#but it might be better to try and use my phone and then get the pictures printed later idk

[mintfullyyours]

Thinking about finding out you're Simon's phone wallpaper. Although part of me thinks he might still have a flip phone too. Because he very much wants to be off the grid.

“Simon Riley! We’re running so late!” You yell at the bottom of the steps trying to find call attention to your boyfriend. Swiping a shoe from the floor you quickly hop around, trying to look a bit presentable for the military ball. 

“Love, I can’t find my phone.” He grumbles from the top of the steps.

You roll your eyes, “We’ll find it when we get back, it’s not like you’ll be using it much.”

Simon shrugs as he reaches the last step of the staircase and watches you in your flurry daze. The emerald green, floor length dress hugging your body. A heat warms the lower half of his body. Christ, he couldn't wait for the night to be over and get you out of your dress later tonight.

“Price's gonna have our heads if we’re late.” You mumble incoherent words as you look in the kitchen and see his black case on the marble countertop. You reach for it, “Found it, babe!”

You click the home button to check the time and see 8:3––

Wait a second?

Simon comes into the kitchen, one shoe on and attempting to place the other. “Ah, thank you.” He presses a kiss to your cheek.

“Hold up.” You point as his phone, “Am I your lock screen?” You ask, biting back a smile. 

He freezes. 

A deer caught in headlights.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“And of all the pictures you chose that one?”

He shrugs and clicks the home button to look at the screen. It was a picture of you sprawled on top of the sofa, mouth agape and sleeping soundly. If you squinted, was that glisten at the corner of your mouth -- drool?

“I can change it if you want." He offers. But in reality he loved that photo. He loved how much you trusted him, enough to let all your defenses down.

“Love, that’s actually so sweet.” You smile and press a soft kiss onto his lips and pull the black KN95 mask up over his mouth. 

“Totally better than the one of you on my phone.” With a wink, you hurry out of the kitchen and outside to the awaiting car. It took a second for Simon to register what you were saying before he chases you soon after.

“Hey! Wot you mean by that?!”

[angelfic]

OMG STOP THAT LAST TIM DRABBLE FOR THE VALENTINES THING REKINDLED THIS IDEA THATS BEEN LINGERING IN THE BACK OF MY MIND

Also I’ve been seeing this idea everywhere so I think it’s a sign

So could I get a Tim fic where the reader (gn if that’s okay!) gets this new lipstick and tests how pigmented it is on Tim, like how many kiss marks they can leave before the colors gone and they have to reapply it

Sry if that didn’t make any sense and ty in advance if u choose to write this 🙏🙏

tim drake x reader

warnings — kissing :) suggestive themes ig, established relationship

a/n; writing for tim lately has been so fun it gives me a better high than any class a drugs could. so serious abt that btw. I loved writing this so much anon like I wanna kiss you on the mouth just for requesting it

Tim is very much used to you trying things out on him by now. Your new perfumes, to make him walk past you so you can imagine what people smell when you’re around. Face masks so you’re not doing it alone. Different shades of your nail polishes painted on his fingernails because, well, that one’s mostly just for fun.

Even that one time when you wanted to try out a new heatless overnight curl method and had him sat on the couch for hours with his head full of tightly wound velcro rollers before you realised you’d done it wrong.

So when you plop down beside him on the couch with a freshly delivered package, he doesn’t even bat an eye.

“What’s that?” he asks politely, only sparing you a quick glance up from his laptop.

“New lipsticks,” you say, spilling them out onto your lap and picking one from the bunch to twist it up and reveal the velvety pigment. “I wanna test out the longevity.”

He hums, long fingers typing away. “Sounds fun.”

You grin. “Glad to hear you say that, because you’re helping.”

He pauses, slowly turning his head towards you and considering the lipstick in your hand. Then, he sighs. “Fine,” he relents, going back to his laptop, but not before pouting his lips out for you.

“Not like that,” you snort, gently shoving his face away. He glances up again, a confused crease etched between his brows.

“Then….?” he trails off, quirking a brow. “How am I helping?”

In response, you uncap the top of the lipstick and carefully apply it, using your phone reflection to stay within the lines. You press your lips together, before flashing him a smile. He parts his lips, no doubt to compliment you like he always does when you ask him about any new product. Before he can say anything, you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek, leaving behind a mark in the shape of your lips.

Tim blinks, touching his cheek where the red imprint of your lips remains and rubs the pigment thoughtfully between his fingers. “Ahhh. I see.”

“You’re my test subject,” you confirm, shifting closer. “My own little lab rat. Let’s see how many kisses it takes before the colour is gone.”

His ears flush, a muted version of your lipstick, but he doesn’t pull away, instead angling himself towards you and shifting his laptop out of the way. “Well,” he murmurs, a small smirk playing on his lips. “For science.”

You laugh, leaning in once again. This time, your lips land on his jaw. Then his temple. The high of his cheekbone. His neck.

By the tenth kiss, Tim is practically radiating heat, fingers curled slightly into the couch cushions, staying obediently still. By the fifteenth, he’s closed his laptop entirely, shoving it to the other end of the couch.

At twenty, he becomes visibly antsy. “Still pigmented?” he asks, voice slightly hoarse.

You lean back to inspect your handiwork, taking in the array of kiss marks scattered across his face and neck. “A little faded,” you say thoughtfully, tilting your head. “Might need to reapply this one.”

Tim huffs a laugh, shaking his head at you. “Of course you do.”

When you reach for the lipstick, which had ended up in his lap somewhere around the twelfth kiss, he catches your wrist and tugs you close enough to brush his lips against your own in a barely-there kiss. “Think I prefer it like that,” he murmurs.

Your stomach flips at the sight of your lipstick faintly colouring his lips. Then you grin, eyes sparkling.

“Well, that’s too bad. We have a test to finish and about… four more lipstick shades to go.”

Tim sighs dramatically, but the corners of his lips twitch upwards. “Fine. But only because I’m committed to the cause,” he says, face as serious as he can muster with it covered in kiss marks.

And with that, you reapply the lipstick in pink this time, ready to start the experiment all over again.

[ablobwhowrites]

When I say I NEED that fanfic where reader keeps them in their house I MEAN IT.

(For the first post of this kinda ideas is here. And the second part to this au is here But this is kinda more of explaining the idea of this au that I call: New home sweet home au. And yeah my yap session is starting here rn and some rambles about other stuff too so be warned mega yap session.)

Basically this idea is just ex employee y/n just being like "fuck it" and getting the toys out of the factory and put them at their house and that's was the only plan. Now they got about a shit ton of trauma and injuries and 17 traumatized alive toys who are now living in their house so thats cool.

y/n was a kinda tries to make them feel at home especially after all thats happened and the other toys y/n couldn't save. They try to make the toys they did save feel better and the toys do and well once they feel at home, it's chaotic is the basics of it. And to toys who tries to kill y/n (kinda includes kinda doey for his very understandable crash out but he feels bad for it) try to apologize by trying to be helpful to y/n and trying to protect y/n from anything that tries to hurt them as well. Plus miss delights face was also kinda fixed as y/n tried to fix it with some molding clay but fixed it to the best of their abilities and it's looks good but y/n is trying to get crafty corn to help them with repairing miss delights face because y/n nearly had several heart attacks because of seeing miss delight in the darkness at night when they try to go into the kitchen for a snack.

One night there was robbers who broke into the house once to steal stuff but mommy long legs and catnap heard them and yeah, the robbers ended up being torn apart cause Mommy long legs and catnap ain't going to let their new home and the person who gave them a second chance to die or get robbed (yarnaby ate the evidence). Once y/n was sitting on the couch watching SpongeBob with dogday and basically released the wildest like it went like this.

