilk.. I would very much like to request a NSFW sequel to this most satisfying story ❤️

Please take your time, I don't mind waiting patiently for Mr Fox (and most importantly: enjoy writing it) <3

Shimmersilk Nights

Summary: Fox might not be as surprised about your surprise as you would prefer, but that doesn’t mean he’s not getting it anyway.

Pairing: Commander Fox x F!Reader

Word Count: 1746

Warnings: Smut, but there's nothing super kinky here

A/N: This isn't the smuttiest thing I've ever written, but I think I like it.I hope you do too.

Click HERE to be added to my taglist

This is your favorite way to see Fox. Relaxed and peaceful, the stress lines on his face fade away until you can’t see them, until he looks his age, rather than much older.

His arm is snug around your waist as he reads a detective novel. He likes to joke that this author is his favorite because the main character reminds him of you, and her love interest reminds him of himself.

You think he’s being ridiculous. But, so long as he’s happy, he could be reading trashy romance novels for all you care.

You shift so that you’re able to press your face against his chest. He smells like the campfire, the lounge must be too close to the firepit, but you don’t mind. Under the scent of smoke is a scent that’s just Fox, after all.

Fox shifts under you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head, “What are you doing, cyar’ika?”

You turn your head so you can see his face, “Thinkin’.”

He smiles at you, his eyes crinkling at the corner, “What about?”

Again, you shift position, but this time you fold one of your arms on his chest, before reaching up and tapping the tip of his nose, “It’s a secret~”

He closes his book and sets it to the side, focusing his attention on you completely. “What kind of secret?”

You shift up his body so that you’re lips are hovering over his, a wide grin on your face, “The secret kind.”

“Babe.”

You giggle and kiss his cheek quickly, “Let me up, please.”

He immediately releases you, and settles back on the lounge, “You’re coming back, right?”

“That’s a secret too,” You reply as you roll off of him and head into the camper. You both know where you’re going, and what you’re going to do. It’s nice of him to, at least, pretend that he doesn’t know what’s happening at least.

You move to where you stored the new set of lingerie you bought for today specifically, and pull it out of the box. It is, quite possibly, the most expensive thing you’ve ever owned in your life.

The set is white and red and made of the finest, and most delicate, shimmersilk you’ve ever felt in your life. And, as you pull it on and examine yourself in the mirror, you’ve never felt prettier in your life.

You know Fox will feel the same way.

You dig through your make-up bag and apply just a dusting of make-up, to enhance rather than hide, and hang the simple pendant Fox gave you after you started dating around your neck, and then take a step back.

Perfect.

The simple red stone hangs just above your collarbone, and the lingerie sits smoothly against your skin, the material so light-weight that you can barely feel it at all. You do have a pair of red heels, the same shade of red as the threading on the lingerie, but you quickly decide against it.

Heels are sexy, yes. Broken ankles are much less so.

Next time, at home or in a hotel.

Finally ready, you slip out of the bedroom, and to the door of the camper. Fox is reading his book again, and you smother your laughter as you open the door and step onto the rug at the foot of the stairs, “That must be a really good book.” You tease lightly.

He glances at you, pauses, and then drops his book to the side. “Well now, look at you.”

You meander over to the foot of the lounge, and then spin, “What do you think?”

“I think I’m the luckiest asshole in the galaxy,” He slides so that he’s sitting at the foot of the lounge chair and settles his hands low on your hips. Fox leans in and presses a light kiss on your sternum, “All of this for me?”

“Well, there’s no one else here,” You tease, your hands coming up to settle in his curls, and you brush a loose curl off his forehead, “You really like it?”

His dark gaze meets yours, “I like you, everything else is window dressing.”

“You’re a sap,” You whisper to him.

“Don’t tell my brothers, I have a reputation to keep.” Slowly, carefully almost, he guides you so you’re straddling him and he pulls you into a deep kiss.

The plan, your plan really, had been to tease him until he can’t stand it anymore. Unfortunately for you, Fox has plans of his own, and they don’t have anything to do with you driving him insane.

Smoothly, as if he planned it out, he flips the pair of you so you’re sprawled out on the lounge, your legs hooked around his waist and blinking up at him in surprise.

“There. This is a good look for you,” Fox teases as he drags his hands up your sides and then across your breasts.

“I had a plan,” You say, trying to whine at him, though your words come out kind of breathy as he flicks his thumbs over your nipples.

“Oh?” He leans in and wraps his lips around a nipple through the material of the lingerie. It feels amazing, but the cloth keeps you from feeling him completely. “As it happens, so do I.”

He leans back on his heels so he’s able to look you over, a tiny smirk crossing his handsome face as he takes you in completely.

“You have a plan?” You prompt as you slide your hands under the hem of his shirt so you’re able to touch him properly.

“Mm,” He pulls his shirt off and tosses it to the side, so you can explore him more freely, “Well, I have several plans, actually. Depending on you.”

You absently trace a tattoo that sits low on his stomach and wait for him to continue.

“If you’re going to be a brat for me, cyare, then I have a plan for that. But if you’re going to be all pretty and pliable for me,” He leans down so he’s able to kiss down your throat, nipping roughly enough that you whimper, and tighten your legs around his waist. You can feel his erection pressing against you, and it’s not nearly enough.

He chuckles against your throat and grinds against you, “If you’re going to be all pretty and pliable for me,” Fox repeats, “Then I have a much more fun plan.”

Your mouth goes dry, “I can be good,” You reply, immediately.

“Oh, I know you can.” He leans up to grab a pillow and eases it under your head, “And because you’re being such a good girl, that’s what I’m going to do.”

You half sit up so you’re able to unfasten your bra, but his gentle hands stop you. “Oh no, cyar’ika. All of this,” He gestures to the lingerie, “Stays on.” You blink at him but then lay back again.

You trust him, after all.

“Good girl,” The praise shoots electricity through your entire body, and you whine low in the back of your throat, pulling a chuckle from him. He shifts you up the lounge a little further, effortlessly pulling your legs from around his waist so he’s able to position you how he wants.

“Cyar’ika, you’re already so wet,” His voice is light and teasing, but you don’t have the chance to respond as he moves your panties to the side and presses his thumb against your clit, pulling a gasping moan from your lips.

Fox can play your body like an expert, and you know, from experience, that he can push you to an orgasm in a matter of minutes if, and when, he’s so inclined.

But that, clearly, isn’t what he wants tonight. As he expertly brings you right to the edge using nothing but his thumb on your clit, and then he stops, pulling his hand away, and instead leans in so he can lavish your body with heavy kisses and bites.

As soon as you not teetering on the edge of your orgasm again, his fingers go back to your pussy, so he’s able to coax you right back to the edge again.

“F-Fox—” This time, though, you whine his name and reach out for him, wanting him closer than he is.

“What’s wrong, cyare?” He coos.

“Need more,” You pout up at him, “Need you.”

“You have me,” He eases two fingers inside you, and you gasp as his fingers hit that spot deep inside you, a spot that you can never quite reach on your own, and your hips jerk in response.

“S’not enough,” You manage to whine out.

“Greedy,” He sounds delighted though.

“‘M allowed. You said.”

Fox grins at you and pulls his fingers out of you, making you whine even more. He leans in and kisses you, wiping his fingers on your chest. “I did say that, didn’t I?” He breathes against your lips, “Tell me what you need, cyare.”

“You.”

“Be more specific.”

You whine and bump your nose against his, “I need you to fuck me,”

“As you wish,” Fox replies, leaning in to kiss you one more time, before he pulls back to pull the rest of his clothes off.

He’s moving so swiftly that you only catch a glimpse of cock, deliciously hard and leaking pre-cum, and then you’re not thinking about much else, as he rubs himself against you, and teasingly nudges your clit with the head of his cock.

You think, for a moment, that he’s still teasing you. But before you can scold him for it, he slowly presses his cock deep inside you. Taking his time so you can feel every inch of his cock as he enters you.

As soon as he’s completely bottomed out he stops so he’s able to kiss you. You hook your legs around his waist again, to hold him close, and he presses his forehead against yours.

A look of mischief crosses his face.

“Fox?”

“I wonder,” He murmurs, “How many times can I make you cum tonight before you have to use your safeword.”

For a moment, you’re surprised, but then you grin, “I think we should find out. For science.”

Fox laughs, a bright and boyish sound that makes you fall in love with him all over again, “Well, who am I to deny science?” He asks, a wide grin on his face as he slowly rolls his hips.

@n0vqni

@bad4amficideas

@justiceandwar98

@tiredbi-peach

@dukeoftheblackstar

@trixie2023

@kimiheartblade

@padawancat97

@falconfeather23435

@etod

@bb8-99

@continous-mistakes

@yoitsjay

@cc--2224

@adriennelenoir

@cdblake1565

@sweater-sloot

@heidnspeak

@wax-birds

@silly-starfish

@maniacalbooper

@rebell-ious

#star wars #tcw #commander fox x reader #fox x reader #star wars fanfiction #x reader fanfiction #f!reader fic #18+ fic #nsft #answered asks

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therulerofallpotatos · 5 months ago

Text

Hannigram Fic Rec List

In no particular order, some hannigram fics I recommend

This is in response to @cassyglenn 's post from a few hours ago I just saw.

So Delicate the Bones by unrealshrike

Summary:

After her father's unsolved disappearance, sixteen-year-old Adeline finds herself at the mercy of a new school, serial killers, FBI agents, and an unorthodox psychiatrist. Meanwhile, Hannibal wants to provide Will with a child after the fatal incident at the Hobbs’ home, and who better than his opportune new patient?

Chp 26/26 Word Count: 177,096 Words

So Delicate the Bones is one of those special fics in this fandom that introduces an original character into the main cast that is both genuinely interesting on their own and fits in with the established ensemble seamlessly. The story is riveting and I was sucked into it almost immediately. I highly recommend this. My bookmark notes (which I design specifically for me) were: An absolute epic of a novel. Adeline/Addie/Del

The Voices and the Shadows by darlinghogwarts, MaddyHughes, and slashyrogue

Summary:

“The Chesapeake Ripper? The serial killer? That's a grisly thing to find at the bottom of a drink. Most people say oblivion ...or possibly sex.” Hannibal sips his wine again. “Why are you thinking about a murderer on your birthday, Will? Is it part of your degree?” “He is a part of my degree by my own choice. My supervisor didn’t approve, but…” He sighs. “I insisted.” AU where Will—a Masters student studying the Chesapeake Ripper—gets drunk on his birthday and meets an intriguing man at the bar.

