#forgive me for i have no idea how to write john /

[wordstome]

COD Men as Dream Daddy DILFs

Call of Duty single dads x gn!single parent reader

⤐Characters: 141 + König + Horangi + Keegan

⤐Premise: You just moved into a neighborhood with a high population of retired military personnel.

*glances at my 3-4 wips* let's talk about some dilfs, shall we? ...Don't look at me. I had a vision. (No relation to the actual characters from Dream Daddy, just a similar premise) Also a disclaimer: I'm writing these dads mostly in their late 30s to 40s, but don't think about their ages and the ages of their kids too much. This is all vibes. And sorry ahead of time if I gave one of the kids the same name as you 💀 Feel free to imagine the kid has a different name because the names really don't matter

p.s. I wanted to write more characters but I had to reel myself in. I could be persuaded to write a part 2 with Vaqueros, Nikolai, Valeria, Nikto, and other Ghosts tbh

Warning: this shit is LENGTHY. Strap yourself in.

Price: A post about DILFs and you expect me not to start with Captain John Price? Price is the lynchpin of this cul de sac. He's the one inviting everyone over to the barbecue, tries to get the dads to get along, and gives everyone advice. He has the quintessential dad energy. He 100% slaps his knees and says "well!" when he gets up. Price also has major girl dad energy. He's got three adorable little ladies, aged 3 (Clara), 9 (Brianna), and 11 (Alice). Yes, he did name his daughters in ABC order, I can see him doing that. Oh, he dotes on his girls, and they love their dad endlessly. He's the model father: recitals, sports, parent teacher conferences, you name it, he's there.

That's how the two of you meet: he comes up to you at one of the aforementioned events and gives you a firm handshake and apologizes profusely for not coming around to introduce himself earlier. It's not like him not to at least swing by, and he hopes you can forgive him the discourtesy. He hands you his number and says anything you need, just give him a call, or maybe swing by for a beer sometime. He gives you a wink that makes your knees weak, a wink that says he definitely noticed you checking out his muscled arms and broad shoulders. Maybe you will swing by for that beer sometime—and maybe get a little more than just a drink.

Ghost: I could see Simon having a one night stand kid. He certainly never saw himself starting a family after he lost his last one, but he was stressed and probably piss drunk as well. Years and years later, he's back from deployment and finds a social worker with a boy on his doorstep, and the rest is history. I love the idea of Simon with a moody 16 year old, but I actually see Simon and his son having the same dynamic as Mike and Abby Schmidt from the FNAF movie. Since Simon wasn't around for Caden's early childhood, they have a relationship that's undeniably father and son, but leaning towards casual and sibling-like. Simon's figuring his shit out, dealing with his PTSD and the various lasting health issues his time in special forces has left him with, and Caden's a quiet, sensitive 10 year old boy who thinks the world of his dad.

You meet Simon at the local bar. His Ghost days are long behind him, but the balaclava's a hard habit to kick. Besides, he doesn't need people staring at his scars. He's usually there with the 141, but today he's alone, and looks like he could use some company. You sit up at the bar close to him and order a drink, but you don't disturb him, and he visibly relaxes when he realizes you're not going to try to make small talk. It becomes a routine, the two of you: always sharing a quiet drink together at the bar, and then both of you wordlessly go home to your kids. You have a sort of silent conversation every time: Good to see you again. Yeah, you too. Neither of you actually speak a word to the other until Price introduces you to him at a gathering, and you finally hear his voice. "We've met before," he says, with a glint in his eye that suggests perhaps he'd like to be more than just a silent drinking buddy. That's fine with you: you're dying to see what's under the mask and dark hoodie.

Soap: JOCK ALERT. Johnny's basically Craig from Dream Daddy: total dreamboat who goes on runs around the neighborhood and gets all the appreciative looks from the local moms. He thrives on the attention in a way that definitely makes the 141 roll their eyes. He's got an older little girl named Elodie, and a lil baby boy Thomas that he takes everywhere with him. Obviously he's just being a responsible parent taking care of an infant, but secretly, Thomas is a great conversation starter with aforementioned local moms.

Conversely however, it's Johnny who makes the move on you first. Maybe in the grocery store, maybe at one of Price's get-togethers. Sidles up to you and introduces himself with a look in his eye that means trouble. Only the good kind of trouble, of course. If you reciprocate and he finds out you're single, you're not getting rid of him. But why would you want to, anyway? He's endlessly charming, attentive, and good with his hands. When he's fixing a leaky tap for you, of course—what did you think I meant?

Gaz: Kyle "Gaz" Garrick is a fucking heartthrob. I'm saying it right here, right now. He's a walks in with flowers, makes you dinner kind of partner. Also househusband vibes, because, surprise: Kyle is still married. This isn't a Joseph (Dream Daddy) situation, though: he and his wife, Emily, have known each other for a long time, a very high school sweethearts situation. Over the years, though, they drifted apart with Kyle in the military, and Emily eventually realized she's not actually into men. They're still married for coparenting purposes: they've got an older teenage girl named Violet, and a younger boy named Elliott. (Yes, I'm naming him after Elliot Knight, sue me.)

Honestly, I think it would be HILARIOUS if you met Kyle on a dating app and realized he's your next-door neighbor. But however you guys meet, Kyle is an old-school courter kind of guy. He is taking you on dinner dates, listening to you rant about your day, and is on your doorstep in a heartbeat when you call him in a panic because your kid's running a 105 fever (41 in Celsius) and you need a ride to the emergency room. (Not that the other dads wouldn't do the same, but I'm trying to convey "most reliable man in the world" vibes here.)

König: Y'all...you don't know how much fucken time I've spent thinking about this man as a dad. He's in the same boat as Ghost where he never saw himself living long enough to start a family, but here he is with the most precious little girl you've ever laid eyes on. Ava's got her father's curly hair and big green eyes, and she has her dad wrapped around her pinky finger. For König, Ava is living proof that he's capable of being more than just a tool for violence.

You meet König through Ava, of course. Your kids are the closest of friends, and the two of them are constantly going over to each other's houses. You're obviously delighted that your kid is making new friends and fitting in so well, but you'd be lying if your heart didn't skip a beat whenever you open your door to see Ava's six foot ten dad standing there with soft eyes and a sheepish smile. I have to stop here, because I've already written an extra paragraph for this man that I've cut out and pasted for safekeeping in my notes app, and if encouraged I will write more. (Please encourage me.)

Horangi: I know we already had a sort of Robert (Dream Daddy) figure with Ghost, but I think Horangi is a dad whose kid is an adult, much like Robert and Val. I also think that out of all the dads, Horangi is likely the one who's still doing some level of military work. Either that, or he has a very demanding job that takes up a lot of his time. He's ashamed of the way he let his gambling affect his family in the past, and is making up for it by being responsible and keeping his finances in order.