*y/n and dogday watching SpongeBob*

Y/n: "you know I'm in a metal band and once at a small concert, I was clocked in the head with a phone being thrown on the stage and ended up getting into a fight over a bag of cheeze-it's?"

*Dog day pauses and slowly looks over at y/n, who keeps watching the TV*

Dog day: "what made you remember that while watching SpongeBob!?"

I do imagine that doey (and the rest of the toys) get worried when y/n leaves the house cause like what if something happens and they can't help so they all made a rule that y/n has to call very 30 minutes (or less) and if they don't call in 30 minutes then all hell breaks loose as they all think y/n is dead and never coming back until they do and end up having do Uber eats their groceries for the next 2 weeks. I imagine that y/n has some old game consoles that their parents gave them and some new consoles that y/n doesn't use anymore but they give the toys the old consoles like the Nintendo entertainment or game cube as I do Imagine that if y/n used their new consoles for them. They would flip out cause like all the toys (especially the younger toys) have never seen a advanced game like this as like playtime co was open to 1930 to 1995 so I imagine they only remember the old consoles and I do imagine like doey playing Super Mario Bros on the Nintendo entertainment or any of the toys playing different Nintendo games is just a funny idea for me.

Also imagining that y/n somehow got daddy long legs and baby long legs as well and totally imagining that mommy long legs wearing hair curlers and daddy long legs using some for his mustache cause like you can't tell me they won't do that, maybe even the baby has one for that one strand of hair

But the looming fear of the prototype still is in them. I mean of course the prototype could never leave the factory but with all those materials and what the prototype might be thinking. It's not always out of the question of the prototype will try something like try and leave the factory it's trapped in. Who knows but the toys put all their trust on y/n and y/n has faxed worse and almost got eaten alive by smiling critters and Nightmares critters has weighed on them a bit but could be worse.

(so that's the main basis of this au idea and if you guys like it and want more don't feel shy if you guys wanna request for this au for any ideas or just want more of this. But that's it's for my yap session, please stay safe and drink water!)

[babyblankyerror]

On the Stanley hit man thing(please note 1: prices are at least semi accurate to the 70s and 2: I have no idea how hitmen work and there’s only so many google searches I’m willing to have in my history. Also the name of The Guy is a reference to an actual person who was related to an actual big US government fuck up):

Rubbing soap and water into well-worn gloves in some gas station bathroom in the middle of the night was, at this point, a new normal for Stanley. There were better ways to do this, he knew that, but patience and a horrifying amount of soap did the job just fine. Better than leaving the gloves on the ground where someone might stumble across them and realise there are small dried splatters on them.

The best way to get blood out of fabric was to wash it out quickly. Flood it with water, then scrub soap into it and try to wear through it with paper towel after paper towel until the water runs clear. It was a similar method to removing paint from a roller or shirt. That meant that Stan could just pretend he’d messed up on some project, for an art class or something. Or was messing around with his brother's paints. There was only so well that could work after years of the same routine, but it still worked so there was no reason to change it.

As he ran the gloves under the faucet again, the water flowed only carrying suds. No more damning pinkish hue. Now he just had to dry them, and that could be done back in the Stanley-Mobile.

First he’d have to leave the gas station. Then call the number given to him last week when he got the job and tell them it was done. He’d learn where to meet them to get the back half of his payment, then he could see how to split it. Enough to keep going went to him, a little bit went towards saving in case of an emergency, and the rest went to his dork of a brother.

The first step, out of all of them, was always the hardest. There are only so many ways you can hide sopping wet gloves, especially when it’s warm enough out that you can’t just wear a bulky jacket with inner pockets.

He folded them in half, longways, and put one in each of his pant pockets. It was as inconspicuous as he could get.

Stan hurried to the door of the bathroom, before opening it at a much more reasonable speed and meandered out of the gas station store. He took special care to walk in plain view on his way out. As much as he’d love to skirt around the edge of the store to keep out of view, that would only look suspicious and risk drawing attention.

As the store door closed behind him he let his shoulders drop slightly and fished his gloves out of his pocket as well as his keys. His car was parked right outside so there was no need to separate the actions.

Unlocking the door he sat down in the driver’s seat. He already had a small towel on the passenger side of the bench seats. He dropped the gloves on the towel before swinging his door shut, sticking his key in the ignition, and starting the engine. There was a pay phone a few blocks down, but having just left the store he should still move his car.

It was funny how despite about… three years, he wants to say, he still was always on edge after a job. It made sense, considering that the jobs he took consisted of killing people, but it was still a lot of time to adjust to it. At least the pay was good, and he had ways to get through the actual murder part.

Just line up the shot, and count to three. If you make it to three you might chicken out and fail, or if you aren’t sure of aim you might panic since they keep breathing after the shot. Not to mention you leave a distinctive trace of who’s done it with the bullet. But guns left less room for regret and letting them live than knives or fists. It helped that he pulled the trigger on two, before his mind could catch up to what he was doing. By the time he was weighing whether or not he should do it, he was already checking to see if any blood was on him. Usually just his hands if he got close, but on occasion a drop or two would land elsewhere on him.

Shoes he filed the treads off left no recognizable prints as he would walk away.

The drive to the pay phone was silent beyond the low rattling of the engine. Shifting gears and parking the car was so automatic that if he was asked if he’d done it or not he genuinely wouldn’t know the answer. He took a few coins out of the cup holder and a note from where it was tucked into his front visor.

The air had the everpresent heat of summer, only cut through by a slight wind. He vaguely wondered if it was similar weather where Ford was. Sure Indiana was northeast of Arkansas, but it couldn’t account for that great of a change in weather. Especially since there would be enough plants to keep the heat in at night as opposed to if Ford was in the desert out West. Ford should have been in the desert out West, or at least just near it. He’d driven through the west coast once, it went from desert to a small bit of forest by the coast.

He slotted a coin into the phone and punched in the numbers written on the little sheet of paper. It rang for a few moments before someone answered with a tired ‘hello’. Made sense, it was probably around midnight.

“Is this S Higgins?” Stanley asked, staring up at the sky. The town was big enough that the lights faded some of the stars out. Probably for the best, Ford always liked the stars and it was best to not think about Ford when on the call with a client. His voice got too soft, and when your voice gets soft suddenly everything is up for negotiation.

“It is. I take it, you've done it?” The voice on the other end of the line replies. Always with euphemisms and never saying what they asked for. They wanted someone dead and now they’re dead, and he’s the only one that has to face it.

“Yup. You can check; Kelly on York street- dead center of Warren.” Stan says. He knows they won’t check, but it’s always best to give the information so there’s never any doubt he’s done it. It’ll be in the headlines anyways, Warren doesn’t seem like a place where a double homicide goes unreported on. A lovey dovey couple who just so happened to know a few details problematic to an ongoing political career.

“Is Ray’s in Monticello in three days good for you?” Came from the phone, crackly and disconnected. Three days, enough time for news and an investigation to start. Also enough time to plan out where to go next. There were certain people who talked, and it was through that grapevine his name got spread around. Or more accurately his license plate and car’s description did, it was not exactly inconspicuous, and with that ways to contact him. He just had to go wherever people who knew people that might want someone dead were. So pretty much anywhere, but he’d been thinking about seeing New Orleans so maybe he’d head there. And if nothing came up he was certain to find something in Mobile.

“Around lunch?” He asked. The least suspicious time of day. You could openly talk about his work at lunch and it would be taken as a joke. Because it’s the middle of the day and no actual plots could ever take place in the middle of the day.