Chp 36/36 Word Count: 114,625

My personal bookmark note that I wrote in 2017 when I made this bookmark: The sweetest slowest most infuriating and beautiful burn you will ever experience.

In all honesty I read this in high school when I first started reading Hannibal fanfiction. I might've even read this before watching the show. That said, I don't make a note like that lightly. I only ever write notes like these when I want to remind a me years in the future why I bookmarked something in the first place. Some of the best novels I've read were a handful of fics that I'd make that note for. I know that this enthralled me, sucked me in. I was invested. I was glued to it for days. If this were another fandom, I might expect for it to hit softer if I were to reread it now, but Hannigram in particular has a habit of hitting just as hard at 25 years old as it did at 17 years old.

Light Up the Torches by HigherMagic

Summary:

"We need to find out who this rogue agent is," Sutcliffe says. "Right now, I think it would be fair to assume they're one of ours or our allies', since only our enemies are being killed." Hannibal nods. "Hold briefings with all your captains," he tells them. "I want no stone unturned. Tell them that whoever is doing this will not come to harm; I would very much like to meet them."

Chp 1/1 Word Count: 7,197

My bookmark note was: Oh fuck yes

It must have been delightful. I know myself well enough to know this is just a good time to be had.

The Living Doll by Anna_Jay

Summary:

Will is aware of what he's getting himself into when he buys the dreaded Doll House. Because of the cursed doll, no one has been able to stay longer than a month. He doesn't mind. Perhaps death would be kind after everything he's been through. Over the next few days Will finds himself attached to the strange doll he's named Hannibal. After all, it is just a doll. Right?

Part 2/3 Chp 9/9 Word Count: 35,675

The Living Doll is a 3 part series in which part 2 is the bulk of the story. The link above is for the series so you can easily start at the beginning. This is hands down one of my favorite fics. Ever. Like across all fandoms. actually no. it's one of my favorite novellas I've ever read period. I actually wrote my own haunted ball joint doll fic for a completely different fandom because of this fic's inspiration (it is nowhere near as good but I can share it if you're interested I suppose. It's still a very different story). It's creepy. It's romantic. It's intense and classic. It could easily get picked up by Blumhouse Productions and make a very good movie out of it. If you read anything on this list, read this.

Darling, Don't Be So Shy by murdergatsby

Summary: Will is a paranormal investigator with a special gift. Hannibal is a demon swelling with boredom. Their meeting was supposed to lead to a simple exorcism, but Will has a nasty habit of getting attached.

Chp 13/13 Word Count: 34,571

This was also one of my first Hannigram fics I read back in high school. I adored this fic. I'm a big fan of haunting each other/possession/melding each other into one type dynamics and their distinct dynamic in this story drew me in like a moth to a flame. i read it more than once and saved it here for safekeeping. I will likely reread it after finishing this list.

How to Save a Life (The Cannibal-Friendly Handbook) by KittenDiamore

Summary:

There’s a man looking up at Will, who has clearly been distracted from - Oh. Throwing limbs into the river. Human limbs. Lovely, he thinks sarcastically. Then he thinks it again because it actually is kind of lovely. The man looks confident. At ease with what he is. He’s kinda hot, too. Or: Will tries to jump off a bridge but ends up offering himself up to a cannibalistic serial killer...as you do.

Chp 1/1 Word Count: 3,463

For a shorter rec, this is a delightful little one-shot with a different first meeting (I love different first meeting fics). Delightful premise. Delightful follow through. Had this in my bookmarks for years as well.

There is also one more fic I was expecting to find in my bookmarks and now am going to ask anyone to help me find because it isn't there. There was a series that I read early on (probably 2017) that was about Hannibal who had a 10yo son at the time of the show. The story evolved into a series that was about that son and it deserved to be. It was one of those special projects where an original character naturally stole the show and we were reading to see where his story would take him more than anything else. These were novels and they were epic and I would love to get my hands on it again. This child was cunning and devoted to his father and his own personal ambitions. Any help finding this fic and any fics similar to it would be extremely welcome.

Oh! and a link to my bookmarks as well because there are more fics there. I just listed the ones that stood out the most/that I remembered enough to write my own spiel about them. I have not actually read every single fic I've marked, but even those are interesting enough that I saved them for later.

#hannigram #hannibal fic rec #fic recs #hannibal

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yarameijer · 7 months ago

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Hi! I just read through your Frigidity one shot, and I enjoyed it very much! Your writing is great! I have some asks regarding what happens after the one shot ends, though--I can't imagine the transition from Sector 5 to Raimon was easy on Tenma or Raimon.

How does Raimon view Frigidity!Tenma? I'd imagine he's more ruthless/colder now thanks to....you know.

How does Endou see him? Like, that's one of his kids that he failed. You can't tell me there isn't a little bit of protectiveness there after everything. Especially after the electrocution.

Does Dragon Link stay in touch? And do Tenma's Dragon Link teammates end up forgiving Shinsuke? Tenma did, but Dragon Link seems to be a bit more willing to be angry on his behalf.

Ooh, Frigidity, writing that one was an interesting experience, lmao. Stayed up two, three nights until like three in the morning to write it because inspiration hit me. I’m glad you liked it!! You’re absolutely right, though, Raimon and Tenma did have some challenging times in the immediate aftermath.

It takes some time for the team to get used to Tenma again, to be honest. Tenma has become a lot quieter, since his time with Fifth Sector taught him to try and not be noticed, and to observe rather than immediately speak up or face the consequences. Raimon is not used to this, since the Tenma from a few months before was always hyped up and talkative. They can tell he’s not fully comfortable around them anymore, and that hurts. Furthermore, the team has been (more or less) together all this time, so they are sort of… used to being a team without him? Tenma and Tsurugi do actually get closer, because Tsurugi is the only one on the team who understands what he’s gone through. Maybe not the exact same thing, but it’s close. He was a SEED. He’s been in Fifth Sector’s clutches too, and he knows what it’s like to still be treated with hesitance and distrust even after joining Raimon - and that is sort of the case for Tenma, too. Raimon treats him differently now, not per se with distrust, but they’re walking on eggshells for sure. They don’t know what he's been through and they’re afraid to upset him.

Endou feels very guilty, not just towards Tenma but also towards the rest of Raimon since he couldn’t protect any of them and they got taken by Fifth Sector while he was at God Eden. As we know from the story, Tenma definitely didn’t have a good time, but neither did Raimon - it’s mentioned that they got send to a ‘’re-education centre’’ in the story, which is basically just a type of indoctrination camp for Fifth Sector opposers. In the following months, Endou (and what was left of the Resistance) did everything they could to extract them, so Endou is aware of what his kids were going through - all except Tenma. To then see him with Dragon Link, as their captain, while knowing what Raimon went through (remember, indoctrination!!) he realizes they must have tried the same thing with Tenma, and they have seemingly succeeded, since he’s fighting for them and not holding back. The electrocution only makes it worse. Yeah, Endou does not let anyone touch his kids after he gets them all back.

Hell yeah Dragon Link stays in touch. They’ve got some group chats and although it’s pretty hard for all of them to meet up, Tenma sometimes visits either Seidouzan or the original Dragon Link during training, and they also have some friendly matches once in a while. They plan a training camp during the summer holidays too. Raimon actually has some issues with accepting this at first - not only because Tenma now has another team, one he in fact seems closer with than he is with them, but also because it makes them realize how hard it is for them to connect to him. He talks more when he’s with Dragon Link than with Raimon, but at the same time it’s much sharper and harsher than he ever acts with Raimon. Does Dragon Link forgive Shinsuke… depends on the person specifically, some do some don’t, but they do make it clear to Raimon that if they mess with Tenma, they’ll regret it.

#inazuma eleven go #inazuma eleven #ie11 #ina11 #ie go #fanfic #matsukaze tenma #raimon

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80s4life · 1 year ago

Text

Pawns”

Word Count: 4,522

Status: Requested!

Ask: Pleeeeeaase write more of Cal from titanic. Literally any prompt I’m so hungry😭

Ask #2: Pleasee could we have more cal hockley content, specifically more chapters for "the things I've never done" and even more short stories if you have the time, I love your work 💕 [THANK YOU SM! I WAS STARTING TO GET SELF CONSCIOUS OF MY WORK AGAIN]

Ask #3 will have an attachment to a separate Cal fic as well, so no request will be shown here until that one.

@: Three cutie pie nonnies!

Relationship: Caledon “Cal” Hockley x Female!Reader

Fandom: Titanic 1997

Summary: Thrusted into the roaring 20′s, all you wanted to be was free and outgoing as all the booming women in city. However, your father’s deal with the devil seals your fate in the hands of your advisor and boss, Caledon Hockley; a man who is haunted by memories, stubborn in his ways, and opposed to the newfound strength in the young women of America. You’re a slave at his will in his eyes, yet you’re just as free as the new reformed women in your own. You’re stuck at a standstill in this endless game of chess, but who’s the pawn?

Warnings: forbidden, early 1900′s morals and customs, Reader is a maid, Cal is the head of the house, Post-Titanic sinking, mature language, kinda spicy, PTSD, domestic violence (included in a PTSD episode ONLY), Kind of a Beauty and The Beast AU for inspiration

{gif is not mine, credit goes to @locke-writes}

It was all an act of practicality from the start: your father owed his father money and he had a set of nimble hands to rid himself of.

Nathan Hockley was a millionaire who dealt in the steel tycoon business in Pittsburgh. Your father had a habit of gambling with the wrong people, which had allegedly caused your father to have an uncomfortable run-in with the powerful man. Unable and too stubborn to do so, your father handed you off as a way of reparation for the damage the bastard had caused.

Nathan’s son, Caledon Hockley, was the exact replica of his father. He was cunning, stubborn, powerful and wealthy; a disrupting mixture of facets that could either lift or crush you with a simple snap of a finger. He was dangerous, among many of his other qualities, which made your business in the Hockley’s presence just that much harder.

With the pandemonium that followed the sinking of the Titanic in 1914, the physical and mental effects had taken ahold of Nathan’s deeply treasured and only son, practically keeping him on house arrest until he was “better”. However, to both Nathan and Caledon’s dismay, 6 years had done nothing for his declining health, the reasoning behind why Nathan had administered you into Caledon’s household in the first place.