You don't meet him until you've lived in the neighborhood for quite a while, but he pops up at a gathering, talking quietly with König in a corner. You'd thought you had met every neighbor in the cul de sac, so you're intrigued by the newcomer. Someone, probably Price, tells you what Hong-jin's deal is, and ever since that you just can't keep your eyes off of him. You can't quite work up the nerve to talk to him, so you occupy yourself talking with the other parents. Some time later, you're at the food table grazing on the snacks when you look up and make eye contact with him. There's something intense in his gaze that makes you freeze, like a deer in headlights. He's definitely checking you out, you think. Your chest erupts into nervous butterflies when he starts walking towards you.

Keegan: Keegan is an adoptive father! I love his dynamic with the Walker boys, so I can see him being the kind of guy who adopts an older teenager so they have a home and a family instead of aging out of the system. Jason and Cecelia are high school age siblings who would have been separated otherwise, and consider Keegan their dad in every way that's important.

I think you and Keegan are definitely rivals in some way. Maybe it's a PTO thing, maybe he gets a little too boisterous at your kids' sports game. Whatever it is, you can't stand the man, but your annoyance whenever he's around only seems to amuse him. You have no problem saying to his face exactly what you think about him, but unfortunately, Keegan can see right through you. And hey, Cecelia could use some experience as a babysitter, so you won't have to worry about spending the night over at his place, will you?

As always, I wanna hear peoples' thoughts and feedback! If you want to hear more about these dads, drop me an ask <3

[sgiandubh]

Not all kilts are created equal, either

At the rate things are drastically mutating, as far as cons and fan events are concerned, it would seem the most democratic way to meet, greet and grab an autograph from S is to swallow even the most remote idea of self-esteem and join the crowds on that Sassenach Winter Tour. Beat the pavement with the huddled masses and wait for Ginger Jesus to wink encouragingly, as your knees give way and you melt into a puddle of fuzzy love for... Ahem... no, let's hope not, my quill got the better of my reason, on this one.

This will go on and on and on, until the Last Living Woman on Earth ever to have been touched by JAMMF's self-evident charm will stop writing idiocies like this one:

You would never be able to compare Glenmorangie and SS, just like you wouldn't do the same about S and Harrison Ford, excuse me. At least if you would like to keep some modicum of integrity, here.

I am sorry, Ford and Glenmorangie did not copy anything. They just used a beloved piece of garment, the kilt, to their advantage. The rugged (but sexy and ultimately interesting and kind) Highlander in a kilt was not invented by Diana Gabaldon, nor definitively embodied by Sam Roland Heughan.

'Erself explained many times over she could have chosen anything else (aliens immediately came to my sick mind, but perhaps not the best option, after all) when she first started writing that damned book. But an old Dr Who episode, featuring a Highlander named Jamie McCrimmon and then a punctual subplot detail in Eric Linklater's book Prince in the Heather, mentioning Clan Fraser's only survivor after Culloden sealed the deal. I did not invent these, even Wikipedia knows 😉. In doing so, she simply (and wisely profitably, it would seem) chose one of the most popular and intriguing cultural tropes - Scotland. The rest was easy enough, but never forget that on a different inspiration whim, we could be talking all the same about Jaime, the Impetuous Pirate of the Caribbean (Voyager trivia, anyone?) or even Jacques, the French fin-de-siècle gentleman thief. That she chose Scotland is our delight (I doubt Shipper Mom wouldn't have zapped over a pirate series, after all), and S's lifetime lucky strike, that's all.

Scotland has been immensely popular and fantasized about, from The Borders to the Kamchatka Peninsula, ever since Walter Scott published The Lay of the Last Minstrel, in 1805, to rousing success. And even more so, since Queen Victoria and Prince Albert first visited and fell in love with it, in 1842. All things Scottish, from the tartan to the sense of honor, never ceased to fascinate people all around the world. The Outlander universe is just one of Scotland's latest representations in popular culture and, forgive me for being blunt, not even the best known one.

And excuse me once more, men in kilts have been around ever since, too. John Brown, Victoria's morganatic spouse, included. For better, rather than for worse. My own mind doesn't have to travel very far just to immediately remember Sean Connery, but here is an updated list of celebrities who apparently think the kilt is fashionable as hell and tells a very interesting story of virility and fortitude: https://help.scottishkiltshop.com/hc/en-us/articles/18545441581069-How-Hollywood-Celebrities-Embrace-the-Kilt . It's pleasantly enough written and makes for quite an instructive, updated overview of what the kilt really means in popular culture and how it is being constantly used to ventilate above positive messages & values.

To write that Ford used Heughan's persona in that #ad is akin to uninformed blindness. To go even further and talk with confidence about associative marketing is adding insult to injury and proving the person does not have the remotest clue of what she is writing about.

To cut the story short, associative marketing is simply a sales' strategy directed to minority groups and/or fringe communities. A classic example is Tupperware selling its plastic tchotchkes to moms all around the world and by doing so, peddling the dream of gifting them extra time for themselves (finally!). In other words, the focus of the sales strategy is being mindful about a specific set of needs and priorities that must be addressed. You are selling a product alright, but you are selling it to a niche. Glenmorangie is the opposite of that, in fact: it is a worldwide known brand, appreciated and enjoyed, sometimes excessively, by men and women (and frat boys and girls), irrespective of age, cultural context (yes, even in Tehran!) or social status. I honestly fail to see where the associative marketing can be found in Glenmorangie's poster and would rather think of Sassenach Spirits' own strategy in those terms. Especially when you think again about those huddled masses beating the pavement in front of a non-descript liquor store, on Main Street, America (or Industrial Zone, America, to be more exact).

Oh, well, she probably wanted to say Glenmorangie is coat-tailing Norouzi's genius ideas, which would be disingenuous, if not ridiculous, above anything else. But it surely is my deepest, secret and probably naively altruistic wish for this cheap Sassenach Tour gimmick to be shelved aside, before things become truly, heartbreakingly pathetic.

Make no mistake. I am such a loyal idiot that I am still confident. But the clock is ticking, and not to their advantage. So, is that it, is this how things are going to happen, from now on: extortionate fan events and #silly bottle signing sessions?

What would JAMMF, aka Jamie Roy, the Edinburgh spirits' smuggler, think about all of this?

[vanillarosekiss]

Hi lovie! May i request something? Can you write angst to comfort with simon or john? Love me some ex to lover or just like another chance romance where the boys are grovelling teehee

Of course I can, angel!♡ I hope you like this, I'm so sorry that it's late. I really wanted to make it more angsty at the beginning and sweet at the end so enjoy.

warnings: angsty, simon being a bit of a prick tbh, fluff at the end.