“See you then.” The words came out and were quickly followed by a clack and silence. He set the phone up and made his way back to the Stanley-Mobile.

Monticello was less than twenty miles away. He could get there and get a motel room that night. But Warren was a small town and the newcomer disappearing the night of two murders would put the cops on his tail, so he swung around and headed back towards the motel he’d gotten a room at here.

The fact he didn’t immediately collapse meant he must have been running on adrenaline, and so rather than fight it for sleep he got his things packed. He’d sleep in and leave at a reasonable time in the morning before heading to Monticello. That seemed ideal.

———

Over the next couple days the only notable occurrences were the headlines about what he’d done, and him visiting the Allen House. From murder to the suicide house tourist trap. Way to go him!

Stanley had to admit though, while the ‘hauntedness’ of the Allen House left something to be desired he enjoyed the fun romp. He could do it better if he wanted to, but that would mean getting a house which would probably require legal documents that were left back in the apartment on top of a pawn shop in Glass Shard Beach, New Jersey. Or he could do it illegally, which was much more likely, but at this point too much of a hassle when his current gig worked just fine.

Noon was approaching though so he turned on the Stanley-Mobile and headed towards Ray’s.

The diner was somewhat cosy despite having a metal back wall that looked like that of a storage container. Probably the warm lighting, benches, and soft music playing from a radio on the counter. He grabbed a table by a window, staring out of it to wait.

After a few dozen minutes of nothing he decided to go ahead and order some fries and a burger, making sure it wasn’t enough he could reasonably eat. He got a to-go bag after picking at them for what he deemed a good amount of time.

It was maybe another half hour or a bit longer when he watched a slightly too-clean Pacer roll up. A man who looked like he’d just been told what ‘casual’ meant last night stepped out and headed towards the diner. That was, without a doubt, Higgins then.

When he walked in the door Stanley waved him over, calling his name with a slight cheer as the man came over.

“You did… the job.” Higgins muttered, pulling a chair opposite Stanley’s spot on a padded bench and shuffling to sit down.

“I did. It’s on the news if you need to check.” Stanley said, leaning back slightly.

“I… I already saw the news. I have the money.” Higgins said, pausing to hum and haw before continuing, “Three thousand, right? Here, in cash.” Higgins said, reaching into a pocket on the inside of his clearly not weather appropriate jacket. And right. Stanley really should remember to get checks and not cash. Checks were easy to hide, especially since he went about being a contract killer in the dumbest way. Instead of just getting in with one group and staying there with a consistent pay and a good public facing business set up for him, he traveled around and essentially worked commission. Granted he got his start making enemies, so maybe staying in one place wasn’t the best. Especially when he could then work for just about anyone he deemed not an immediate risk, instead of just one organization. No matter what though, he should get better about checks instead of cash. Too late now though. Stanley held his palm out and felt a small stack of hundred dollar bills hit his hand, with no small amount of worry. He clutched the bills and tilted his palm down, hiding them from any quick glances.

Stanley dropped the bills into the to go bag as he reached in, and pulled out a small container with the fries.

“I have extra if you want.” He said, opening the lid and turning them towards Higgins. The man seemed to writhe in his chair, face morphing into a performance of guilt. He was certainly new to this. Higgins got up with a rushed apology and excuse of having to get back home. Stanley watched him go and placed the fries back in the bag. Well, to the bank then. He should deposit the cash slowly, he knows this, but he’s fairly certain that the new semester is starting m at Backupsmore which means Ford will need to be spending his money on textbooks. Which means Stanley is going to be extra sure to pay for his tuition.

Stanley’s pretty sure he caught an article about Ford and some other guy proving something or other about the universe, and a few more campus newspapers mentioning the two of them spending time together. So his brother finally made a friend! He’d drive up and hug the nerd out of pride if he weren’t certain Ford wouldn’t be too willing to speak to him. He did figure though, that he had enough saved for an emergency that what he’d usually cut out of his pay for à ‘just in case’ could go to Ford’s friend instead. A brief line of phone books and library visits, as well as word of mouth, made it clear that the guy was also the first of his family to go to college. And was riding on a couple scholarships in order to just cover tuition, but probably still had to take out a loan or two. He wasn’t going to risk Ford’s friend having to drop out and leave him alone due to finances.

The face of the bank teller was of mild confusion when he went to deposit five hundred dollars. Just because he wasn’t waiting to deposit the money didn’t mean he was an idiot. He was just going to spend the day hopping between a few banks to do it in chunks. Stil suspicious on paper but he has a current guise of being ‘an artist’ so sudden large deposits because he ‘sold a painting’ at least didn’t get too many questions.

At the end of it all he ended up sending one thousand five hundred to Ford’s annual tuition, so he should be set for a while longer. Though the idiot of a genius was taking twelve different full courses and each individual course has its own lesser tuition so it wasn’t the full semester it would have been if his brother knew how to stop. Frankly that had been the main reason he’d stepped in, Ford probably could have managed the tuition for one or even two or three courses on his own but somewhere in his mind he’d decided that taking twelve was a good idea. Stanley’s sure Ford could have figured it out, but that’s his brother and he didn’t want Ford to have to figure it out.

He sent seven hundred to Ford's friends’ tuition after some double checking names, and so the apparent Fiddleford McGucket had one less thing to worry about.