All of these events have led you up to this point, your suitcase rolling behind you as one of the many maids in the manor lead you up to your room to unpack. You haven’t seen this young and precarious man yet, but something is telling you that you most likely don’t want to. You are soon to be given your list of instructions to follow immediately and precisely; left to your own devices to either stay afloat or drown in the fury of the Hockley men.

Maria, a young maid in her 20′s, around your age, approaches you with a pure and youthful grin, a light blush to her cheeks. Her hair is cut into a cropped bob of black hair with short but soft curls, her lean frame with modest green eyes making her endearing - intoxicating. “You must be Miss Y/L/N?” her cutesy, high pitched voice only adding to her allure and picturesque innocence.

“Yes, that’s me,” you mutter, displaying your hands as if to show yourself off in sarcasm.

“No need to be so glum!” she giggles, bowing her head to catch your eyes and raise your line of sight. “I’m Maria Espinosa, but I’d assume the least you’d want right now is formalities.”

You snort, but let her continue nonetheless.

“I’ve your instructions - written myself, of course!” she smiles brightly; any harder and she might break her face. “As you know, with your appointment into this manor, the rest of the faculty will be let off, per Nathan Hockley’s request. But, don’t fret, the list is simple, short and can last all day without having to pay too much mind. Every Tuesday and Thursday, there will be a grocer that will restock the cabinets, refrigerator, etc. and help you with the cleaning. You are not to touch the east wing and only reside within the west - this will help eliminate the messes to clean and prevent extra exertion-”

“Sorry, if I may be crude, why are we not to go in the east wing?” you ask, curiosity getting the best of you.

“It was...” Maria drifts off, choosing her words lightly, “After the accident in 1914, the east was torn by his own hands. It was once used for balls and such, but after the Titanic,” she whispers the name as if someone might hear her, “Caledon was bedridden and sick, upset, angry, any emotion in the book. He used that wing as a way to let those emotions out.”

You stay silent as you stare at her with morbid curiosity and fear, nodding once before returning your attention to the list. The rest seems easy, not like the job was ever hard to begin with, just an annoyance for better words.

Maria clears her throat, “Anyway, you must make at least two meals a day, mainly breakfast and dinner, both at 8 am and 8 pm. Caledon might decide not to have lunch some days, but if he does, make sure it is brought to him by 12 pm. He doesn’t like tardiness, so as long as you follow the rules as tightly as you can, you won’t be a target. Any questions?”

“No, no. I’d presume you’d want to be heading out?” you smirk at her mischievously and instantly watch as her taut muscles relax.

“Very much so, yes! It’s been forever since I’ve had a moment of freedom.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” you shoo her off playfully. This is your family’s mess to clean, the least you can do is let her be free of the shackles that are now passed down and chained to your ankles.

Maria is halfway through the door when she turns to you from the foyer, “I’ll do a monthly checkup to make sure everything is in line, and for a little company in your lonesome, okay?”

You smile gratefully, hands coming up to play with your nails, “Thank you, you’re very kind. Though, I don’t want to be a burden.”

“A burden? You just gave me my freedom!” she exclaims, laughing as she waves a hand. “I’ll be back by the end of the month! Settle in and enjoy the quiet!”

The moment the door slams shut, your shoulders droop heavily. Your eyes scan the spacious mansion with frightening curiosity. You’ve never even remotely been near land such as this, and now that you’re inside, it feels almost too much. You let your hands glide the carved wooden banister as you walk up the huge steps to the second floor, taking a left down a hall.

Your legs carry you down the long corridor, and, as you place your key into the fob, your eyes lay onto the door across from yours: ‘Lord Hockley’ carved neatly on the door. There’s a rustling behind it and footsteps that approach the other side of the door, eliciting you to push the key one click further and dive through the door as quickly and quietly as possible.

You flop onto the bed with a huff, trying to calm the beating of your heart just enough to allow you to unpack and prepare dinner within the course of 3 hours. When your room is finished, you nod in satisfaction, taking a bath in the connected bathroom and changing into a thin, sheer dress before exiting your room and back down the steps to the kitchen.

Finally do you take the time to read the list on your own. It includes very detailed and descriptive instructions, easy nonetheless, of medication usages and what to do with each, meal plans, recipes, a map of which rooms to clean and how to clean each one, and Caledon’s nightly and morning rituals to follow precisely.

Shrugging your shoulders, you roll your neck to release the tension before opening the cookbook up to the recipe designed for today’s date. “Pork roast,” you state alloud, cringing at the echo of your voice being followed by more movement in Hockely’s room.

Your mind roams as your eyes get lost at the sight of the luscious woods out the window, hands deftly whisking away at the pork roast’s grease with the intent of making a nice gravy to coat the dry, but tender pork roast. Shaking your head, you peer down and try to busy yourself with the already settling boredom you’re consumed by.

You can hear the halls creak, the water drip from the faucet, birds chirping outside, the soft sway of the wind, random clicks, ticks, and other noises. You’re destined to go insane.

You jump unexpectedly with the sound of a crash from upstairs. The noise comes from the general direction of Caledon’s room and you all but groan at what the sound indicates - what your being here demands.

Putting the roast of low, you close the lid with a soft click before ascending up the stairs to Caledon’s room. You stand outside the door, hand on your heart, as you try to calm your rapid heartbeat and breathing. This was to come about sooner rather than later, so you should be glad it’s happening now. However, the banging continues within the room and you know that even if you had met him in a few months, the hell that follows him would never be escaped for as long as your father’s debt remains.

Knocking on the hard wooden door, you speak softly, “Lord Hockley? Is everything alright?”

You’re not given an answer, only the sound of something heavy being thrown and falling to the floor.

“Lord Hockey?” you call out again, louder this time. Unsurprised, you are followed by no answer once more. Annoyance creeps into your words a third and final time, “Lord Hockley, I will come in there myself if you do not open this door. Now,” you demand.

Shrugging when no voice calls to you form the other side of the door, your hand twists the doorknob and pushes the door open. You legs carry you only so far before they stutter to a stop just past the door frame.

Just before you, there is a disheveled, sweaty Caledon Hockley, fit from youth and some maturity in his thirties, shirtless. His eyes look crazed, like a madman, as his hands grip a chair at his desk with white knuckles. Around the room, there’s shelves torn down, broken, books in a disarray on the floor. His bedsheets are thrown about with the other chair from his desk propped against the wall in his fury.

You stare wide-eyed, but somehow, not alarmed in the slightest. You were accustomed to this sort of outburst, especially within the hard working men. You saw it in your father - even in your younger brother. “Lord Hockley,” your voice is softer again, all annoyance and anger lost at the door.

His eyes snap up to you, as if he had just noticed your arrival or presence. “What are you doing in here? You are not to barge in a man’s room, that is uncouth for a woman of your age and status. What is wrong with you?”

“Lord Hockley-” you try to start your confession.

“A woman is not to speak up to a man; are you ferel? Are you-?”

You don’t allow him to finish his slandering, “-I am mentally efficient, Lord Hockley, and very aware of my positioning here. However, I did knock, three times to be exact, with no answer. There had been a ruckus in here for about-” you peer up at the clock above his desk, “-an hour and a half now. I came to be of assistance, but if my help is unwanted, I’d happily leave you to your self-pity on your own?”

He has no other emotion present except bewilderment plastered to his face; eyes wide, mouth agape, and at a struggle for words. His fists clench and unclench as his eyes pan down to stare at the floor, appearing deep in thought.

“Lord Hockley, if I may be so bold?” you ask, scanning his body language and searching to find the meaning of this man’s crazed outburst.

“Go ahead,” he mutters, a hand going up to rub some hair from his eyes, still staring at the floor.

“You may confide in me if that means helping your mental health?” you offer. You know this could go one of two ways: either one, he’ll turn you away, suffer alone, and claim that men have no such weaknesses, or two, he’ll let his guard drop and release him from these dark episodes he’s no stranger to. The latter seems rather unlikely.

“I am not mental.”

“I did not say that. I was simply insisting that everyone has a dark place their mind goes to, which is a detriment to a person’s mental health. Let alone someone who is expected to heal quickly and pick up the family business, am I correct?”

Just as you thought you were getting somewhere, Cal’s eyes snap back up to yours with anger, the malicious anger tearing at his body again, “You know nothing of my family’s business and nothing of me. You have no audacity as to even assume or place yourself in my shoes. I should have you thrown out or hanged for your mouth alone. Get out!”

“Just trying to be of service, sir, since I’m at your will!” you smile sickeningly, bowing to him and sliding through the door just as a book is picked up and thrown.

You let out a deep breath of air on the other side of his door, now in the safety of the hallway. Your throat tightens with a soft sob, tears welling in your eyes. You truly feel as a prisoner on death row, hands and ankles encased in heavy metal cuffs; struggling to walk under the watchful gazes and heavy chains slowing you down, keeping you locked in this manor.

You weren’t the perpetrator, you know this, but you were framed to support the guilty with your own naivety and love.

You drag yourself back down to the kitchen to finish the man’s meal with dejection, but still devoted for the greater future - when you no longer have to be a maid in this manor and be free, lost in the world again.

“Lord Hockley?” you call once more at his door, only this time, you’re holding his tray of dinner. “I have your meal, are you decent?”

You hear a muffled ‘Yes’ and proceed through the door cautiously.

It seems he’s settled now, sitting at his desk with notes and papers scattering the floor and desk. He hadn’t cleaned the room, which you suspected you’d have to clean in the near future. However, you notice the bed is drenched in liquid, and when you look back at him, you notice sweat beading at his forehead, a thin sheen of sweat glistening against his skin.

“Lord Hockley?” you call again, stepping closer towards him. He chooses not t answer you, so you press further. “You’re sweating.”

“I’m very well aware of what my body is doing.”

“Are you feeling ill? I can help you if-” you are cut off by his fist meeting the solid oak of the desk.

“I do not need any assistance from the likes of you, nor do I want it,” his voice is stern, scary.

You try not to lose your temper so easily this time, so you give him a kind, tight-lipped smile. “Of course, my lord, you are a man after all. A man is able to take care of himself just fine, though he installs many maids within his manor. Maids like me,” you giggle dryly, “What shall I do instead, since you are able to clean, cook, and much more without the help of the ‘likes of me’?”

Caledon only groans, “Just leave the food here, you are dismissed. I’ll leave my tray for you to clean in the morning.”

“Oh, how kind,” you roll your eyes, scurrying to the door.