The dreaded knock came late - sharp and deliberate, breaking the silence of your small apartment. You weren’t expecting anyone at this time, but the minute you opened the door and saw him standing there, everything froze.

Simon.

He looked the same, but so different. The mask was gone, but his darkening aura stayed the same. He didn’t say anything; he stared at you like he wasn’t sure you’d let him speak.

“What do you want?” you said, voice harsher than you expected.

“I came to talk,” he muttered, his voice low, almost hesitant, “To apologise.”

You let out a harsh laugh and crossed your arms.

“Talk? Now? After you walked out of my life without a word? Months, Simon. Months. And now you want to talk?”

“I know,” he said quickly, his tone defensive, as if bracing for impact.

“I know I fucked up.”

“Fucked up?” You stepped back, gesturing wildly, “No, Simon. You didn’t just ‘fuck up.’ You destroyed me. Do you even get that?”

He winced, his lips pressing into a hard line. “I left to keep you safe. I didn’t have a choice.”

“Oh, don’t give me that bullshit,” you snapped. “You always have a choice. You just didn’t want to deal with me, so you made the easiest one. Don’t pretend you did it for me.”

His head snapped up at that, and for the first time, you saw something crack in him.

“You think it was easy? Leaving you? That it didn’t tear me apart every time i thought about it?”

“Sure looked easy from where I was standing,” you fired back. You knew it wasn’t like that, but you had lost it with him now.

“I was trying to protect you,” he said, voice harder now, colder. It was like he went back to who he was in the field, merciless and cruel.

“Do you have any idea the kind of shit that follows me? The kind of danger I drag around? I left because I didn’t want you caught in the crossfire. You know I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if anything happened to you.”

“Protect me?” You let out a bitter laugh. “That’s rich, Simon. Did you ever stop to think about how it felt on my end? Not knowing if you were dead, alive, or just done with me? You didn’t protect me. You abandoned me.”

That word hit him like a slap. His jaw clenched, and something in his expression shifted, turning darker. “You think I wanted to do that? That it didn’t fucking kill me to walk away? I was trying to do the right thing.”

“Yeah, well, you failed,” you shot back. “Congratulations. All you did was prove I meant nothing to you.”

He let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You think you meant nothing? Christ, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. I thought about you every fucking day. Do you know how many times I wanted to pick up the phone? To come back? But I couldn’t.”

“Why? Why couldn’t you?” you demanded, your voice breaking. You didn’t want to get emotional with him but you couldn’t help it.

“What stopped you? What could possibly be worse than what you did to me?”

Simon’s voice dropped, “Because I was scared, alright? Scared I’d lose you for good. Scared you’d get hurt because of me.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words hitting you like a tidal wave. For a small moment, neither of you said anything, just stood there in the wreckage of everything unsaid.

“You broke me, Simon. You left me with nothing. And now you just show up, expecting me to forgive you?”

“I don’t expect your forgiveness,” he said, his tone softer now, the fight draining out of him. “I just… I couldn’t stay away anymore. I had to try. Even if you want to slam the door in my face, I’ll take it, but I needed you to know I’m sorry. For all of it.”

You felt your resolve cracking, the anger giving way to something else - something just as painful.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” you whispered. “You don’t get to come back like this and try to undo everything I’ve been through.”

“I know,” he said gently. “But I can’t let you go without a fight. Just because I left doesn’t mean I don’t love you anymore.”

Your arms hung limp at your sides, the weight of his words crushing you. You couldn’t tell if you were angry at him or just upset.

“I know I’ve been a prick, baby, trust me I know. And I hate myself for ever doing this to you. I wasn’t thinking properly. Fuck, I just- ”. He sighed and rubbed his eyes.

He looked… lost? Like he didn’t know how to fix this, and it tugged at something deep inside you, even through the anger.

“Simon,” you said quietly, your voice softer now.

His hand dropped, and he looked at you, the raw emotion in his eyes catching you off guard. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you if you let me,” he whispered. “I just want you back. Please.”

The sincerity in his voice broke you, and you couldn’t even get a moment to second-guess yourself.

“One chance, Simon. That’s all you’re getting.”

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[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 29 all chapters

WARNING: NSFW, SEXUAL CONTENT, YANDERE SH!T. Plz take care. I luv u all. 😘

-You dare not put it down on the big tablet on your easel where John will see, but you can’t stop yourself from drawing it out in your smaller sketchbook-journal that is easier to squirrel away under clutter, putting down marks like you mean to exorcise her from your memory. You draw her like a ghost in her field of happy white flowers, and write in the margins in your looping script, I’m sorry. I don’t know how to make him forgive you. You want me to save him but I don’t know how. I don’t fucking know how.

Maybe she’ll actually hear your plea and do something useful about it, like haunt John’s dreams instead of yours.

Maybe you’re losing your damn mind. 

You find that either way, you’re not brave enough to mention her to your captor again.

She becomes an obsession, and you keep drawing her in your little sketchbook. You’ve only ever seen one picture of her. It was in the den, but has since disappeared. Still, you feel you know the lines of her face, the brightness of her eyes. You go back to your old fixation with the ladies of Mucha, sketching her out as the Lady of the Daisies with flowing auburn hair surrounded by her stylized flowers and flowing lines.

You strive to cover your true fixation by putting down anything as quickly as you can on the easel, knowing your captor will be by for inspection. You draw sunflowers, your favorite summer bloom, something fun but you can do with your eyes closed with colorful, juicy strokes of oil pastels. You hope to keep John off the scent of the book that holds your heartfelt neuroses that you bury under piles of all your new art supplies and anything else you can find.

It was stupid, of course, to think you could really hide anything from him.

One day you find him in the chair with his legs crossed, perusing your sketch journal with one of those magnificent thunderheads of a frown.

You are certain you are fucked, when he asks, “Is this your idea of a joke?”

Trembling as you imagine what he’s going to do to you for this infraction, you answer truthfully, “No.”

He closes the book with a snap, crossing the floor to stand before you, his powerful body moving deceptively slow, the way a tiger appears slothful in the jungle.

You know he can snap you up with one bite.

You cannot stop shaking, as he peers down that straight nose at you, pinning you with black eyes that somehow burn. He does not touch you, but God. He sees everything. You just know that he sees everything, and you find you are terrified of how he’ll react.  

“Have you been snooping through my things?”

“No.” The irony of him holding your sketch diary is not lost on you, but wisely you hold your tongue.

“How did you know what she looked like?”

“You had a picture out of her, ages ago.” At least, it felt like a like a lifetime ago.

“How did you know about the daisies?”