That meant he had eight thousand remaining, he wouldn’t have to take another job for a while. A long while. Maybe he just goes to New Orleans as a vacation.

~~~~~~

Ford and Fiddleford were staring at the Backupsmore administrator. They’d gone to check up on what they had to pay for tuition, only to find out that not only had Ford’s gotten a significant amount paid(which was becoming an odd yet consistent occurrence) but Fiddleford’s as well.

The money had been wired in, which meant whoever sent it had a known bank account, but had apparently mandated anonymity. As far as the school administrators were aware, it could have been the king of England sending the money.

The walk back to their dorm was shared in stunned silence. It wasn’t until Ford was sitting on his bed that Fiddleford stopped pacing and stared out the window before gripping his hair and yelling, in the whisper yell mandates by shared walls, cried out.

“WHAT in the world is GOIN’ ON.”

Fiddleford turned to Ford, lowering his hands to gesture in confused annoyance.

“Well, we know whoever is sending this must have a lot of money on hand. And we have been covering a lot of neuroscience, and specifically how to alter brains- right? It’s probably some larger entity with stakes in our current research.” Ford posed, though his voice still tilted with unsureness.

“True, but you started getting the payments before the whole tie thing. So there must have been some sort of investment before then.” Fiddleford argued. Ford shrugged.

“I mean, I suppose the sheer number of courses I was taking may have been noteworthy?” He offered.

Fiddleford began to pace muttering to himself, before an idea seemed to strike him.

“Hey, if we can get into the school records and figure out what bank the money has been being wired from, maybe we can call them and ask for information?” Fiddleford suggested. Ford took a moment to think through the idea, before grinning and jumping up.

“Exactly! Even if we can’t get a name, we’ll still get a rough area and we can go through phone books until we find someone who has a ridiculous amount of disposable cash and a vested interest in both of us!” He exclaimed.

They were probably going to have to break into an office or something, hopefully childhood shenanigans with… his childhood shenanigans would help with that.

Bro you need to publish this on ao3 or post it on tumblr or SOMETHING because HOLY SHIT?!??!?!

THIS is exactly what I was imagining for the Au!!! This is fuckkng great!!! I LOVE LOVE THIS AND YOU AND AAAAAAAA

I imagine Fiddleford doesn't really worry about the random money Ford gets until HE starts getting it too. Then yeah he's freaking out because WHAT THE HECK??

I love this you wrote this so well, so nice and omg??? You did research??? That's more than I'd ever do XD

[cjsmalley]

A Reveal:

“Maman, Papa,” Marinette said after she raised the wards around the Bakery like she had been taught to by Miss Zatanna and was sitting down, clasping Adrien’s hands tightly with him beside her, “me and Adrien have something to tell you, okay? You can’t tell anyone else.”

“Okay,” Sabine agreed warily as her husband nodded.

Marinette inhaled, exhaled, looked to Adrien who nodded, and said, “Tikki, Spots On.”

The transformation overtook her and it was Ladybug who sat before Sabine and Tom Dupain-Cheng, still clutching Adrien’s hands.

Adrien who said, just as quietly, “Plagg, Claws Out.”

Sabine started weeping, standing up to hug the teen heroes; oh, god, they were just kids.

“Maman?”

“Anything you ever need,” Sabine pulled back, a hand on a cheek each as the teens looked up to her, “anything, Marinette, Adrien. Whether that be food or medical care or a safe spot to change, the Bakery, the house is open to you. Adrien, do your—”

“My adoptive parents know,” he explained, “they’re not any happier than you are. But they…they know magic, understand it. That’s another thing we have to tell you—I, er—Don’t own my soul?”

Marinette facepalmed as her parents gasped in horror, “Kitty, bad choice of words.”

“What do you mean—is it—is Marinette—” Tom struggled for words.

“Marinette’s fine. Her soul is fine,” Adrien rushed to reassure, “nothing to do with being Ladybug or Chat Noir. My…birthfather,” Adrien spoke quietly then, tiredly, resignedly, “my birthmother was very sick and my birthfather was trying to heal her. So he summoned the King of Ghosts and…sold my soul for my birthmother’s health…Papa—the Ghost King—adopted me instead of enslaving me like his predecessor would have. All my siblings have been sold to him too. Him and Mama and Uncle Tucker are barely older than me but they became my parents. Better parents than my birth ones ever were. They got me—and eventually Marinette—into therapy for all the horrible things we’ve seen, done because of Hawkmoth. I’m also in therapy because of the emotional abuse my birthfather put me through. That’s how I’m adopted but Papa does technically own me.”

Sabine had cupped a hand over her mouth in horror, eyes tearing up again.

“Can we meet them?” Tom demanded

“Not yet, one of their advisors, a ghost with power over Time, said that to reveal them in this timeline now would cause too many complications with Hawkmoth. But—” Adrien paused, “I could give you their phone number? Maybe. I’ll have to ask Grandfather if that’s okay.”

“Son, do you have a way to contact them?” Tom asked worriedly.

Adrien brightened, “Oh, yes! They taught me everything I needed to know to get into and out of the Palace safely and say I can bother them at any time, day or night. Gabriel never wanted to be bothered, you understand, too busy with stuff. But everyone in my new family says I can call, text, visit, or even Summon Papa and Danielle whenever I want for whatever reason!”

“I’ve been to the Palace,” Marinette added, shocking her parents, “I think you saw us leave? I was seriously injured and Adrien brought me to his parents to be healed by magic. It’s when I learned his Identity—”

Sabine and Tom looked gutted; they did remember seeing that battle where Chat Noir ended up taking a bleeding and dying Ladybug through a swirling green portal.

That had been their daughter. Their daughter had almost died that day and they might never had known. Would Adrien have been allowed to tell them, as Chat Noir, that their daughter had given her life for Paris? Or would she have just gone missing and been replaced as Ladybug with him unable to say anything?

The teens detransformed and two little creatures? Beings? Appeared.

“Maman, Papa, meet Tikki and Adrien’s patron is Plagg,” Marinette introduced the two beings; the red ladybug one alighting on her shoulder as the black cat looking one sat on Adrien’s head, “they’re basically gods and as their Chosen we channel a portion of their power each.”

Tikki giggled sweetly and waved at her Chosen’s parents, “We’re not really gods but that’s the closest human word for us. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Sabine stood up from her seat and bowed lowly, “Your Majesties.”

“No, no, no bowing or scraping or nothing like that,” Plagg rolled his eyes, “we’re not those types of gods anyways. Just give me cheese and Tikki sweet things and we’re good.”

“They have to eat to quickly recharge their powers,” Marinette explained, “especially once we use the Cure or Cataclysm. Then we’re on a timer before the transformation fails. It’s a safety measure since we’re not adults; channeling power like that can have major physical consequences.”

“How so?”

“My organs can fail,” Adrien explained bluntly, “especially my heart, channeling Destruction. I have regular check-ups now with a doctor that knows magic. My body could just wither away if I use Plagg’s power too much.”

“My holders are cursed in a way,” Plagg admitted, “early deaths, health problems…general bad luck. Destruction is not a nice thing, though it is necessary for Creation to flourish.”

“My Chosen are also cursed,” Tikki agreed, “they can get…cancer, I think you call it. My divine power working their cells into overdrive. They are also extremely fertile, especially with Plagg’s holders. Multiple births used to be a death sentence for the woman and the babies. The fertility is why I work best with female holders. Women are, in a way, goddesses of Creations themselves. I also tend to go for artistic types. I need a creative mind to wield me, no matter what sort of creativity it is. Jeanne for example, she was no artist but she was creative and I still wish she had let me save her. She—” Tikki broke off with a sob.

“Jeanne?” Tom questioned his daughter quietly as Plagg flew over to comfort his other half.

“Jeanne d’Arc,” Marinette murmured, “she was a Ladybug; her Black Cat went crazy after she was killed. Started murdering children. Destruction without Creation or Creation without Destruction becomes…unbalanced, wild, holders can be driven mad without their equal and opposite and destined partners. There is…no one else that can rein them in. Ladybugs and Black Cats are always…soulmates in some way. Platonic, familial, or romantic it matters not. Usually,” Marinette licked her lower lip, “usually if one soulmate dies, the other can soldier on. Not with Ladybugs and their Black Cats. They need to be together somehow or they become…they go mad.”