“Oh, and Miss, maybe you could find a better countenance and leave your convictions in your pillow when you arise. Wouldn’t want to explain to my father - and yours - as to why you were no longer needed and let go.”

You can hear the sinister smirk in his voice, but you choose to ignore it - for now - and head to bed briskly.

The next two weeks follow you in a similar form. You do as your told, albeit begrudgingly, and get into many of your childish arguments. Your interactions with the man are nasty and violent at times, always finding yourself dodging an object, taking threats, and coming in the next morning asking for more.

More, more, more; you ask for more because there is nothing else to be given. You have to take everything as a grain of salt. You have to because this means your father’s life and yours. If you manage to screw up, and you will, they will not only have your father’s head, but yours for Caledon’s punctured ego.

Though, somewhere within those weeks, you started to care less and less.

“Lord Hockley?” you knock at his door, tray of food in hand. He once more gives you no answer, so you push in.

Greeted by no light in the room, you walk around in the darkness, knowing this room like the back of your palm now. Placing the tray of food on the oak countertop and go to strike a match, lighting the candle on the desk. Going around the room, you light each and every one of them until the room is dimly lit enough to see.

On the bed, you find Caledon, sweat having gotten worse as you’ve noticed he never leaves his room. When you step closer, he is shivering, teeth chattering. Worried, you go to place the back of your hand to his forehead, but quickly draw your hand back when he jerks upright.

“Lord Hockley!” you jump, the ghost of his skin still lingering on the pads of your fingers. “You’re burning up, I need to help assist you now. You’re very ill and the sickness has gone on long enough-”

“No!” his voice rips through you quiet pleas, rattling off the walls.

“But, Lord Hockley-”

“I said ‘No’! I do not want assistance, I am a grown man!”

“’You can take care of yourself’, yeah, yeah, bullshit!” you scream, the frustration, fear, and hurt finally meeting your words as you are blinded by your emotions.

“What did you say?” Caledon looks at you in disbelief.

You cringe as you can guess what is about to take place in mere minutes, but you don’t hold back anymore. “Is your bigotry deafening your hearing or did you hear me call bullshit?”

Shakily, Caledon gets off his bed, his frame towering yours as he glares down at you with pale skin and dark, chocolate brown eyes.

“Your father wouldn’t want you to be sick, knowing that you would have to run his business soon.”

“My father-” Caledon cuts himself off, a hand going to wipe his face. “This has nothing to do with the business.”

“No? Well then, why else would I have to pamper you like a king? Is it because you’re defective?”

Caledon’s pacing now, trying to calm his increasing ragged breathing.

“Or is it because your useless to him? Mentally unstable?” you continue, trying to get a rise out of him.

“You know nothing of his business nor my personal life!” Caledon snaps back to you, anger finally bursting.

As his anger ensues, he takes steps close to you each time, piercing his thick index finger into you chest for emphasis. “You are nothing, you are worthless. I am a wealthy businessman. I am a strong, independent man with power. People would miss me if I were gone!”

“If you’re such a big man, you wouldn’t lock yourself away in your room like a toddler.”

That’s what finally did him in. You pressed a personal button when your short quips finally hit a nerve, testing his masculinity. Before you have time to react, a glass vase is hurled at you. It was a short throw, and was nowhere near your face, however it caught you by surprise and smashed against your hip.

You ignore the pain, though all you wanted to do was bury yourself in a hole. You came here to help him, but all you are returning is anger and hurt that is most definitely placed at you.

“You’re sick and it is my job to take care of you, so your father won’t have my ass because his baby boy isn’t okay. It’s my job to make sure you are very well satisfied. It is my job that you get your linens washed, food prepared, room cleaned, and make it my duty that your estate is fully functioning all on my own!” you jab a finger in his direction, placing more distance between your bodies until your back hits his door, his body on the other side of the room behind his desk.

He goes to say more, but you cut him off with more furious blows.

“Though, what isn’t my job is to allow you to threaten me. It isn’t my job to be belittled and yelled at by you. It isn’t my job to allow you to throw objects and whatever anger you have and hurl them at me! That is not my job, nor what I will allow any longer!”

“I never asked you to be here. I didn’t want you here. You forced yourself into my estate to protect your father. You knew what you were getting into just by the public papers alone. You knew what was to be expected and yet you came here anyway. You made a prisoner and a victim of yourself.” Caledon’s gaze does not falter and neither does yours.

“You’re correct, Lord Hockley, I may have known what I was getting myself into. What I didn’t know nor expect was the childish frustration and blatant disregard for human decency. I’ve tried over and over again to be kind, but against your better judgement, you couldn’t allow me to be the person to hold such compassion.”

Your eyes are welling up with tears now as you feel a warm liquid flow down your palm and to the tips of your fingers.

“You do not understand what is bothering me and you never will,” Caledon finally starts to calm himself, the self-pity returning as he recounts lost memories you cannot decipher.

“No, but I have made it abundantly clear that I was here to help assist you. However, you saw it as being weak, so it wasn’t in your cards to even allow me the common courtesy of being a human being. You felt as if I was lying to you.”

“God, you are so annoying,” Caledon groans.

“The feeling’s mutual.”

“You know, when you’re silent, I almost like you - wait, are you injured?”

“No!” you yell almost instantaneously.

“Did I do that? Its dripping on the floor, what happened?”

“The glass,” you almost stutter, the atmosphere changing quickly. “The glass shatter and cut some of my hand, I’m fine.”

“You’re hurt.”

“And, you’re ill.”

Caledon sighs, his shoulders slumping. Motioning for you to exit the room, Caledon says nothing as you make a silent pact to clean up.

You are suffering whiplash from the sudden change of emotion and it leaves you on edge, but with the cooling of his mood, it allows the adrenaline and some stiffness to leave you. Confusion overtakes your mind.

Guided into the kitchen, you start to take out numerous medications, searching for something to accommodate his symptoms. Caledon walks up to you quietly, almost afraid to get too close.

You do not say or look at each other, finally finding the right medicine and sliding it to him on the counter before sitting down on one of the bar stools. He sits beside you carefully, taking the medicine.

Taking some gauze and wiping away the cuts with an alcohol wipe, you struggle to wrap your hand. That is, until a warmer, larger one goes to encompass it gently, waiting for an action of opposition to its intentions.

Caledon gaze burns the side of your head before you finally acknowledge him with fear. Softly, he starts, “…Just allow me to help?”

You nod softly as the tears form in your eyes again. Some time passes before you finally work up the nerve to ask, “Why do you do this?”

Caledon looks up from you hand with confusion, which urges you on to elaborate, “Why does your mood change so swiftly, so suddenly?”

Sighing, Caledon gives you a firm look, as if he’s deciding whether to trust you or not - to tell you. “The Titanic,” he starts, “When I survived, I lost almost all of who I was. When I returned home to my father, I was constantly burdened with memories. They would consume me, control me, until I felt like a madman. The only solution was anger. When the anger takes control, there is no longer that burning sadness, guilt, and regret; no hoping I’d done something differently. I couldn’t allow myself to do that because I was no longer that man anymore.”

“It’s scary,” you croak, peering into his eyes.

“It is, but what’s worse is the life I’ve lived after the episodes. My father found me defective, worthless. I will never be able to fully recover, which is bad for business. He locked me away in this estate to stay hidden from prying eyes, bedridden to remain unseen even in this secluded property. I insist on doing the simplest actions myself because it makes me feel as if I’m showing my father I am still capable, just changed.”

You nod slowly as you take in this new information, grateful. The man has finally opened up to you, he’s no longer a stranger in his own home as it seems.

Calmly, Caledon pats your hand, signalling that the wrapping is done. A hand reaches up to tuck a strand of hair from your face, resting it on your cheek just afterwards. “I know I’ve hurt you, but please, try to understand me, I’m not asking for your forgiveness... I just wanted you to understand-”

“You don’t need to ask that, I already forgave you a long time ago,” you smile softly, placing one of your hands on his opposing cheek. “We will learn to adapt, just as you have many times before. We are no longer strangers, yeah?”

“Yes,” Caledon smiles with glossy eyes.

“We will work on this together. You are not alone anymore.”

Caledon looks at you with uncertainty.

“I am here, always. Understood?”

“Understood.”

Kissing his forehead softly, you other hand goes to be placed on his shoulder, “Repeat it.”

“I am not alone,” a tear slides down his cheek.

“Not as long as I’m alive,” you smirk, placing a kiss to each of his eyelids.

“Never again,” the both of you say together, lips finally meeting as if to seal the promise the both of you now shared deep in your hearts.

“Never alone.”

#caledon hockley #caledon hockley x reader #caledon hockley imagine #billy zane #billy zane x reader #billy zane imagine #titanic 1997 #titanic x reader #titanic imagine #titanic #cal hockley #cal hockley x reader #cal hockley imagine #1997 #rose dewitt bukater #xreader #female reader

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antikate · 6 months ago

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Today I subjected myself to the awful ordeal known as bra shopping because my eight year old bras (old enough to be halfway through grade school) have all decided to give up their tenuous hold on my torso.

After so many brave years of service, I wish them well.

Last time I went bra shopping I went to Nordstrom, but Nordstrom no longer exists in Canada, joining its fallen brethren, Sears, Target, and Bed Bath and Beyond in the venture capital graveyard. Eight years ago, at Nordstrom, a Russian lady with a severe blonde updo told me I have European breasts, whatever that meant, and I wore the three bras she sold to me for the better part of a decade, apart from an emergency sports bra purchase last year when I found myself in the resort town of Banff sans underwear. (That bra doesn’t earn the “sports” designation unless that sport is chess, but that’s a story for another time.)

So I did what any person with tits does, and turned to reddit to recommend a bra shop for me. The closest one was a few suburbs away, but it had good recommendations. And it’s next door to a good coffee shop! But when I turned up there it was so hot I didn’t want coffee and also it became clear this is not the kind of bra shop where you grab some bras and try them on until one turns out ok. By ok I mean it doesn’t make you feel like you’ve got three tits like that woman in Total Recall. No this is the kind of bra shop where they measure you and bring you the bras that they think will fit, in a vaguely patronizing and horrifying manner. Also you just stand there in your underwear for what feels like seven hours while people just wander past.

Luckily I have kids so I have no dignity left whatsoever.

The nice lady working there showed me to a fitting room and gave me a skeptical once-over.