Now you know he’s going to flip his shit. It sounds fucking absurd, even to you. Your voice can barely rasp past what feels like dried twigs in your throat to whisper, “I saw them in a dream.”

You expect him to scoff and call you a liar. But he just searches your face, his eyes a little too wild for your liking. Here we go. He’d been damn near stable the past few days, but surely this will set him off.

You close your eyes, unable to watch the unfolding of your doom. This is it. He’s going to lock you up forever. You’ll never see the light of day again. The trembling in your frame kicks up to ten, and you hug yourself just to have something to hold on to.

When his next question comes, he could push you over with a feather.

“What does she say?”

You shake your head, realizing your cheeks are wet with tears.

“Nothing. She just…offers me the flower.” Going for broke you add, “She looks so sad.”

It is the sound of tearing paper that opens your eyes; with horror you find John making confetti of your art nouveau sketch that took hours to do. However, any protest dies on your lips—if destroying the drawing appeases him, maybe he won’t take it out on you.

Without another word, just a hard look, he stalks from the room.

Only when the sound of his footsteps fade down the hall do you let out the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding, your knees quivering like leaves in a storm.

However, you are not foolish enough to believe you’re in the clear just yet.

-Later, there is no dinner. You find the kitchen cold and empty. Not sure what to make of this, you graze in the fridge, before returning to your bedroom. Not sure where John has gotten off to, you shower, then go to bed, finding yourself lying awake in the dark without him beside you, almost itchy without his steady presence in the evening at your side.

Part of it might be that you fear something is brewing, and you can’t stand the waiting…but part of it might simply be that you miss him, as fucked up as that is.

In the end, against your better judgement, you go looking.

You search the house, until the only room that is left is the garage. Silently you open the door, slipping through without a sound. You too are learning how to move quiet as a wraith. The smell of rubber and oil assaults your nostrils. Classic rock is playing low on the radio. In the far bay, the hood of the Mustang is open, and John is bent over inside, wrenching on something and muttering to himself. There is a partially empty bottle of Blanton’s Bourbon on the workbench behind him, and an empty glass.

Unable to stop yourself from committing what perhaps might prove to be suicide, you creep to the other side of the Land Rover, using it as cover as you eavesdrop on this man grumbling to the ghost of his deceased wife.  

“What do you want from me? I loved you. I loved you with every fucking fiber of my being, but you left me. I died with you the day you left me, and she is the only thing that makes me feel alive again. I need her, and she never would have come to me on her own. She never would have stayed. She never would have stayed.”

He says this to himself over and over, and it wrenches your heart, because you know it isn’t true.

You think you manage to creep back out again without him noticing, Led Zeppelin on the radio disguising the sound of the door.

When at last he comes to bed and wraps you in his arms, holding you too hard for comfort, you feign sleep, smelling the bourbon fumes on his breath. You can’t help but tense, wondering if he will forget his promise this deep in his cups.

But he just sighs into your hair, crushing you as he pulls you even closer, and you don’t know why it breaks your heart all over again.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Heya!! can i request for yandere john wick (headcannons or give anything will work)

You probably know which Anon i am. Please forgive me i got a little too happy cuz you write so good for such good stuff!

Yandere John Wick Headcanons

Warnings: Obsessive Behaviour, Stalking, Snooping, Very Brief Implication of Smut, Just John in Love <333, No Pronouns used for Reader except ‘You.

A/N: I wanted to get these out before I watch the new John Wick film; one which I have been waiting for for the last 4 years <3

O B S E S S I V E

Absolutely an obsessive lucid yandere – he may be in love, but he’s not delusional.

Regardless of whether you came before or after Helen, John knows how cut-throat his profession is; how quickly everything can go from an is to a was.

Thus, nothing is certain. Not you, not him, not your relationship.

So when he realises he’s in love with you – a process as gradual as the construction of Earth itself – he’s never letting you out of his sight.

This might manifest as something as subtle as him visiting you more than usual, staying, longer during movie nights, trying to get you to spend the night more often; inconspicuous displays of a strengthening friendship you and John had accrued over the last couple years or so.

But, unbeknownst to you, he’s around even when you’re unaware.

An unmarked black car parked a house or two down the street, shielded by the shadows of the trees as moonlight casts a stark white against the black.

An inconspicuously-dressed civilian who’s been sat on that park bench for the last two hours as you read your book.

And, eventually, the tiny camera attached underneath your sofa, monitoring every coming and going of your house.

You know about none of this, of course.

Sure, you may have suspicions that the car down the street – one you’ve never seen before in your life – could be doing something… but who were you to judge ? There could be a perfectly logical explanation !

But John keeps enough of himself – and you – in the dark so you’d never suspect him.

I mean, why would you ? He’s John Wick ! Nicest, quietest guy on the block.

If ever he’s on a mission; John relies on that camera more than he’s like to admit.

In his downtime, while resting up at the Continental, he’ll check his phone, see that you’ve gone to the kitchen to make something or other, and wait for you to return to the sofa until he can put his phone away.

Even with his logical mind, he can’t help but fall partial victim to his superstition that, once you reach the sofa, nothing bad can happen to you.

The idea of putting up more cameras has crossed his mind.

Multiple times.

But you’re attentive. You’d notice something as small as a little blinking light a mile off.

Hencewhy he takes to manual surveillance when he’s not out earning a thriving.

He also lowkey interrogates you.

“You found a boyfriend yet ?”

You give a sharp laugh.

“If I had, you’d be the first to know,”

You already tell John practically everything that happens to you – as best friends do – but whenever you ask John something similar, he’ll skirt around your questions.

“No time for that,” he’ll tell you whenever you try to identify the new mystery partner in his life.

“You’re always so busy, John-John !”

Ah, his nickname. A mythic specialty no other has had the privilege to call him.

And John gives a rare smile.

“I’m never too busy for you.”

And you know he means it.

Whenever you need him, he’s there.

And you try to be there for him as much as possible, but given how elusive he is, he rarely seems to need it.

You want to help as best you can, regardless.

So, one day, out of the blue, you hand John a set of keys.

He’s a smart man. But he can’t wrap his head around what you’re trying to tell him.

And when he stares at you with a narrowed look, your eyes roll, the edges of your lips curling up.

“They’re keys, John,” you say. And you gesture around the living room, general in your manner. “To my house.”

And John stares at you for a moment. Then two.

“(Y/N), I’m not trained to be a housekeeper.”

“Oh my god, John–”

You have to explain to him that you’re not trying to get him to clean your house or care for it. You’re opening it up to him.

“I trust you more than anyone else to know how everything works here,” you say, a hand on his shoulder. He’s trying to keep dead eye contact with you, but the feeling of your fingers holding him with a softness he’s never known is like being branded.