“My kit could probably survive his Ladybug’s death,” Plagg spoke up, “he’s stubborn and he’d do his best to honor her, but he wouldn’t be entirely sane anymore. And Destruction or Creation going insane is never good either way…”

“I…we have more protection now,” Adrien admitted, “because Papa owns my soul it’s all but certain that I’ll become a ghost. If…if something happens to Marinette, Papa can stop me before I go too far by yanking my soul from my body. Without a soul the body is…empty, braindead basically. Easily biddable. If anything happens to me, I can still fight alongside my Marinette as a ghost.”

Marinette squeezed his hands, saying lowly to her parents, “I’m…they call it contaminated. By the stuff that makes up ghosts. Ectoplasm. The healing pools they put me in, they’re made up of pure ectoplasm and some sort of primordial energy that heals even those on the brink or death or beyond even that. So I do have a higher chance than I used to of becoming a ghost as well. Not like Adrien, who’s guaranteed to become a ghost. If my previous chances were fifty-fifty, now they’re fifty to fifty-one. Adrien’s family, they’re so contaminated by ectoplasm they’re classed as Liminal. That means they too are all but guaranteed to become ghosts as well and have access to certain ghostly abilities while living still.”

She gave a trembly smile that was no less genuine for it, “And I’ll do my best to become a ghost so I don’t leave Adrien behind for eternity in the Realms. We—don’t know what would happen if two soulmates don’t become ghosts together and I don’t want to risk it.”

“Are you soulmates because of these gods or were you—?” Tom started.

“Fate has a way of working out the kinks,” Plagg explained, shrugging, “we always end up in the hands of soulmates. Never happened that we haven’t. But like the Bug says, it’s not always romantic and if it is, it’s not always acted on for whatever stupid human reason or other. This pair,” he gestured with a paw to Adrien and Marinette, “just happens to be romantic and able and willing to deal with all that goes with that. And Fate doesn’t force it to be a certain relationship or other. We’ve had Cats and Bugs who were siblings or like siblings, parent and child, niece and uncle, aunt and nephew, best-friends, even one or two worst enemies who put aside their problems when they were needed. Just means that, for whatever reason, Fate decided that, yep, Cats and Bugs are matched sets like me and Tikki here. Can’t create without destroying something, can’t destroy anything not already created. Oh, and we’re called Kwami, not gods.”

“Is Fate a—Ka—Kwami,” Sabine stumbled over the word slightly.

Plagg snorted, “Nah, Fate’s not sentient, not like us. We can’t understand it any more than you humans can. We know it exists and works its’ way somehow but that’s about it. Most of the time destiny’s a crapshoot anyways,” the little god sneered, “My kit and Tikki’s Bug have already stopped so many nasty destinies for this silly little city and planet. Very few things in this universe are really destined like humans think. Most of it is random chance with maybe something pulling strings very occasionally.”

He shrugged again, “Even these two, soulmates, yeah, Fated to meet, yeah, but not destined to meet like they did. They could have met in a thousand different ways. They didn’t even have to know each other’s civilian identities ever. Had that happen a few times.”

“Always so sad when that happens, especially if they are romantic soulmates,” Tikki finally spoke up.

Plagg gave a bark of laughter, “Remember your Bug who managed to pass off my kit’s kittens as her husband’s?”

“She was lucky they looked so similar, but your kits have brought my Bugs’ children into their marriages without problems too.”

“They’re lucky their wives had no other option but to grin and bear bastards,” Plagg shot back.

“Okay!” Marinette interjected, “While the history lesson is interesting, that won’t happen this time! Any of my children will be Adrien’s.”

“And I will never be unfaithful to my Marinette,” Adrien said firmly.

“Kids…” Sabine started slowly, “are you two…active…with each other.”

“No. Not yet.” Marinette said simply, “We’re Destruction and Bad Luck matched with Creation and Good Luck.”

“That is just asking for children,” Adrien agreed, “and while my parents would support us, they would also skin me alive first.”

“Don’t they have—?”

“Adopted. Well, not Danielle but she’s the result of non-consensual weird science.”

“I think we need that number.” Tom said faintly.

“I’ll ask Grandfather if it’s alright,” Adrien repeated.

Wished Away 9

Tylers meet Phantoms:

“Christ, Mum,” Rose said as she took in how Jackie, Pete, and Tony were dressed, “we’re just meetin’—”

“Royalty!” Jackie squeaked. They were all done up like they were meeting the Queen at Buckingham Palace itself!

“Honestly, Mum, they don’t care,” Rose rolled her eyes, grabbing her mother’s wrist and tugging her through the console room and to the wardrobe room, “I told ya ta dress casually. Let’s just hope the Ol’ Girl has clothes fer ya.”

It took about an hour to get everyone redressed, in things much more casual but still nice, before Rose led them back to the console room.

Jackie was clearly anxious, “Are ya—”

“’m sure, Mum. Danny an’ Sam don’t do formal unless they have ta. Unless you’re an annoying subject or someone threatenin’ war, ya don’t even have ta call ‘em by their titles. They’re just Danny an’ Sam ta family.”

“Lookie what I found,” Jenny bounded from the innards of the TARDIS, holding a tiny bike helmet.

She went to her toddler uncle and put it on him, making sure it fit right, “Landings in the Realms are worse than normal ones. The TARDIS does Her best but the Realms give her…nausea? A headache? She just doesn’t do good.”

“Oh, goody,” Jackie said lowly, hugging a strut for dear life already.

“Let me protect Anthony,” Bad Wolf came out, holding out her arms; without hesitation, Pete handed his son over.

Bad Wolf settled Tony in her arms, against her chest and shoulder, and then spread her feet and crouched slightly, clearly bracing for impact; she stayed steady even as the TARDIS began Her flight.

Everyone else was thrown about the console room, the Doctor and Jenny barely holding on to work the console, but Bad Wolf and Tony did not move an inch.

The landing was rough, just as Jenny said it would be, throwing even the Time Lords to the grated floor before the TARDIS stopped quaking.

Jenny recovered first and stood up, rubbing her shoulder, to peek out the doors, “We’re in the Palace. Uncle Danny and Aunt Sam are waiting…”

Slowly, everyone picked themselves up and Rose reemerged, straightening with some popping from her knees.

Jenny led the procession out, racing to hug a man and a woman, “Uncle Danny, Aunt Sam! How’re you?”

Danny and Sam chuckled and hugged her as one, “Good, doing good. You?”

“Perfect!”

She let go of them to drag Jackie, who was hesitant, forward, “This’s my Gran, Jackie. Mum’s side, duh. Completely human. He’s my step-granddad, Pete, and Mum’s holding my uncle, Tony.”

“Yer Majesties,” Jackie tried to curtsy even though she was in trousers, “an honor ta—”

“Oh, enough,” Sam chuckled, “didn’t they tell you? We don’t do formalities with family.”

“Family?” Jackie’s eyes were wide, “I know Rose said—but—”

“We count Clockwork as family,” Danny explained, “and he’s claimed the Doctor as family. The Doctor and Jenny. Rose’s basically married in by this point. Common-law, you understand. That makes her family our family. Welcome to the Palace, your home in the Infinite Realms.”

“My god,” Pete muttered, somewhat disbelieving.

“Not a god, not yet anyways,” Danny winked.

“Where’s Dani?” Jenny burst out, “Is she still in school?”

Sam grinned, “With Anakin, in the nursery. We let her stay home today.”

“Oh, Gran! Can I introduce Tony to Anakin? Please!” Jenny nearly begged.

“Anakin’s our youngest,” Danny explained kindly, “around Tony’s age, actually. We also have a nanny looking after them, Nanny Clara. He’d be perfectly safe.”

“Well…” Jackie looked to her husband, who nodded, “if you’re sure.”

Jenny cheered and took Tony from Rose, dashing off with him deeper into the Palace.

“Jenny knows the Palace as well as anyone,” Sam assured, “and if she gets lost, she can flag down a servant for help. She’s heading directly for the nursery. It’s the most defensible part of the Palace.

Danny stood up, helping Sam, “C’mon, we can talk over food; stay close, Tylers. Doctor?”

“Rose and I can bring up the rear,” the Doctor agreed, taking Rose’s hand as they began walking.

The Palace was a gothic masterpiece, in a very literal sense, though even Sam had wearied of all the gloom and had sought artists and artwork to fill the halls, soft, plush carpets and tapestries to keep the warmth, glassworks to fill the once barred windows. Statues and busts dotted the hallways, some classical, some avant garde