“What size bra are you wearing now?” She asked. I feel like it’s important to note that she was wearing a cowboy hat the entire time this fitting occurred, because reasons, which I won’t go into on account of how you can probably dox me just from knowing I’m in Canada so I shouldn’t get more regionally specific. Though the cowboy hat may give it away.

I told her, and I immediately knew I was wrong about my bra size, because the first rule of shopping for bras is that you are wrong about your bra size.

“I don’t think so,” she said, kindly, and proceeded to bring me a bra with an F cup. I’ve been wearing a D cup for lo these eight years. No, apparently I’ve jumped right over E and straight into F. Also the Russian lady at Nordstrom had me in the wrong size band, and also whatever else European breasts means it also apparently signifies that I have a very odd shape because only two bras at this entire bra shop fit me. One of them was $225 and also lacy and scarlet. It did fit really well, but I politely demurred on it, as what I really wanted was not lacy and scarlet. I wanted a beige bra! Good old beige! I am not living a scarlet lace bra life! I am living a beige bra built by engineers with enough structural integrity to hold a cliff face together life.

The lady in the cowboy hat was quite sympathic. “You must have had so much trouble buying bras,” she said. “It’s not your fault! The bra industry is just like that for some people.”

I felt like I was in church and the priest just told me I was a fallen sinner but Jesus loves me anyway.

Alas, even though the lady in the cowboy hat was very nice, they didn’t have a single beige bra in my F cup size so they ordered one in for me. It will come next week. And then I got home and nearly cried because??? Why can’t I just buy a bra??? At a shop that sells bras???? At a SHOP THAT SELLS BRAS.

That’s when I realised I hadn’t eaten lunch which is probably why I was crying over beige bras so I as I write this I’ve eaten a whole bag of white cheddar flavoured popcorners.

The moral of this story is to not have breasts. The end.

#p.text #a story about bras #cw: talking about bras

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twistedtummies2 · 9 months ago

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Gathering of the Greatest Gumshoes - Number 14

Welcome to A Gathering of the Greatest Gumshoes! During this month-long event, I’ll be counting my Top 31 Favorite Fictional Detectives, from movies, television, literature, video games, and more!

SLEUTH-OF-THE-DAY’S QUOTE: “You attacked reason. It’s bad theology.”

Number 14 is…Father Brown.

Originally created by author G.K. Chesterton, Father Brown is one of the most famous detectives in English literature. Having said that, I must immediately make a confession: I’m not THAT well-versed (perhaps surprisingly) with the original “Father Brown” short stories Chesterton wrote. I’ve read some of them; specifically, I’ve now read all the ones collected in the book “The Innocence of Father Brown.” (My favorite is “The Invisible Man,” which, for the record, has absolutely nothing to do with anyone named Griffin). However, beyond that, I’m not especially familiar with the original writing. I also have not seen either of the two English-language film versions I know about (one played by Walter Connolly, another by Alec Guinness), both of which were based on the story “The Blue Cross.” And I should also immediately state that I have seen only one episode of the TV series starring Kenneth More from the 1970s, which I know has been highly lauded in years since.

So…since it seems like I am unfamiliar with nearly EVERYTHING that has brought this character into popular culture…how DO I know Father Brown, and why is he so high on the list? Well, because there is one version of the character and his universe that I am VERY familiar with: the most recent TV series adaptation of the stories, which began in 2013 and is still going strong today (with a new season coming this year). This show, simply and appropriately titled “Father Brown,” stars Mark Williams (whom many may recognize for playing Mr. Weasley in the Harry Potter films). While it frequently changes a LOT from the original Chesterton stories, the show is still EXTREMELY good. In my opinion, it modernizes the stories in a way that is pretty decently handled, so that even if you haven’t read the originals, you can still get a lot out of what’s being given to you. The spirit of Chesterton’s work is still intact. Much of what I say here will be informed by Williams’ portrayal of the character, which is why I wanted to make all this clear right off the bat.

Father Brown is an example of what might be called “the busybody detective,” or even more appropriately “the accidental detective.” What I mean by this is that he’s not in any way officially tied to the police; in fact, the police frequently see him as a nuisance, who gets in the way of their work and often makes them look like fools. He also never makes a career or a proper hobby out of his detective work. Being a detective just…kind of happens to him. Father Brown, on the surface, is a simple and humble local priest; a God-fearing, God-loving man of the cloth who is charitable, good-hearted, and at times seems sort of fumbling and shambolic. He’s not someone, therefore, you’d expect would make a great sleuth.

A great sleuth, of course, is exactly what this mild-mannered Catholic priest is. Father Brown’s rather simple demeanor belies a steely will, an even more steely faith, and a very cunning and alert mind. He typically ends up playing detective not so much out of a desire to one-up the police or some obsessive desire, but simply because he notices something amiss and begins to question why that is. His greatest assets as a sleuth can be summed up as two simple attributes: common sense, and, above all, human empathy. Father Brown doesn’t necessarily look for fingerprints or psychoanalyze criminals like a forensic profiler, but simply notices things that don’t make sense and then tries to make sense of them. He uses his understanding of people’s personalities, looks at their character traits and ideals, and uses them to his advantage; if he feels it isn’t in someone’s nature to shoot in cold blood, he follows his instinct, and he’s usually proven correct. If he sees someone showing some weakness or vulnerability, he latches onto that to try and sway them. He tries to redeem his enemies more often than he tries to ruin them. Contrariwise, this man also knows when NOT to trust people. While he’s noble and forgiving, Father Brown isn’t a pushover. In fact, the Williams version is revealed to be a war veteran; he’s seen some action (and horror) in his lifetime. This, combined with his devotion to the confessional booth, means that he knows very well that people are not perfect. With that said, despite being a religious soul, he isn’t superstitious, and tries to be tolerant of others with different beliefs. In short, Father Brown seems to understand that good people are good people, and tries to find the good in everyone, even those he seeks to defeat. Whether you’re spiritual or not, he’s not only a good detective, but arguably a good role model: I think a lot of us wish we had a Father Brown in our lives.

Tomorrow, the countdown continues with Number 13!

CLUE: “Are you with me? You might even be way ahead of me.”

#list #countdown #favorites #best #top 31 fictional detectives #gathering of the greatest gumshoes #number 14 #father brown #mark williams #g.k. chesterton #literature #tv #television #mystery #murder mystery

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sakurapika · 1 year ago

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How the landfolk do their hair

Author's note: This, along with my previous short story, "Rose-Tinted Ego," are from an Azurido fanfic I started writing a couple of months ago. I'm not sure if I'll finish it (it's over 11k words long and I'm not even halfway done with what I planned), so I decided to post excerpts of a few of the parts I like the best for now!

Context: Over winter break, the Queen is hosting a gala and has specifically requested for the Rosehearts family to attend. Mrs. Rosehearts has come to NRC to collect Riddle, who she hasn't spoken to for months. Azul volunteers to come with Riddle, claiming that he would like to take the chance to learn magic from the perspective of a different member of the Great Seven. Is he coming for his own gain, or is he making an excuse because he is concerned for Riddle? Who knows? Mrs. Rosehearts agrees, pleased with the idea of another NRC student (one from a different dorm, at that) looking up to her son. At this point in the story, the three are about to set off.

One final note: Brief mention about Azul's dieting and Mrs. Rosehearts being strict about food. It's very mild, but I'd rather not make anyone uncomfortable, just in case.

Azul was nothing if not prepared for nearly every possible scenario. Although being dragged along on a whirlwind trip with his academic rival and his academic rival’s mom was not something he anticipated this winter, he still had some basic plans. “Floyd,” he said while collecting four of his best pairs of shoes, “You must keep everyone outside of my office. Don’t touch any of my personal belongings, or else I’ll make a big batch of unagi nigiri out of you.”

“You’re going to play at kingyo-chan’s house?” Floyd threw himself at the edge of Azul’s bed and began to bounce. “Without us?”

“What did I just say about touching my personal belongings?”

“Well, teeeeechnically, your bed’s the property of Night Raven College.”

“Oh, you want to be a little smarty-pants right now?” Sighing, he turned to Jade leaning against the door of his bedroom. “Jade, you’re in charge. Keep your brother in check, will you?”

Jade nodded. “That goes without saying.”

As he finished collecting his clothes, he retrieved a lengthy document from a locked drawer in his desk and gave it to Jade. It contained every single contingency plan for how to operate the dorm in his absence. There shouldn’t be much of a problem, given that most of the students were away for the break. Jade was fairly experienced as a vice-housewarden, so he knew that he was reliable. Floyd was…Floyd. If he felt bored, he could burn down the dorm for his own amusement. Azul hoped that he’d at least find students in other dorms, like Scarabia, to terrorize before such a dreadful thought crossed his mind.

After they had finished packing, Mrs. Rosehearts had immediately sent for another ferry out of Sage’s Island. It was seldom that such boats came to the island during the off-season, but for a woman with status, anything was possible. Realizing that the journey was long, Azul was almost going to mention the fact that they could easily teleport by magic mirror.

“Don’t,” Riddle grabbed his arm and whispered, “Or she’ll make me visit more often.”

The ferry had dropped them off at the Cite des Fleurs in the Shaftlands; from there, they took a first-class train all the way to the Queendom of Roses. The train was fast and impressive, traveling both on land and through a series of underwater tunnels. In the meantime, the passengers were served a complimentary dinner.

When the waiter approached Azul, he had said, “It is our deepest pride and greatest honor to serve the finest foods in all of the Shaftlands--please, be our guest!”

The hospitality was certainly memorable; the tableware was enchanted, and the train waitstaff cast spells to make the spoons and forks dance and sing. Throughout the whole affair, Azul was fiercely taking mental notes. Could they pull off something like this in the Mostro Lounge? The food, however, was abysmal, but that was his own doing. He had spotted a million lovely dishes on the menu, and ended up with the simplest salad known to man and merfolk. By all means, the ingredients were fresh and the dressing was well-made, but Azul had eaten plenty of salads every day, and they all tasted like nothing at this point.

“See,” Mrs. Rosehearts remarked, pointing to Azul, “he’s eating something nutritious.”

Riddle pushed around a chunk of aubergine in his ratatouille. His own meal was made of vegetables. How much more healthy was it supposed to get?

Although he kept silent, Mrs. Rosehearts continued to berate him. “Look at you, you’re using the wrong fork. That’s a salad fork, not a dinner fork! Have you forgotten your dining etiquette? And your meal simply has too much oil in it. You know what? I’m telling the waitstaff!”