“So,” you smile. “If you ever need it for anything, you can get in.”

Honestly, John has been granted few mercies in his time; makeshift alliances with murderers who were loyal to none, not even themselves, his life saved only by his ability to barter and his renowned skill for death. And never are these mercies granted without a price.

So to have you gift him a set of keys to the place you are most vulnerable takes John a while to come to terms with, shall we say.

Remember earlier when I mentioned John’s idea to install more cameras ?

Well, now you’ve given him a perfect in.

Plus, he now has access to all your personal belongings.

At first, he did try to restrain himself.

Trust me, he did.

But, as the days grew into weeks, your keys sat on his bedside, glinting under any source of light that could find its way inside.

And, as if the Gods aligned circumstance on his favour, you would be away from home for a week.

A trip to such-and-such a place – John had the address memorised even before you did.

You’d best believe that, although he initially had his reservations about 1.) you going on the trip, and 2.) using your absence as a means to snoop around your home, John is not immune to whim and fancy. Especially when it came to you.

He’s phantasmic; he leaves no trace, not even fingerprints as he prowls your apartment, looking for…well, anything, really.

He avoids stooping so low as to rifle through your underwear drawer like a stalker. Instead, he uses what he likes to call ‘environmental storytelling’ to make deductions about you.

He’s a very intuitive, perceptive individual, so the story of your everyday routing unfolds for him as if he were reading a book.

And, yes, the temptation to peek at the…less savoury pieces of your inventory did become overwhelming when he could no longer be satiated with the literature you consumed, the worn look of your favourite outfit, your secret money stash you kept in the biscuit tin in the kitchen.

To make a long story short, John walked out your house with a short of yours.

And, when he got home, he did the only thing he could think to do.

He put it on a pillow and pretended it was you.

Cuddles with it whenever he’s missing you. Or sad.

Maaay have cried into it on more than one occasion.

Maaay have done…other things to it when he wasn’t feeling upset.

He’s absolutely paranoid that you’ll find it one day, despite his aptitude at covering his tracks, so he tries not to invite you to his house as much as he can.

However, as your friendship progresses further, that’s unavoidable.

While you may not be dating yet, just know that John holds you in the highest of regards, and he’ll never let anything – including himself – hurt you.

Just ignore his eye wandering to the walk-in cupboard in the hallway; that’s just where he’s kept his imitation of you.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterpost

Yandere Masterlist Juicy Original Content <3

[morganas-pendragons]

the night will be over soon | the master chief

I have used this title before. Don't judge me. And I also remember approximately none of Halo Four, so forgive me if some of the nods to that in this are not accurate LOL

Anyway, this is for @empresskadia -- the whole plot is entirely her idea. I just saw it and went ''oh I could kill writing this'' so here I am! hurt/comfort incoming! I just changed a tiny bit of this to match the overall idea I was going for here.

@embarrassedauthornerd @lialacleaf

***

Things are out of focus. Blurry. Hard to remember. The only things that John can recall are the hue of Cortana outside the pod, the cold, and the darkness.

And your screaming. It was the last thing he recalled when The Arbiter pulled you towards him - a silent request from The Master Chief to keep you safe that he somehow understood - as The Forward Unto Dawn split in two.

It's been four years. John is very accustomed to it now. The dark, the cold, the dreams. At least the dreams are pleasant.

Your reality, however? Not so much.

They start you off with the augmentations. You can barely believe you've made it here, conscripted to be a Spartan Four.

You hadn't even met the majority of Blue Team until they'd intercepted you on The Infinity not long after you had been brought aboard. Kelly knew who you were almost immediately upon reading your file. Blue hadn't even met you yet. She'd heard rumors about your involvement with the Chief, and due to intimately knowing John's heart, she'd taken it upon herself to be your silent guardian.

John had lost enough. He didn't need to lose the one person he genuinely loved.

"You think this is the one?"

"Oh yeah," Kelly and Fred looked upon the digital file of your face in the debrief room of the Infinity. All of the data in your file pointed to you being heavily involved with The Master Chief and the Arbiter during the Human Covenant War. "That's them."

Lasky had been the one to convince you to stay. You were content to just.. disappear. It would've been easier to deal with John being gone if you just went away inside.

Dreams were more pleasant than reality. And they most often reared their ugly head when you were in the midst of the augmentations.

You remember many a night that Cortana had drawn you to his quarters when he was in the throes of a nightmare. It was fortunate you were a light sleeper anyway, because the only way you knew it was her was the incessant beeping and your door to your own quarters suddenly opening without anyone on the other side.

"Cortana?"

Nothing. You slowly got out of bed and followed the blue lights that illuminated the darkened hallway until they stopped to blink repeatedly at John's door. You paused. He was still always so hesitant to be vulnerable around you. John was not a man of words, but often actions, and being able to spill his raw and aching heart onto the floors of his bedroom is.. incomprehensible. He doesn't think himself capable of it.

You'd never forget how he looked there. Bathed in moonlight, head in his hands, desperately trying to control his uneven breathing and racing heart.

You silently approached from the doorway, settling down on your knees in front of him to take his hands into your own. You knew better than to believe he wasn't aware of your presence from the moment you'd come to the door.

Hands at your lips, you kiss each of The Master Chief's scarred knuckles, your eyes never leaving his. There's an echo of a song lingering in the humming that follows. It's familiar. Comforting. He hadn't known you could sing.

The softness there in your eyes - the humanity, something that you had been reminding him that he was capable of - was what made it just a little bit easier for John to breathe.

And brought the whole world back into focus.

***

They augment you. You become accustomed to the sound of your own screaming. You become accustomed to pain, and fear, and a deeply rooted desire to do for others what John had been doing for you for so long.

You ache for being protected. You ache for the solace of John, of his arms, of being home again. But home had disappeared four years ago. There was no going back to it.

Being a Spartan obligated you to be complacent in a world of bloodshed and war.

so much for keeping that humanity.

You familiarize yourself with the trigger. Grow used to pulling it, grow used to taking orders, grow used to excelling and succeeding. You struggle at first. They tell you that you aren't built for this. You know you aren't.

You push yourself harder. For John. To honor him.

However, little known to you, you're being watched by three guardian angels. The entirety of Blue Team has taken it upon themselves to ensure your safety. It's their way of honoring their fallen brother.

The last thing you're expecting is for them to approach you. It's well into the night, and you're running sims for the fourth hour in a row when it suddenly shuts down and you find yourself face to face with three Spartan Two's.

You jump to stand at attention. "Sir! Ma'am!"

All three remove their helmets and flash identical looks. They almost look like they're scolding you. "You don't need to salute. Not us. We're not the Chief," The male remarks playfully. "But you know that, don't you?"