Masters had given their masterpieces, their magnum opuses; they were paid handsomely of course, in either coin or material.

Oils, watercolors, acrylics, textiles, glass, all created for Her Majesty the Ghost Queen. For His Majesty the Ghost King.

It wasn’t yet a riot of color, nor would it ever be, but it was more alive.

Jackie gasped and the group stopped, turning as one to see what had captured her attention.

“When they said the family was huge…”

Ah, it was the most recent family portrait; all the children were gathered around Danny and Sam, all in formal wear.

“We…sometimes people sell the souls of children to me,” Danny started, causing her and Pete to whip around to him in horror, “I know, it’s horrible, isn’t it? But anyways, we adopt the kids. Only Dani—Danielle—isn’t adopted.”

He pointed out each child and gave their backstory.

“Good Lord, you were young!” Pete said at Damian’s story.

“Old enough to be king,” Danny shrugged helplessly, “it…it wasn’t easy, we had help, so much help, and we made mistakes…”

“All parents do,” Jackie told him softly.

“So we’ve been told,” Sam smiled just as softly, “and we’ve learned and made new ones with each kid.”

Danny coughed and continued to point out kids and tell stories, until all had been covered and then they moved on.

As they neared the dining room, Danielle and Jenny joined them with each holding a toddler.

“Oh my,” Jackie said, taking in the Anakin Skywalker; she knew who he grew up to be, or would have if he had not been adopted.

“We’re hungry, Dad,” Danielle said.

Danny waved them into the dining room where the smaller table was already set for a meal; there were two chairs with booster seats and Jenny and Danielle put Tony and Anakin in them before sitting beside them and helping them get food.

The group chatted over the meal, Jackie and Pete slowly relaxing at how easy going the Royals were, and generally had good cheer.

After the meal was done, Jenny asked, “Do we put their photo up on the family wall now? I know you’ve got me, Dad, and Mum…”

Danny chuckled, “We can, if they’re okay with it.”

“Family wall?” Pete questioned.

“We keep walls of pictures of the extended family,” Sam explained easily, “you know, like Rose, the Doctor, and Jenny. Harry’s and Neville’s parents. Damian’s paternal birth-family. The Royal Portrait is just the immediate royal family. The walls are for everyone and everything else.”

Danny and Sam led the group out of the dining room and down another hallway; the walls were plastered with photographs. Some were professional, most were candid and amateur.

A common camera sat on a small round table; a high-end camera but nothing too expensive or professional.

Danny picked it up, saying, “If Jackie, Pete, and Tony don’t mind—”

Jackie decided it would be a family photograph and dragged the Doctor in; Rose and Jenny came without complaint.

Danny took a set of pictures.

After that was done, it was decided it was time for the Tylers to leave, taking pity on the still disgruntled TARDIS.

They were, however, invited to the next family gathering.

[decayed-cartilage]

The Intern

Hannibal Lecter x AFAB! Reader

Masterlist

Warnings for chapter: power dynamic? Mentions of erection.. creepy! Hannibal, Morally wrong! Hannibal

Synopsis: Y/N is on the brink of graduation, with just one requirement left—an internship. Somehow, she finds herself under the esteemed Dr. Hannibal Lecter, a man as brilliant as he is unreadable. Cold, precise, and impossible to rattle, he keeps his thoughts well-guarded. But Y/N can’t help her curiosity—she wants to understand him, to get beneath the surface. And whether he intends to or not, bit by bit, he lets something slip. Something darker. Something she might not be ready to see.

After what felt like endless hours of writing and submitting, writing and submitting, I finally received an email back from one of the many psychiatrists I’d been desperately trying to reach for my mandatory internship—Dr.Lecter, A prestigious man with many colorful reviews, which had drawn me to contact him.

From: H***********@gmail.com

To: Y/e@gmail.com

Subject: Internship for Johns Hopkins University

Dear Y/N,

I’ve had the pleasure of reviewing your application and personal portfolio, and I must say—your dedication and talent are impossible to overlook. It’s clear you take your work seriously, and intelligence like yours is always refreshing to encounter. I have no doubt that you would be the perfect young lady for me to mentor

do get in touch at your earliest convenience, and please, use my personal number (***) ***-****

Best,

Doctor Lecter

My heart pounded out of my chest, my eyes scanning his words again and again as warmth flooded my face. Oh god—had I really sent all that? How had I forgotten? Yes—I had sent all of it, in a tired, near-lucid state, exhausted from working so hard. My words had grown almost desperate by the last emails, pleading for validation.

But really? My whole life story? A deep dive into why I chose psychiatry—endless run-ons about trauma and my relentless hope for a better world?

And—oh no—the pictures. Me in scrubs, grinning way too hard, double thumbs-up in front of a cadaver during one of my early tech programs. Or me, beaming like an overexcited tourist beside historical documents, looking ridiculously proud.

Yet, all of that faded as my eyes caught on one thing—his phone number.

I screamed like a teenage girl, shooting up from my seat as I sprinted to grab my phone, my hands shaking as I typed in his number—only to pause.

What do I even say?!

I groaned, throwing myself back onto my bed.

Third person (Hannibal's) P.O.V

Hannibal had been waiting. Days bled into each other, an endless cycle of monotony—listening to insipid patients whine about their problems, assisting in crime cases that barely challenged him, returning home to indulge in his more refined appetites. Even killing had lost its thrill. Nothing ever truly stirred him.

Until your email.

God, the desperation dripped from every word, a quiet, pleading sort of need that sent a slow, curling heat through him. You had laid yourself bare, unaware of what exactly you had just invited into your life. Your tragic little story, the way you carried yourself—so unassuming, so small. So easy.

Just picturing you in his office, lingering in his space, speaking to him with those wide, trusting eyes—his jaw locked, his fingers twitching with restraint.

Staring at the pictures you had attached, Hannibal felt his length twitch, his breath slowing as his free hand drifted—almost absentmindedly—palming himself through the fine fabric of his dress pants. God.

The way your lips curled, the way your smile beamed so effortlessly, so full of warmth—it was intoxicating. A stark contrast to the cold, calculated existence he thrived in. You radiated light, soft and unguarded, utterly unaware of the predator fixated on you.

His throat tightened.

Such an innocent little thing, standing there in your scrubs, so proud, so eager. So trusting. You belonged to a world of laughter and hope, while he—he was carved from shadow and silence, his smile only ever genuine when he was peeling flesh from bone.

And yet, here he was, jaw clenched, breath heavy, wanting.

Needing.

He exhaled sharply, fingers pressing harder against the growing strain beneath his waistband.

Oh, sweet girl… you have no idea what you’ve done.

Ding!

The sharp chime shattered the heavy silence, jolting him from his trance. His phone clattered against the desk, but his eyes were already locked onto the screen. He knew who it was. Of course, he did.

Hannibal was a meticulous man. A careful man. And yet, you had made it so easy for him. Every little detail of your life, carelessly scattered across the internet—your school, your favorite cafés, even the places you liked to study. He knew where you had been before you even told him. He had all of you at his fingertips.

And now, your number. Displayed so innocently on his screen.

"Hello Doctor Lecter! This is Y/n :),I got your acceptance email-"

The preview cut off, but he didn’t need to see the rest to know exactly how you would sound—bubbly, eager, grateful. A stark contrast to the dark amusement curling in his chest.

Still, he unlocked the phone, fingers rolling over the screen, expression unreadable as he took in the rest of your message.

and I just can’t express how grateful I am you responded! It’s even better since I’m attending the same school you did! I would love to set up a time for us to chat in person—I hope I’m not being too informal—if I am, please tell me! Thank you so much for your time!

Such sweetness. Such hope. He could practically hear the nervous excitement laced in your words, see the way your hands might have trembled as you typed, wondering if you were saying too much, if you sounded proper enough for him.

He exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening, his fingers pressing into the screen just a little harder than necessary.

You had no idea what you had just invited into your world.

He began typing.