Mrs. Rosehearts took Riddle’s plate and chased down one of the poor staff members as he made his way into the next train car. Riddle looked at Azul helplessly and said, “I could have sworn I picked up the right fork. See, look, my dinner fork is where my salad fork should be. Maybe something happened during the dinnertime show.”

He looked so helpless, like a boy who was lost to this world. For the millionth time that day, Azul surprised himself by speaking up. “You used the wrong fork, huh? You know, under the sea, we don’t really have forks, or spoons. We mostly eat things with our hands, fins, tentacles, by phagocytosis…you get the idea.”

“Really? How curious. Well, I suppose that’s the etiquette there.”

“Yes, that’s just how it is. I didn’t even have a chance to see how landfolk actually use forks until I immigrated to…erm, the land. I used to go to restaurants and treat forks like complimentary combs! I collected a few and would sometimes use them to comb my bangs like this," he gave an exaggerated demonstration of curling the ends of his seafoam-white hair. "Jade didn’t know any better and collected forks for me, but Floyd…oh, that sucker, he knew this whole time and didn’t say a word, no matter how many times people stared at me! He never bothered to say, 'hey Azul, that's not how the landfolk actually do their hair.' I would even sing to myself while sitting in front of the vanity…good grief.”

Riddle allowed himself a small smile. “Wow, my mother would see you a bit differently if she knew that.”

“Just a bit?”

“You’re right. She’d chuck you off this train if she could.”

They laughed together, just for a nice, long moment, until they grew self-aware. What were they doing here, two students from an elite school, who were constantly head-to-head on the exam leaderboards? They weren't even friends. Aside from discussing classwork once in a while and attending housewarden meetings, their paths seldom crossed. Why now did Azul have to be so involved in something so embarrassingly personal to Riddle, such as his family’s affairs?

#disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland #twst #azul ashengrotto #riddle rosehearts #azurido #floyd leech #jade leech #twst fic #if you have constructive criticism for my writing I would love to hear it!#couldn't help making some Beauty and the Beast and Little Mermaid references :)

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quietlyimplode · 2 years ago

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I was going to save this for if you were going to to Black Widow Fest this year, but can you write a deleted scene from “Leave Everything…” based on this line?

“I think I’m okay, but then little things will happen and I won’t be. It was bad that first month. I can’t even tell you what happened, Clint probably can.” -Natasha

@adorationamy <3 thanks - we will see if Black Widow Fest will go ahead this year, given everything, but I hope so. Would be willing to do another deleted scene. :)

leave everything but your bones behind

Deleted Scenes from that first month.

“Clint?”

His phone can’t hear anything except what he thinks is the television.

“She’s not talking again,” his quiet voice says with a tint of an echo.

“Where are you?”

Silence.

“In the bathroom.”

“Where’s Natasha?”

“She’s... She’s okay, I think. The television is on and she’s staring at it.”

“Clint?”

Tony pauses.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know why.”

He hears the frustration and tries again.

“Okay, just tell me what’s happened.”

The reaction is immediate.

“I don’t know! Okay? I should know and I don’t. I don’t know why she was talking and seemed better two days ago and today, nothing! I should know, I should know what’s triggered her, but I don’t, okay? I just don’t.”

If Tony wasn’t awake before, he is now.

He glances at the clock in the kitchen, thankful he had enough forethought to move away from Pepper.

“Okay, okay, calm down.”

He cringes.

That’s not that right thing to say.

Clint doesn’t answer.

Tony thanks his friend’s patience, in not hanging up on him at all.

“Umm, can you go and have a look at her? What is she doing?”

He hears Clint move and then the TV grows louder.

“She’s just on the couch. She’ll follow instructions, she’ll do what I ask, and respond in some way. It’s not seizures, it’s like she’s disconnected from the world.”

Tony thinks. He has no experience with this.

He knows what he likes though.

“I like it when Dummy talks to me,” he says quietly.

“When I don’t feel… well.”

Clint is quiet on the phone.

“I like for him to tell me some good things about the world. To know that it’s not all the hopeless thoughts in my head.”

“Maybe it would work for her? If you haven’t already? Maybe some good things will help bring her out of Whatever sunk her in there in the first place?”

He’s not even sure if Clint is listening.

Until.

“Hey Nat, I’m gonna sit next to you okay? Tony’s on the phone over there. He told me that when he gets… lost, he likes to hear things that are good.”

There’s not response but the television turns down.

“There’s an animal called the Oryx, it’s an antelope found in the Middle East, and it became extinct in the wild. This sounds like a sad story but I swear it’s not, because you see,8 before hunters were able to kill the last oryx, five were captured, and they slowly built up, and the oryx was being moved from "endangered" to "vulnerable" and was the very first animal to go from extinct to vulnerable.”

Clint pauses, maybe checking on her.

He must be encouraged because he continues.

Tony has no idea where he gets the facts from.

“Did you know there’s a dachshund museum in Passau, Germany? Maybe we can go next time we are in Germany.”

Still nothing, Tony thinks; as there’s a period of silence.

But, he thinks he hears some movement as Clint continues again.

“There’s been advances in immunotherapy, thanks to you, the mRNA and gene editing that Tony tried with you, will likely help others. The cell therapies they’re looking into are to make generic immunotherapy rather than patient specific ones.”

He pauses.

“Jace found some other widows. Tony has housed them in safe houses and provided access to trauma informed therapists if they want it.”

Tony wants to hang up.

He isn’t someone’s something good.

He doesn’t though, intrigued to see what happens next.

“Yeah, Nat, really.”

Her voice was so quiet he didn’t even hear it.

There’s a shuffling and the phone is moved from what Tony can hear.

“Hey, thanks.”

He knows that Clint can’t see him, but he nods anyway.

“Yeah,” he responds, slightly choked up.

“Get her to call me sometime okay?”

Clint laughs.

“Yeah okay, when things are better. I’ll call you though.”

Tony nods again.

“You better.”

Hanging up the phone, Clint turns his attention back to Natasha, who is watching him intently.

It’s better than the dead eyes she’d been giving him all day.

“You hungry?” he asks hopefully.

She doesn’t reply but stands with him to get to the kitchen.

“Tell me some more good things?” she asks quietly.

He smiles.

“Of course, Nat.”

#leave everything but your bones behind #natasha romanoff #clintasha #black widow #clint barton #Tony stark #my fic #natasha romanoff fic #clintasha fanfiction #adorationamy #ask away!

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eisforeidolon · 1 year ago

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So I came across a meta post based on screenshots [X][X] of the list of book titles shown in 4x18 that Chuck published. There's a discrepancy where only 24 titles are given when there are 60 tv episodes across that span. Now not only did the meta author skip right past the possibility that since novels are generally longer than a tv show episode, books might generally cover multiple episodes? As well as the even more likely possibility that whoever was typing up the list for the props department got lazy?

The post directly jumped right into full on stan conspiracy-think of how this must be why all the fans in the SPNverse are Sam girls because Chuck purposefully omitted all of Dean's best episodes! Naturally this gets built on in the replies & comments, with even more conspiratorial leaps about how the writers were trying to make fans in-universe love Sam and think he was a hero because nobody does in the real world (snort) yadda yadda Chuck won theory is true yadda yadda D/C was silenced *sob* yadda yadda the story was writing itself without the permission of the writers writing it [crazy eyes].

My other glaring issue - aside from the obvious of what an absurdly biased load of batshit all of that is? I just do not understand why someone trying to suggest a genuinely legitimate theory about a show spanning fifteen years and many different writers? Wouldn't consider for a hot minute before running full tilt with an idea: Hey, this is one random-ass prop screen from one episode that Sam scrolls by fairly quick, does this actually line up with how much of the story we're shown the in-universe fans getting elsewhere? Spoiler: No.

Let's ignore that Chuck specifically mentions the ghost ship from Red Sky at Morning, which isn't on the list, in that very same episode. He could be getting visions of stories and not writing them - unlikely but possible. No, lets jump to Crowley using the books in Clip Show to track down and kill "everyone [Sam & Dean have] ever saved". He says he's able to do it because he has "his sources and a crack research team" as he's shown with a pile of Chuck's books as he's saying it [X]. It's unlikely he would have found Sarah from Provenance through another source besides the books, but theoretically possible.

What you can't use handwaves to set aside, though? Is that as the scene continues, he holds up a copy of what is clearly A Very Supernatural Christmas [X], which is not on the list. It's shown again as part of Metatron's library in Meta Fiction, along with Tall Tales [X], also not on the list. These are direct in-universe physical books shown onscreen. While we're at it, there are a couple of times fan characters make it clear in dialogue other episodes/books exist. In The Real Ghostbusters, Demian and Barnes walk by Sam and Dean playacting a scene directly from Hunted about John's last order regarding Sam. Same episode, Becky tells them about Crowley getting the Colt from Bela, specifically citing the title of Time is On My Side. Last one, in Fan Fiction, Marie immediately jumps to knowing what a tulpa is and says, "Well, in Hell House, Sam & Dean-". None of those three books are on that list. So that list is NOT a comprehensive one for all the published books in-universe.

Part of me really wants to go on an even more extended rant here about fixating on one blink-and-you'll-miss-it detail and imbuing it with six metric tons of meaning without even once seeming to consider if it's actually remotely significant or, y'know, put in with legitimate intention. Even if the meaning being projected isn't completely bonkers. Seeing this done over and over again by people latching myopically onto whatever random tidbit will let them jump to the conclusions they already want ... sigh. Like, this is not how you come up with a good theory, starting from an utterly rotten base!

#spn discussion #pedantic #bad meta #long post

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aimmyarrowshigh · 1 year ago

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Hello! Dropping into your inbox to ask you about your research for

"Lent From Tomorrow (today was too small for us)." You must have done a ton of historical research for it to get so many of those details. I think that sort of thing is a lot of fun, and I'm very curious to know if you came across anything especially cool/fascinating/weird during your writing research.

Ooh, thank you for the ask! How fun!

There's SO MUCH research in this fic, from the codebreaking to the science of how to defrost a supersoldier to what was on the radio on specific days in 1943. I've got a whole folder of just Lent From Tomorrow research, and the back half of my WIP document is just copy-pastes of quotes from soldiers, scientists, codebreakers, radio hosts, etc.

But, to be fair, I've been reading nonfiction about WWII codebreakers for like 20 years. It's one of my special interests~ and something that I just love learning about. WWII *battles*, I don't care about at all, but everything else about the time period is fascinating to me -- probably because of Molly McIntire, haha.