"Everyone knows who you are." You reply as you point at each of them. "Fred-104, Kelly-087, and Linda-058. You're legends. What on Earth do you want with me?"

"It's not what we want," Linda interjected. "It's what you've given. We know."

Every cell of your body froze. You struggled to swallow as your blood ran cold, the memory of John's hands in your own and his lips at the crown of your head flashing at the forefront of your memory. Such a precious thing.. memories. They often make their way into your dreams.

"What do you want?" You repeated.

"We don't think John is dead. And since we don't think that, we've taken it upon ourselves to succeed in our self-appointed mission." Fred pointed a single finger at you. "Keeping you safe. Training you to be the best of the new Spartans, because we want you to be able to survive our world so you can see John again."

***

Time passed, and you left with Blue until you were called back to the Infinity. That was Fred's doing. Lasky had approved the transfer almost immediately. You found camaraderie with them. A unit.

And they did exactly what they said they would: Protected you, trained you to learn how to adapt to their world. You got good at it.

The better you got at being a Spartan, the more of your humanity you had to lose.

No one told you when John came back. No one told you when he came back, and Cortana came back, and it felt like all the air was sucked right from your lungs when Del Rio ordered you into the bridge and you found yourself staring at them both.

The memory of a night bathed in moonlight flashed before your eyes once again as you lifted your visor to meet the gold one across from you. Your tongue is heavy in your mouth, and all words escape you, but you can't bring yourself to look away from him.

"Master Chief," You say as firmly as possible. John is your superior officer, after all. "It is good to see you, sir."

He's beautiful. Beautiful, and here, and alive.

***

Cortana had to remind him three times that it wasn't a dream. That you were standing in front of him in Spartan armor, and that the person he'd left behind all those years ago was most definitely not the same one he was looking at now.

When you removed your helmet, his heart sank. There was a new scar on your face. Your eyes were hardened as you stood at attention for Lasky and Del Rio. What had you seen? What had you been through?

"Master Chief? We have a mission for you."

Why hadn't he been there to protect you from it?

***

Gone.

She's gone.

He trudges back to the Infinity with a heavy step and an even heavier heart after The Didact is defeated. There is nowhere to go, and no one to turn to, so The Master Chief finds himself in front of the windows overlooking the planet.

It's not the planet he's paying attention to. It's the moon.

"Chief."

Nothing. He should be paying attention because he's still required to be a soldier, but The Master Chief is very far away.

And it's usually you who ends up bringing him back.

"John." The desperate, quiet nature of the voice pleading with him to come back is what drew The Master Chief from his reverie. He's still in his armor, and the armor is the most protection he's had in four years, but the thought of being able to find sanctuary with you again is what caused him to turn around. You reached out with a waiting hand. "The night cycle will be over eventually. C'mon."

He allowed himself to be led into the darkness of your quarters aboard The Infinity. The moment that you both recognize that you're alone, you turn toward John and hesitantly reach your hands upward. He knows what this means. The two of you used to do this quite often.

John tipped his head forward, at your mercy, and allowed you to remove his helmet. Part of him was nervous that you would no longer want him the same way. That he was damaged goods.

But that hardened look he'd seen on the bridge is gone now, replaced by a gentle reverence illuminated by the moon outside as you whisper, "There you are. My Master Chief."

***

You can see the despair in his eyes the longer he traced the scars you'd obtained. John lay at your side, a singular finger tracing across your shoulder blades where the largest of the augmentation scars was.

"I should've been here. You should've never had to endure this." John confessed quietly. You didn't respond. Just the fact he was speaking his own thoughts out into the open was enough to keep you silent. His wounds are fresh. On display. With Cortana gone, and your own suffering he had not kept you from, you could tell that he blamed himself for all that had happened.

You shivered as his fingers traced the line of your hip before coming up to cup your jaw, turning your head toward him. He seemed to be most devastated about the scar on your face.

"Do you..." You swallowed the knot in your throat and leaned into the warmth of his palm. "Do you want me to tell you?"

There's a lot to tell him. A lot that you're hesitant to tell him because he carried his own demons and his own regrets and shortcomings like it was his own personal cross to bear.

So you tell him something better instead.

"I met Blue," You slide down the bed and tuck your head under his chin, wrapping both arms around his frame. "They ended up being my silent guardians for those first few years. Said they wanted to honor you by protecting me. Ended up being the primary ones who trained me" You laugh softly. "Maybe that's why I've made such a good Spartan."

Little known to you, one of the first things John had done upon returning to The Infinity was request your transfer to Blue Team. He hadn't anticipated that Kelly, Fred and Linda would find you first, much less train you.

He never wanted you to be like him. To be a soldier, to be a machine. You were too good for that. Too soft. Too human.

This wasn't what you were meant for.

Enveloped in your arms, The Master Chief slowly rubs circles into the base of your neck as your body falls limp in his embrace. He's humming something low under his breath. A song he'd forgotten he'd ever heard. It sounded like it was a memory.

Or maybe a dream.

Never mind the darkness

Never mind the storm

Never mind the blood red moon

The night will be over soon....

Hopefully your dreams are less tainted with red then his are.

[ivymarquis]

Hi loves 💕💕 I saw requests are open so I figured I'd send one in! I absolutely love your work you're so talented and I binge read all of your fics!!

I would like to request fem reader x soap where Soaps wife adopted a dog she found on the streets and keeps her even though he hates the idea.( he has a cannon fear of dogs which I find a little funny) slowly but surely he warms up to the dog but not fully. While he's out on a mission there's a robbery and the dog protects the reader and scares off the intruder. Soap hears about this and is instantly is best friends with the dog because even though he hates dogs he loves that the pup will protect his wife (I also hc that mabey it's not a street dog but a retired k9 reader adopted to feel safe while he was gone and she just didn't tell him until he comes home and sees a dog. it's up to you what you pick💓)

Hello anon I appreciate your patience!! I did pick and choose a wee bit to make the fic make sense for me, I hope you like it!

The Exception to the Rule

Pairing| Soap x Reader Rating| T Word Count| 1.9K Content/Warnings| Housekeeping first- this fic is SFW so if you find it in the tags I won’t be bothered about minors reading it but I am an MDNI blog and I will block any minors or ageless blogs who follow me. Got it? Cool. The author is an American attempting to write a Scottish accent, likely inaccuracies about how military dogs in general or bomb dogs in specific work. Allusions to prior animal injury, allusion to potential dog choking (in the context of choking off a working dog who won’t release its quarry), allusion to home invasion, dog bites, Johnny is not happy, the author does not condone getting animals you know your partner has issues with (but the plot necessitates it so on we go!)