I’m pleased to hear from you so soon. Why don’t we meet somewhere comfortable? Perhaps a coffee shop—there’s a lovely one, [your favorite coffee shop], that I hear is quite popular. It seems like the perfect setting for our first conversation. Let me know when you’re available, and I’ll gladly adjust my schedule.

And please, don’t worry about being too informal. I much prefer sincerity. I look forward to meeting you, properly.

With that, he sent the message, his thumb hovering over the screen for just a second longer than necessary before finally setting the phone down. It slid across his desk with a soft thud, the only sound in the stillness of his office.

Hannibal exhaled slowly, a drawn-out sigh that did little to temper the hunger curling inside him.

You had been on his mind long before your message arrived, but now? Now, you were real. Tangible. Just a text away.

And soon, within reach.

Rolling his shoulders, he adjusted his cuffs with careful precision, though it did little to distract from the heat simmering beneath his skin. His jaw tightened. He needed a walk. Fresh air. A moment to compose himself before his thoughts spiraled into something indulgent.

His lips curled slightly as he stepped away from his desk, anticipation thrumming in his veins.

You had no idea what you had just done.

But you would.

YOUR POV

Ding!

I was too nervous to look at his message right away. My fingers hovered over my phone, heart hammering so loudly it drowned out all rational thought. When I finally mustered the courage to open it, my face went hot instantly.

He mentioned my favorite café.

Had he been there before? Was he that local? Had I somehow missed him in the crowd? My stomach twisted at the thought—equal parts exhilaration and unease. It wasn’t strange for someone to know about it; it was a well-loved spot, after all. But the way he said it, so casually yet deliberately, made my skin prickle.

I let out a small, breathless giggle, my lips pressing together as I read over his words again. I needed to calm down. Breathe, Y/N. Act normal. But I wasn’t normal. Not right now. I was too warm, too jittery, too caught up in the weight of his attention.

A walk. I needed a walk.

Without responding, I shoved my phone into my pocket and grabbed my jacket off the hook by the door. My scarf—a soft, muted rainbow of colors—was next, the familiar knit worn and comforting against my fingers.

"I know it gets cold out there Y/nn! You're taking this scarf with you- it's my dying wish!"

I could still hear my mother’s voice, warm with fond exasperation, as she fussed over me before I left for college. The memory made me smile.

I wrapped the scarf snugly around my neck, letting the soft wool shield me from the crisp autumn air seeping in through the doorframe. My outfit was hardly practical for the weather, but I had always dressed like this—formally, neatly, a habit ingrained into me since childhood. A plaid skirt, fitted but flaring just above my knees, swayed as I moved. Tights helped ward off the chill, but only just. My dark grey moccasins were polished and proper, and beneath my heavy coat, I wore a delicate white button-up. The heart embroidery around the collar was my mother’s handiwork—stitched with care, meant to remind me of home.

Despite the structured appearance, I was anything but composed. Anyone who truly knew me would recognize the contrast between my polished exterior and the nervous, sweet-natured girl underneath.

I stepped outside into the cold, the late autumn air nipping at my nose and cheeks, turning them pink within seconds. The streets were quiet, save for the occasional rustling of leaves tumbling along the pavement.

-

The walk stretched on longer than I had planned. What started as a way to clear my head turned into an aimless journey, my feet carrying me farther and farther from my starting point. By the time I thought to check the time, my phone screen flashed 4:07 PM.

Four hours. Four hours.

I had wandered nearly halfway across the city, lost in my thoughts, replaying that message over and over in my head like a song I couldn’t turn off. The crisp autumn air had settled deep in my bones, my fingers stiff despite being tucked into my coat pockets. My legs ached, but I wasn’t ready to go home just yet.

That was when I noticed it—the quiet hum of a near-empty park, tucked away from the city’s usual noise. Golden leaves fluttered from the branches above, painting the pavement in warm hues. It was peaceful here, the kind of place where no one would bother me, where I could sit for just a moment and-

That was when I noticed him.

A figure moving toward me, his steps slow, measured, deliberate.

At first, I didn’t think much of it. Just another passerby enjoying the evening air, someone else drawn to the quiet solitude of the park. But something about the way he walked made my breath catch—a smooth, unhurried grace, like a man who never rushed for anything.

My brows furrowed as I squinted. Damn it, I forgot my glasses.

I could make out the tall, well-built frame beneath a long, dark coat, the way his shoulders sat perfectly squared, the way his hands—gloved—rested easily at his sides, as if he carried nothing but time and patience.

A strange feeling stirred in my chest, a quiet knowing before my brain even caught up.

Then, as he stepped into the golden glow of the late afternoon sun, everything clicked into place.

The sharp, unmistakable features. The neatly combed dark hair. The slight tilt of his head, like he had already recognized me long before I had recognized him.

Dr. Lecter.

Oh God.

My stomach flipped so violently I thought I might actually double over. What was he doing here? Had he seen me before I saw him? Was he here because of me, or was this just some freakishly timed coincidence?

My brain scrambled for an appropriate reaction—anything other than standing there like an idiot, heart hammering in my throat.

My cheeks burned before I could stop them, heat creeping up my neck, traitorous and undeniable. I must look ridiculous right now—flushed, wide-eyed, completely caught off guard.

But there was no turning back. He was already close enough that ignoring him would be rude. Unprofessional.

So, I did the only thing I could think of.

I forced my stiff fingers to move, lifting a hand in a small, hesitant wave.

And then—I smiled. Nervous, flustered, but hopefully not as painfully obvious as I felt.

"H-Hi, Doctor!" I blurted out, my voice coming out softer than I intended, almost breathless.

I forced a smile, though I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks. My big, wide eyes locked onto him, searching his face for any sign of reaction.

A second passed.

Then another.

My stomach twisted, dread creeping in. Did I mess up? Did I sound stupid? The silence stretched just long enough to make my pulse stutter.

"I-It’s Y/N—" I started, my voice unsteady, but before I could finish, he cut me off.

"I know it’s you, sweetheart."

My breath hitched.

His voice was smooth, effortlessly composed, dripping with confidence in a way that made my skin tingle. He looked down at me with an amused sort of curiosity, his gaze steady, unwavering—like he was taking his time, drinking in every little reaction, every tiny shift in my expression.

"How funny is it," he continued, his lips curving slightly, "that I should run into you here—right after we had just spoken?"

I swallowed hard. My stomach flipped again, my nerves unraveling by the second.

He was so calm. So composed. And here I was, standing there like a nervous wreck, my thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.

Whatever little confidence I had managed to build up crumbled beneath the weight of his presence. My body felt too warm despite the crisp autumn air, and I could hear the rush of my own pulse in my ears. Still, I forced myself to nod, hoping it looked casual—hoping he couldn’t tell just how flustered I was.

"It’s t-totally crazy!" I rushed out, my voice a little too high, a little too eager. I winced at myself, clearing my throat and trying again, desperate to sound normal. "I-I mean, I wasn’t even paying attention to where I was going. I must’ve wandered too far—I couldn’t even tell you where I am right now if I’m being honest."

I let out a nervous laugh, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, willing my hands to stop fidgeting. My cheeks burned, and I prayed it looked like nothing more than the bite of the cold air rather than the sheer excitement buzzing beneath my skin.

I had imagined meeting him—dreamed of it even. But now that he was standing in front of me, watching me with that unreadable gaze, I felt like my legs might give out beneath me.

"I'm really sorry you had to meet me like this," I blurted, my voice smaller than I intended. My fingers fidgeted with the hem of my jacket sleeves, twisting the fabric as I dared to glance up at him. His eyes—sharp, knowing—made my stomach flip. God, why did he have to look at me like that?

"I promise I would have been more presentable— and- l-less shocked—I'm very sorry," I squeaked, heat rushing to my face as I dropped my gaze again, mortified by how utterly flustered I was.