My FAVORITE little tidbit actually comes up in this coming week's chapter, so I'm not going to spoil it, but it's my favorite recollection in Code Girls by Liza Mundy. That was definitely the book that I used the most for this fic, since the main characters are basically all "code girls," or code omegas, whatever. I also used a lot from PBS Nova's The Mind of a Codebreaker, which I watched when it first came out in 1999 and it rewired my entire brain. I immediately did a report on the women of Bletchley Park in 7th grade (and another on the WASP/WAVE/WAC pilots, so I was really excited to be able to have Carol Danvers make a cameo in Lent!).

But I also looked up specifics for just about every scene -- the snippet of Quiz Kids that's on the wireless radio when Steve and the Asset are listening to the wireless is a quote and actually aired that day. The Torah portion that Steve hears when he goes to shul with the gals and Scott is the Torah portion from that particular Shabbat service in December 1942. The movie scene is the actual movie, newsreel, and cartoon that were shown together at a theater in Washington, DC, on that Friday in March 1943.

I leaned on a former-scientist friend of mine to point me in the right direction to find out how they would have frozen and defrosted the Asset, and also how The Arm might work in a way that isn't just "::shrug:: it's Superhero Science." Her husband is a mathematician, and she suggested some avenues that Steve might have written his big 1929 math paper about, too. And then I read a bunch of math papers from the 1920s and tried to understand them and it was. a lot.

I also did a lot of research into Steve's various disabilities and ailments and the treatments available by the early 1940s, particularly asthma and his childhood polio. (I'm forgetting whether the backstory of his polio experience has actually shown up in the fic yet or if it's coming up soon in a chapter? If it hasn't been posted yet, then spoiler, I guess, Steve had polio as a kid [although I *think* that's canon?]). Steve's experience of being disabled is really important to me, and I wanted it to matter and be a part of his life in this story (and any story I write about Steve).

There's a lot more specific stuff coming up in the back half of the fic, now that we've reached the midway point... Bucky's backstory requires a lot of research into things that I don't know as much about, just because I don't tend to look into actual battle/military histories, and because [redacted for spoilers].

#lent from tomorrow (today was too small for us)#fandom #fanfiction #my fic #asks

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lonesomedreamer · 4 months ago

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The Rings of Power Liveblog: “Adar” (Episode 3)

In which the wheels finally come off this cart. (But not because Galadriel rides a horse.)

I just don’t care about Arondir being captured by Orcs.

“Halbrand” is so punchable. Ugh.

These sailors must be Númenóreans, right?

I love how secretive the captain is being…surely Galadriel recognizes the uniforms/insignia, even if the audience doesn’t. Reverse dramatic irony, if you will.

“The island kingdom of Númenor.” Surprising absolutely no one who knows their Tolkien. Still, nice cinematography and design work in this sequence.

this is probably not how I would design Númenor, but it is gorgeous. I said “wow” out loud.

While the design’s a little on-the-nose, I appreciate the obvious visual links between Númenor to Gondor.

“Is that an Elf?” Elves—both canonically and in this series—do not look so different from Men (especially Númenóreans!) that some dockworker would look at Galadriel, with her messy hair and days-old plain white shift, and immediately go, “Oh, must be an ELF!”

Really liking the Mediterranean vibes of the city architecture.

“In time they broke off all contact [with Elves].” Did they? They envied the Elves’ immortality, and eventually, goaded by Sauron, they tried to sail to Valinor and were therefore destroyed…but this seems like a stretch for the sake of Drama.*

I’m sorry, the subtitle said this dude is Elendil??? (Whose name literally means “Elf-friend”, btw.)

Wow, so subtle. No foreshadowing at all.

It’s giving Constantinople.

They’re taking Galadriel to meet the queen and no one thinks to offer her a new dress or even a cloak to wear??

Actually, they might be leaning too hard on the Mediterranean/Byzantine aesthetic…Númenor is an island, sure, but these people don’t look like they inhabit the same universe as the characters we’ve met in Episodes 1 and 2 tbh.

Not Halbrand telling Galadriel, who is more or less an Elven princess and who was born in fucking Valinor, that she should kneel in front of royalty!!!

And of course it turns out that he’s wrong about that, lmfao.

Why are they so instantly antagonistic? The queen’s hostile, Galadriel’s defensive—why??? Frankly: why is everyone in this Middle-earth so overtly racist all the time?

This would be a nice time for a history lesson: tell the audience that Númenórean royals are descended from Elros, Elrond’s brother, which means they’re also descended from Elves (specifically, from Lúthien Tinúviel, his great-grandmother). However, I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that they will not bring that up…

Again with an Elf (Galadriel now) being in an unreasonable hurry…three DAYS? That would be literally nothing to her!

I don’t understand the writing/adaptation choices made here. Elendil? Isildur?! They lived almost two thousand years after the titular Rings of Power were forged! @ the screenwriters: pick a LANE. You can tell the story of the forging of the Rings (S.A. 1500-1600) OR the events that led to the Last Alliance of Men and Elves (S.A. 3430), but how can you look at the source material and say “why not both????”

I love a good naval/shipboard sequence, and the shots of the sea are breathtaking. It’s just that all the stuff related to Isildur is wasted screentime.

I can’t believe they’re actually going to acknowledge that “Elendil” means “Elf-friend” as a way to show the queen as a narrow-minded bigot, lol…

She’s written/acted as a Cersei knockoff.

Helping/bringing an Elf to Númenor is treason? Please be serious.

He’s kind of hot, help?

“The sea is always right.” What a dumb catch phrase.

“And that’s how Elendil came to possess Narsil!” Give me a big fucking break. Warriors have swords, and in legends, many swords have names. Not everything needs an origin story!

[record scratch] So this—after the awful exchange between Elendil and the queen and the equally bad Orc torture session with Arondir—was the point when I realized: I need to change the way I approach this show if I want to keep indulging in all the eye-candy. It’s not and cannot be Tolkien, or even a proper adaptation, in any meaningful sense. It’s an especially pretty but still “edgy,” borderline grimdark fantasy show loosely based on Tolkien’s work and set in his universe. Fine. Let’s go.

Galadriel knows parkour!

I want to be mad, but it’s all so pretty.

The way Galadriel has more chemistry with Elendil than with Halbrand, oof.

How big is this island, exactly? I always pictured the Valar having to sink something like…Sicily-sized, not Great Britain/Japan-sized, lol.

Oh, it’s the infamous slow-mo horse ride that pissed off so many people online. What’s the big deal?? It lasted for about ten seconds! Jackson relied on a ridiculous amount of slow motion in the LOTR films, and people have called those “cinematic masterpieces” for decades…

[Redacted] is supposed to be a master manipulator—think a charismatic cult leader type. Halbrand is…well, not that.

Wow, is the guy who just single-handedly murdered and mutilated a bunch of grown men (after he stole from them and was confronted about it) going to turn out to be a villain? Who can say??

“You knew Elros.” By all rights and internal logic, Elros should be the Númenórean featured in Season 1 rather than Elendil. But hey, Elros is mentioned! Cool! I asked for that, after all. (Now tell us who he was and why he matters.)

Shocker: they do not tell us those things.

“I was always closer with his brother.” He’s my son-in-law. Galadriel and the writers: Celeborn whom? (And wasn’t Galadriel righteously pissed at Elrond just a few days ago?)

Yeah, definitely hot.

“By [Morgoth’s] successor.” When I was little, my dad simplified deeper Tolkien history/lore for me by calling Sauron Morgoth’s “son”…it took me years to unlearn that, lmao.

Look, I love the Harfoots and am not ashamed to say it. They’re fun and charming, plus I’m actually invested in Nori and her story arc. I almost fast-forwarded to find out when they would show up! But the whole “anyone who falls behind gets left behind” mentality makes no sense.

“You’re just a child!” Marigold could’ve piped up with that when the entire community was threatening to abandon Nori and her family…

The way Isildur is written to be a slightly whiny, thoroughly twenty-first century teenager is fascinating. Like a car crash.

“There’s nothing for us on our Western shores.” Foreshadowing!

I’m not interested in Elendil’s family drama. And regardless of how lovely she is to look at, I don’t care any more about Galadriel’s massive error in judgment wrt interactions with Halbrand any more than I do about Arondir and the Orcs. This entire Númenor subplot was a mistake!

I was wondering when the Stranger would do something help the Brandyfoots. The actors playing him and Nori do excellent facial work, too. My heart broke a little when he said, “Friend.” Though he’s not Gandalf, not the real Gandalf, he’s still kind of lovable.

And instead of ending on that shot, they throw in some more grimdark Orc content. Skip!

The Good:

The music and visuals are still great. I’m a sucker for seascapes and great architecture. All the little details in the streets and palaces of Númenor were incredibly impressive, and the visual connections between Númenor to Gondor (presumably for the sake of non-readers who might not know) were nice. Many of the costumes were also beautiful. The visuals are where the show’s ultra high-budget reveals itself.

Shout-out to great-great-great-great grandpa Elros!

Elendil’s kind of hot. Galadriel’s gorgeous. We’re already so far from the light of Valinor that Galadriel should ditch “Halbrand” before they even get involved and hook up with Elendil instead.

The actors playing the Harfoots—Nori and Poppy in particular—and the Stranger are killing it! This show should just be about them. They continue doing a lot with very little.

The Bad:

Everything else? Where to begin…

The decline of the writing is noticeable. The dialogue is significantly worse, the foreshadowing is clumsy and obvious, and of course as an adaptation of the source material, this episode threw out both bathwater and baby. Elendil and Isildur are included for the same reason all kinds of IPs now include legacy characters: instant name recognition = (in theory) a dopamine hit for the viewer.

To make this even worse, I think the writers bungled Isildur’s character in hopes of making him “relatable” to appeal to a younger audience, I guess? He’s the Wesley Crusher of TROP.

Elros is mentioned…but the audience learns almost nothing about him, not even that he was the first king!

The entire Númenor arc is, in fact, a waste. The queen is two-dimensional. No explanation is given for the Númenóreans’ dislike/mistrust of Elves. Isildur’s storyline is a coming-of-age/family drama arc this show did not need, never mind that neither he nor Elendil should be alive for another two millennia (!) anyway. Halbrand sucks even more than before without becoming any more interesting. Galadriel doesn’t shine here, either. And despite the impressively detailed sets, even the Númenórean costumes seem visually unrelated the rest of the show’s own universe.