Soap knows his wife well enough to know when she’s taken a “ask for forgiveness rather than permission” course of action. It’s written all over her face when she accepts his FaceTime call and answers his greeting of “What did ya dae, hen?“ with a “Please don’t be mad.”

Now certain men might have to worry about their brides stepping out on them on deployment. Soap knows her well enough to not even entertain that notion, so the wheels start turning for what exactly she could have done that has her looking this guilty out the gate.

The answer comes very suddenly in the form of a bark on the other end of the screen.

John Soap MacTavish sputters, something he is not often inclined to do, “Is that a fuckin’ dog?” And not just a dog. That wasn’t a little yappy fluffball who can be picked up with two fingers if need be. It sounds like one of the damn bomb dogs always yapping over in the kennels.

“Please don’t be mad!” She pleads again.

“Well a’m not happy, that’s for sure. Where and why did ye git that thing?”

This is completely out of character for her. Soap’s disdain for dogs (and why) is well known. She bloody well knows. So what the hell?

“It’s not permanent! You said this deployment would be a long one, and there’s been break ins in the neighborhood and I got nervous and my friend told me about this rescue group that helps rehome retired military dogs.” Her explanation is all in one breath. “They approved us” (Us??) ”as a foster family. He’s already got applications in for a permanent home. It just feels,” she pauses to catch her breath, and Soap can feel himself softening ever so minisculely to the dog- as long as he’s on the other side of the world, away from it, “safer here, with him here since you’re gone. The break ins have been really scary, they haven’t caught the guy yet.”

Fucking hell how is he supposed to argue with that? Especially if there’s some prick on the loose breaking into houses.

“Cujo better nae be oan th’ bed wi’ ye,” he grouses, acquiescing while still making his displeasure known.

“His name is Kabar and I’ll have the bed freshly stripped when you’re due back I promise.”

Soap is a god damn sucker for those pleading doe eyes, giving a big exasperated sigh to signal he’s letting her off the hook. “Fine. Bit he better be gaen by th’ time I pull intae th’ driveway. Let’s see th’ damn thing then,” Christ he hopes it’s not a Belgian Malinois. He knows they’re popular for military dogs but his darling is not built to handle a maligator, retired or not.

“Okay hang on,” she replies, notably cheerier as she taps the screen.

It’s a German Shepherd, thank fuck (Johnny must be having a stroke to be grateful for the sight of a German Shepherd in his bed)

He knows as well as anyone else they can be intense, but they’re a step down from the Malinois at least.

The coloring is traditional, but Soap’s brain starts nudging him that something is wrong with the dog. It takes a moment to click before he realizes the problem.

The damn dog only has three legs. “Is he a tripod?” The question is out before he can stop himself because no he is not inquiring about the damn dog. It was just a thought that escaped.

“He is a disabled veteran!” His bride corrects cheekily, before much more solemnly adding “He was a bomb dog.”

Oh Christ. He did not need to know that. Doesn’t need to think about the damn animal waking up one day with four legs and clocking in to work with his handler before boom.

“A’m only entertaining this because of the break ins, hen, am ah clear?”

Maybe having that booming bark rattling the windows will keep any would-be intruders at bay. This is the worst part of the job- being stuck on what might as well be the other side of the world when she’s got something to deal with.

“Absolutely crystal clear!” She’s all too agreeable, pleased as hell to have her cake (the dog) and eat it too (Johnny tolerating it).

Somehow this is going to blow up in his face and he’s going to permanently end up with a fucking military dog he doesn’t want, he just knows it.

But there’s no fucking way he can tell her No. Absolutely not. He goes back today, with a potential threat lurking around the neighborhood. He’d never forgive himself.

The rest of the conversation is much more in line with what he usually anticipates with their phone calls being- He doesn’t much like talking about work off the clock although lets her know of any interesting shenanigans around the base, and listening with baited breath as she regails him of tales both extraordinary and, well, extra ordinary.

Usually their phone calls end when she passes out in bed, and they’re perfectly poised to continue that habit tonight also.

“Ye made sure all th’ doors and windows are locked, hen?” He asks as she starts snuggling into the bedding underneath her.

“Yeah Johnny, I,” she cuts herself off with a big yawn “-I double checked them.”

It’s a few minutes later that the phone slips from her hand, camera pointing at the ceiling as she drifts off.

Johnny can almost imagine he’s at home laying on his back, watching the rhythmic movements of the ceiling fan in time with his lovely girl snoring slightly in his ear (despite her verbose protests that no she doesn’t snore- okay. Whatever you say, gorgeous.)

It’s an incredibly comforting moment that lets him feel a bit closer to home that is ruined by the sound of snuffling by the speaker.

The dog’s nose appears on screen, the angle making him look like an aardvark as he sniffs the phone before laying down, presumably relishing in the fact there’s not a damn thing Soap can do about this situation.

“Ye better keep an eye oan my girl, Cujo.” Soap grumbles as he begrudgingly hangs up the phone.

The mission ends quicker than expected- substantially quicker- and as content as Soap is with getting home he also is annoyed.

The mission got cut so short, and it’s so damn late by the time Soap is driving home that he knows the fucking dog is still there. The agreed upon date has not yet passed, which means that fuck is lazing about on his side of the bed.

Not to mention the mere obstacle of convincing a former military dog he’s never met, in the middle of the night, that yes this is his fucking house and he’s the one paying the bills around here and yes that actually is his spot on the bed so kindly fuck off.

At a point during his drive home, a police car flies by him. Then another. Then another.

Must be the fucker that’s been breaking into homes. Hopefully he gets caught and that’s one less thing to worry about when Johnny leaves again.

Except the red and blue lights seem to be fucking honed in from the spot that he’s steadily driving to, and Johnny’s convinving himself that he’s seeing things. There is no way that those lights and sirens are stemming from his house, thank you very much.

Even still, he feels himself driving faster. The sooner to quiet his anxiety that’s brewing.

The anxiety doesn’t dissipate as he makes each turn to his home. If anything it gets worse.

Because all that noise and the flashing lights are stemming from his own fucking home. Johnny can barely get the thing in park before he’s flying out of the vehicle. He can hear screams and specifically her crying and in an instant Johnny’s beyond being keyed up.

One of the officers attempts to intercept Johnny- thinks he’s just some nosy fuck from who knows where- and it takes everything in him not to blow his top entirely as he cuts the man off with a stern “This is mah house ‘n she’s mah wife!”

The sound of his voice booming into the night is enough to catch her attention and bring her running to him. Johnny embraces her as she flings herself at him, crying into his shirt as he strokes her back and soothes her.

He can piece together the general what happened, although he’s completely unaware of the details.