A deep hum left him, measured and deliberate. "There is no need for an apology, hon," Hannibal said smoothly, the richness of his voice wrapping around me like silk. "You present yourself in a manner most... revealing."

He tilted his head, gaze unwavering, studying me as though he were unraveling something unseen. "There is an honesty in moments like these. A rare and unguarded glimpse into one's truest nature."

My breath caught in my throat. What—what did he mean by that?

I tried to piece it together, but the warmth in his eyes, the weight of his words, left me grasping at nothing.

I nodded at his words, dumbly, still trying to process the way he spoke, the way his voice felt like silk wrapping around my thoughts. But then, like a slap to the face, realization struck.

Oh no.

He definitely saw that I had read his message but never responded.

My stomach twisted as I stepped closer, suddenly feeling the need to explain myself, to fix whatever impression that might’ve given. "I—I meant to text back!" The words left me in a rush, my hands gripping the hem of my sleeves anxiously. "I just got too excited—" I stopped abruptly, my breath catching as my face burned. Too excited? Oh god. That sounded ridiculous. Desperate.

"I mean—" I scrambled to recover, shaking my head quickly. "Not excited—well, I mean, yes, excited, but not in a weird way! Just… I thought I should wait until I wasn’t so—so—" I let out a nervous laugh, utterly failing to dig myself out of the hole I was sinking into.

Hannibal tilted his head ever so slightly, watching me with that same unreadable expression, his lips curving just enough to make my stomach twist even further.

"There’s no need to fluster yourself on my account," he said, his voice smooth, deliberate. "Some things are best expressed in their rawest form, unfiltered… unguarded."

I swallowed hard, my mind racing, trying to decipher his words. Was he talking about my message—or something else entirely?"I—I completely agree!" I rushed out, still trying to steady myself, my heart hammering against my ribs. "But—still—I mean, we should set up a time. Whenever you’d like, of course."

I offered a small, nervous smile, shifting slightly on my feet, hoping I sounded even the slightest bit composed.

Third person (Hannibal's) pov

Hannibal watched you with quiet amusement, his sharp eyes taking in every flustered movement, every nervous breath. You were trying so hard to sound composed, but the way your words tumbled out—rushed, uncertain—betrayed you.

"I—I completely agree!" you blurted, your voice carrying that same delightful eagerness from your emails. "But—still—I mean, we should set up a time. Whenever you’d like, of course."

You shifted on your feet, offering a small, nervous smile, as if willing yourself to appear more put together. How endearing. You had no idea how much you were giving away. Hannibal let the moment stretch just a second longer than necessary, letting you stew in the weight of his gaze before finally offering a slow, knowing smile.

"How about now, then?" Hannibal’s voice was smooth, effortlessly calm. "It seems the only thing occupying you at this moment is our conversation. I don’t mind in the slightest."

He watched as you blinked, clearly caught off guard. Your fingers twitched at your sides, your lips parting slightly as if scrambling for a response. You hadn’t expected that—hadn’t considered that he might take control of the moment so easily, turning your nervous rambling into something entirely inescapable.

Of course, he knew you wouldn’t say no. You had been so eager, so desperate for this opportunity, your emails practically dripping with the need to prove yourself. The way you sought validation was almost endearing—so open, so unaware of just how much you had already given away.

And now, standing before him, you couldn’t hide it. The excitement in your eyes, the nervous energy humming beneath your skin. You were trying so hard to play it cool, but he could see it all—the way your breath hitched, the way you hesitated for just a second too long.

He let the silence stretch, just enough to make you squirm, his face giving no hints to how he felt.

"Oh! Of course! Now is perfect!" she blurts out, nodding far too quickly, her voice pitching higher than she probably intended. She grips the hem of her coat, wringing the fabric between her fingers, as if the motion might tether her to reality—might stop her from unraveling beneath her own nervous energy.

How utterly transparent.

I say nothing for a moment, only watching, taking in the way she fidgets, the way her pulse flutters just beneath the delicate skin of her throat. She is trying so very hard to maintain composure, but she is failing spectacularly.

She doesn’t realize how much she gives away. How easily every flicker of emotion plays across her face. It is almost endearing—the way she fights against her excitement, attempting to suppress it, as if I cannot already see through her.

And yet, there is something else beneath the surface. Something softer, untouched by the weight of the world’s cruelty. A rare thing, fragile and sweet.

My lips curl slightly.

She swallows hard, her breath quickening, the silence stretching just long enough for uncertainty to creep in. I can almost feel the way her mind races, second-guessing herself, wondering if she has said too much or too little.

Finally, I incline my head in a slow, deliberate motion.

"Perfect," I murmur, watching as her breath hitched

A/N oh my god I think is the first fanfic I've written since I was like ten, so if you like it tell me :) and if you don't, also tell me. I hope everyone is doing well and I hope to write more, or leave suggestions! Big kisses everyone :3

[icewindandboringhorror]

I occasionally wish to reach out to old friends/acquaintances I haven't spoken to since high school/some other even earlier time in my life, but I have SOOO little social energy even for required tasks (like making dr phone calls or etc), I never have any leftover for extra ones, and it would be very odd to message someone I haven't spoken to in like 5 years out of the blue but then take 4 entire months to respond back lol.. My natural curiosity with nostalgia/collecting details of the past/etc. (literally if I were born a little earlier I would definitely do scrapbooking or something lol) is very strong, but, alas, not strong enough to beat out the Social Issues Demons apparently

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Or even better, you can become a YouTuber. That way you can edit your streams or just ramble non-stop about lore for shit you like

oh i fear that'd involve listening to my voice and i'd rather die than do that

[honeysucklethornsandalligtrhorns]

currently riding that 'new hyperfixation makes me actually want to care about myself and grow as a person' high. what a time to be alive.

[hope-ur-ok]

so my polaroid camera died (rip) and I'm thinking I might want to buy a new one before boys like girls but I don't know if that's a terrible idea. and like if I do what should i even get, I like the idea of the instax mini evo cause it's the most like my old one while still being better but i don't know, send help

[icterid-rubus]

I’ve got a bizarre and predictable cycle of making friends getting very excited about hanging out and seeing them a lot and then becoming terrified and tired of hanging out and it’s annoying

[rubberduckyrye]

Getting my playlists sorted for the big Move to....... my iphone......

Ick!!!

[musingsofaninsomniac]

꒰ 💌 ꒱ ˖*°࿐•

[snow-blower]

I'm so glad I'm still emotionally attached to cai - y'all are going through the wars rn 🫶😔

I haven't used c.ai in ageeesss, janitor simply allows for better chats. Think you should go to therapy for your attachment, though, ngl. ✋😭

[spikeisawesome456]

.

[master-gatherer]

how fucking dare you quote a palestinian saying trump would be the worst and then say that this election doesn't matter for them. it does matter for them because TRUMP WOULD BE WORSE.

you don't give a SHIT about palestinian lives, you just care about your own stupid, selfish sense of morality when it comes to voting.

Hey fuckass

I've been saying to vote for fucking months. I vote in every election I'm able. If you took 0.5 seconds to search "Kamala" or even "Biden" on my blog you'd know where I stand on that.

I said that the situation on the ground there wouldn't change if Harris wins. Which is true. What conclusions one draws from that re: voting is their own.

Because the sad fact is the American political and war machine is built for one thing, and that's expanding American hegemony. Currently it's focus is in the Middle East, and it's using/bolstering Israel.

I just think it's disingenuous to pull headlines saying "Palestinians say trump will be worse" without also acknowledging that it's an option between bad and worse, an option they don't even have because we're the ones making that choice, not them.

But please go off on random people online. Yelling and shouting at each other is very helpful, especially when you're yelling at someone who fucking agrees with you.