In short, it almost feels like Galadriel was dropped into a different fantasy world for this episode.

I mentioned him, but Halbrand gets his own bullet point again.

Arondir and his gory, violent imprisonment storyline…thanks, I hate it! It’s anti-Tolkien! It’s grimdark! It sucks!!!

The Harfoots’ beliefs and customs are inconsistent and confusing. Nomadic people and hunter/gatherer societies don’t just abandon people who need care! But they’re still the high point of the show imo. Not a compliment to the writers.

It’s almost funny…my opinions on this episode are diametrically opposed to most of the IMDb reviews I read. I like the Harfoot subplot in spite of its problems, I adore Nori, and I don’t hate Galadriel (either the character or the actress—God forbid women do anything) despite the weak writing. I also couldn’t care less about Arondir and found the Orc scenes totally unwatchable for several reasons. Go figure! This show’s not really worth it even for its beauty, but now I’m sort of invested.

*I went back and looked through the Appendices after I finished this episode, and eventually (many years after this show supposedly takes place…) the Númenórean kings, jealous of the Elves’ immortality, did “turn away” from them and even “punished” people who spoke their languages in public—after which the Elves “came no more to Númenor,” understandably. But it’s at least 700 years in the future if this show is set before the Rings were forged! This kind of unnecessary time compression in an epic, multi-season TV series makes no sense to me.

#the rings of power #trop #rings of power #lotr trop #image heavy and long! sorry!!!#luth liveblogs trop

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linklethehistorian · 2 years ago

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Linkle, I must know, what are your thoughts on Mori as a character? His actions and motivations?? Id love to hear your opinion, btw that last chapter of cherish was great!! I loved it so much!!!

Ahhh hello there, anon, thank you so much! 🥺😭💕💖🥰 It’s such an honor to get a message like this from someone who is reading the fic. 💕🥺💖🥰💕🥺💖🥰 I’m so glad you liked Chapter 12; it definitely has one of my own personal favorite scenes, tbh (but I won’t take up your time talking about that right now lol). Having a fan base for Cherish is truly lovely; I’m so blessed by each and every one of you. 🥺💖

As for your question, I’m always happy to share!

Before I say anything at all on my opinion, though, I’m first going to make it clear that I am completely setting aside that one…particular matter that has been discussed to death by the fandom for the moment, because I fear far too many people tend to forget that it is entirely possible to make any remotely positive commentary on a fictional character without that actually somehow meaning you condone his alleged…preferences. For the people in the back that need to hear this out loud to be set at ease: I in absolutely no way do.

Now with that out of the way for a bit, let’s talk about the rest of Mori. I’ll throw it under the cut, though, both for length and for potential spoilers of multiple light novels (Dark Era, Fifteen, Storm Bringer, etc.) and obviously the manga up to his last appearance in current arc. Oh and obviously the typical Mori-related trigger subjects. Yeah.

Honestly, on a general note, these days I think Mori as a character is super cool; I’m not sure where precisely I’d rate him on the list of characters because I honestly like nearly every character in BSD and think they’re pretty awesomely written, but on a general scale of 1 to 10, he’s a very solid 8 or 9 for me.

My first introduction to him was…admittedly not at all the best possible representation of him.

When I first joined the fandom, I began my journey through the series by watching the anime adaption of Dark Era, at the behest of a dear friend who said I would be best off doing so before I watched the rest of the show (of which there were only two seasons at the time) and then reading the manga, in order to get the best and most meaningful experience; it is not something I remotely regret, and in honesty, I would probably wholeheartedly recommend any new people to do the same, if they intended to start with the anime. Regardless, though, this decision did have the impact of making me immediately strongly dislike Mori as a person from the very start, given what he did to the orphans, Oda, and Dazai by extension.

Really, I wouldn’t say that I came to see him in any particular shades of grey motivation-wise until I watched the episode titled Double Black, in which there was the first reference of what would have become of the Port Mafia and Yokohama as a whole had he not usurped the throne to the organization so many years ago.

After that, I began to look at him with a bit more understanding and curiosity, horrible and ruthless though his nature may still mostly have been. Fifteen (specifically the light novel, NOT the anime) — which it should be said, I think is the best existing canon representation of Mori in terms of giving us a good look at his thoughts and motivations — only amplified that outlook and interest for me, and I think it alone is largely to thank for why I enjoy him as a character as much as I do in current time.

Although he’s definitely not someone I’d feel particularly comfortable writing an entire story solely around — as I don’t believe I’m expert nor absurdly passionate enough to do so compared to some genuine Mori fans that I know are out there out there — I nevertheless really, really do enjoy writing him, especially in Cherish (which is only the second time I’ve written him, if I’m honest — at least, in anything I’d consider publishing, anyway).

There’s just so much potential in him plot and personality-wise; he is incredibly flexible of a person in terms of his thoughts, mannerisms, motivations, and actions, which makes it super fun to explore and play around with when telling a story. I’d say he easily has one of the most fun personalities among the BSD ensemble, purely because of utterly unpredictable it can be; on one hand, he has moments where (at least outwardly) is capable of being extremely friendly, outgoing, generous and unassuming, and yet on the other, he is very much always inwardly observant of all that is going on around him and capable of quickly switching to being cold, calculating, and openly cruel at the drop of a hat. But even then, usually, his cruelty doesn’t come in the form of physical violence; it’s often emotional manipulation, intimidation, taking your fears and weaknesses and using them against you to get him whatever he feels he needs in the present moment. Sometimes, it isn’t even outwardly visible that the switch of gears happened; he knows how to poison you in the sweetest and most unassuming yet effective way possible — whether that poison is literal or metaphorical. He’s definitely the kind of person who could sing you to sing to sleep every night and kiss your cheek every morning even as he’s secretly plotting your demise. lol

That being said, I think a lot of the fandom, in their hatred for him as a person, tends to mischaracterize him a lot, rather than looking at it objectively. I’ve seen a lot of fics and general fandom takes that portray him as a sadistic person who is cruel simply for the sake of being cruel and does terrible things to others purely for the enjoyment factor, but that is 100% not who Mori is; canonically, Mori does what he does mostly, if not entirely, out of what he feels is necessity as the leader of the organization. Now, I’m not saying there may not be parts of him that enjoy certain things he does — it’s certainly more than possible, and even highly probable — but his actions as godfather are driven by achieving what he feels is the optimal solution, not by personal pleasure and amusement; as a matter of fact, in Fifteen, he even made it clear when speaking to Chuuya that he fully acknowledges a lot of what he does is morally reprehensible — he just feels that it is his duty to commit these atrocities for the ‘greater good’ of the organization, and that the end therefore justifies the means.

The thing is, there is a character in BSD who is exactly the way this portion of the fandom characterizes Mori, and he was even a member of the Port Mafia, so if people really wanted to canonically explore this dynamic of a character who wholly gets off on tormenting people, causing suffering and probing others’ heads rather than doing it as just a business practice, they absolutely could still do it and be true to canon by writing about said other character; it’s just that it’s not a convenient truth that a lot of the fandom wants or likes to face — because that would mean acknowledging that it was everyone’s beloved Dazai and not the oh-so-despised Mori who used to think in such a sick and twisted way during his days in the criminal underworld.

Granted, some people do write both characters very well and very accurately, and I applaud them, but I do find it frustrating when the fandom reduces either Mori to this purely evil, sadistic villain who is bad just for the sake of being bad, because he is so much more interesting as he truly is in canon.

It’s this dichotomy where his dedication to the overall well-being of his people and company is admirable and even understandable, yet at the same time his individual actions when you look at them from a moral perspective are pretty much all morally reprehensible in some way, shape, or form — if not in every way. The same is true of his time in the army; as a general concept, his desire to protect Japan during the Great War was on the whole admirable and understandable, we know that he was well-meaning about it, but at the same time, no matter how desperate the situation was, what he did to Yosano and his entire army was absolutely disgusting and unacceptable — especially because it came so easily to him to do it and he made no apologies for it nor expressed any guilt over the suffering he caused later on.

Do I think Mori is, on the whole, a good person? Absolutely not. Do I think that he sometimes has the best of intentions in mind with his schemes? In the grander scheme of things, yes; it’s just that he mostly doesn’t care who or how many he has to hurt to achieve that so long as it’s slightly less than his net gain from doing it, which in turn cancels out things enough to prevent him from ever being labeled as being or acting as a “good person” at any moment.

I think the best, most objective description of him is to say that he’s pragmatic and ruthless.

…And then obviously there’s the part that everyone in the fandom discusses to death — about the main universe version of him being into little girls. Not a whole lot to say about that; it’s gross, it’s wrong, it’s unforgivable, it’s morally reprehensible, and it’s chilling and disturbing and it definitely completely disqualifies him from being labeled a good person even if he had been able to earn that title from something he did somewhere along the way.

That being said — and I know this is probably going to be controversial to a lot of the fandom, so let me say upfront that I’m not saying that that isn’t 100% a valid and understandable reading of who he is and the way he feels based on all the evidence throughout the series, nor am I trying to convince anyone otherwise — purely because it is fiction and therefore all made up to begin with, at least for my own personal comfort, I typically choose in my own personal readings to just look at him as someone with a particular weakness for little girls because he’s fatherly — although I make no effort to claim that to be the objective truth, nor does such interpretation affect or influence any of my writings in any way; it’s simply the way I prefer to engage with BSD on my own personal time — outside of my writings.

As a matter of fact, in my one fic, Bittersweet Belief, he was intentionally written with the intention of being portrayed as a groomer, and in Cherish, his ‘tastes’ will be portrayed no less nor more suspicious than how they are in canon, and therefore it will never be fully, directly addressed, but may be interpreted however you wish.

I do not need people coming to me providing evidence of why they believe there is no way to look at it differently, as again, I am not arguing that it is objectively untrue in any way that Mori is written to be a pedo in BSD, and when in public spaces among other people talking about it I don’t even try to say otherwise, much less convince anyone of it. I understand fandom etiquette and I am not trying to erase anything about him from others’ perceptions in order to make him more “likable”. I am just engaging with BSD, whenever I am personally reading it and watching it, in the way that is more comfortable for me. Nothing more, nothing less.

Anyway, yeah, Mori’s a super fun character to write and observe in the BSD world! I think there’s a lot of depth to him and he’s very well-written — probably among my top past antagonists purely for the super interesting personality and the purely pragmatic outlook to life and business.

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