One piece begins to fit into place as he starts to hear what all the screaming is. His initial attention completely fixated on ensuring his wife is whole and hale, now he can check that off the mental list he now has the bandwidth to listen to the bellowing.

“Git it aff me! Och Jesus, someone git it aff o' me!”

“Cannae git th’ damn thing tae release him,” Johnny hears one of the officers comment dryly.

“Can always choke him off if the owners can’t git him tae let go,” the other one supplies.

“Eh, ah guess,” the first one responds in a bored tone that makes it clear he has a this guy fucked around and now he’s finding out, and I don’t see a reason to hurry- the dog looks happy anyway, stance to the situation.

On the side of the house, face down in the grass is the man who presumably broke inside.

He is so incredibly lucky there are witnesses and a sobbing wife to curtail the dark, angry thoughts swirling around in Johnny’s brain. Otherwise all it would take would be one phone call to Laswell and this prick disappears forever.

Attached to the calf of that man is Cujo, happily laying on the ground with his tail wagging slowly like his teeth aren’t sunk inside a man’s flesh. If the dog gets too annoyed with the man’s wiggling he shakes him like a chew toy, starting up a fresh round of someone git this fucking dog aff o’ me! until he lays still.

The mention of choking the dog off the would-be intruder doesn’t slip past his darling in the slightest, looking up at him with wet, pleading eyes.

Damn it all, he’s always a sucker for that look.

“Johnny, do you know how to make him let go? I don’t want him choked!”

He decides she’s probably better off not being told how often that ends up having to happen, and that Cujo will be just fine minus a few brain cells if push comes to shove.

But he has spent enough time (against his will, mind) around the dogs that he’s learned the basic commands over the years through repeated exposure.

“No promises, hen, bit we’ll see.” The dog has never met him a day in his life- there’s no guarantee he’s going to listen to a man that’s a stranger barking orders at him, but Johnny gives the sharp German command anyway.

To his surprise, the dog lets go immediately and turns towards them, giving the skipping lope that a 3 legged dog does before placing himself in a heel at Soap’s side, eyes wide and head tilted.

Johnny doesn’t want to think about what could have happened tonight if it wasn’t for Cujo- Kabar- taking such an involved roll in apprehending the man stupid enough to break into his home.

And he’s most assuredly not magically over his aversion to dogs- especially military dogs- but he might be able to tolerate an exception if it means having some peace of mind that his wife is safe at home.

[raina-at]

My fic year in review

Total number of completed stories: 6

Total word count: about 90 k, give or take. (Published, that is, you don't want to see my WIP graveyard...)

Fandoms written in: BBC Sherlock

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d expected? More, because I didn't expect to turn Nothing Gold Can Stay into a series, and three of my six finished fics were in that series. Also, I participated in the May challenge even though it was hell at work around that time, so I'm doubly proud that I produced 28k worth of ficlets.

What’s your own favorite story of the year? Hm, it's a tie between Lying in Winter, because I wrote it in two days in sort of a dreamy haze between New Year's and going back to work and it was lovely, and Guess Who's Coming to Christmas Dinner because it was a hoot to write from start to finish.

Did you take any writing risks this year? I wrote a series of fics that build on each other, which I've learned leads to diminishing returns the more fics into the series you are, but I'll continue this until I run out of ideas or every last one of you is sick of that series, whatever happens first ;-)

Do you have any fanfic or profic goals for the new year? I've recently started working on a big, gigantic monster of a Mystery Project, lovingly nicknamed The Monster(TM). I'd love to stick with this one and finish it, because I think it could be really good. So keep your fingers crossed for me. I also want to finish and post the next fic in the Nothing Gold series.

Most popular story of the year? Guess Who's Coming for Christmas Dinner, you guys apparently love my Unilock fake relationship dorks.

Story of mine most under-appreciated by the universe, in my opinion: See above, if you write a series, the individual stories will have diminishing return because you lose the casuals. But what you lose in quanitity, you win in quality ;-)

Most fun story to write: Guess Who's Coming for Christmas Dinner. I had so much fun with their banter, it was almost indecent. It's also super low stakes, and I needed that at the time.

Most unintentionally telling story: I honestly don't know this year. How fucking long it took me to come up with a good solution for the plot of the new Nothing Gold fic, in that it tells me I suck at plot?

Seriously, The Light Gets In is about the healing powers of time, forgiveness and Yoga, and that's something I've experienced myself. I love Yoga and I think it shows in this fic.

Biggest disappointment: Oh my god, you guys, you cannot imagine how many abandoned drafts titled Yoga Sherlock I have in my WIP folder. It's embarrassing if I tell you how many fics I started, made decent progress with, and abandoned because they just weren't right. And then I went back to my original idea to make it a post Reichenbach story... Sigh. Only I switched to John POV and BAM. I had my story. The classic embodiment of the German saying "Warum einfach wenn's umständlich auch geht", which means basically why do something easy when you can do something complicated.

Biggest surprise: That you guys continue to like my fics. Seriously, the kindness, generosity and welcoming spirit of this fandom shouldn't surprise me anymore, but it gives me great joy. The fic exchange in May and the fic club were such highlights this year, an outpouring of fandom generosity and creativity. So my highlight this year is you, Sherlock fandom.

Tagging whoever wants to do this.

Happy new year, my dears. May we continue to rock in 2025, and may we continue being each others' lights in an uncertain time.

[chambersandfogg]

February 14th, 1931

Dear Charles,

A happy Valentine’s Day to you, my friend! I hope you’ll forgive the bit of kitsch enclosed, for I have no one else to whom I could possibly send a valentine without it being interpreted as some kind of serious overture. But when I saw this fellow, I simply had to share him. A peculiar card, isn’t it? Poor attempts at feline humor aside, the cat in question is somewhat off-putting, I’d say. Those mad eyes, sharp claws; the strange lack of front legs. And the text just adds to the threatening air. I got a real kick out of it and thought you might too. 

Did you make any plans for the evening? I am, of all things, going to the picture house to see the new “Dracula” film. Perhaps not the most romantic outing, but the chatter from the New York premiere is grand. And I will be accompanying a quite spectacular new actress whom I met just a few weeks ago. If I’m being entirely honest, I write “spectacular” not to describe her talent—she is certainly not the next Clara Bow—but her looks, which more than make up the difference. Perhaps you’ll find that terribly shallow, but I’m learning that the film industry relies heavily on its stars being rather nice to look at. After all, the audience is so much closer to them than they are to a performer on a stage. 

But the medium does have its other benefits—it is much easier to create a sense of illusion and wonder when you can manipulate the final product so completely. Not that I am looking to adapt my old act into a picture, but one does marvel at the possibilities. In any case, I’m looking forward to see what they do with the bizarre fruits of Bram Stoker’s imagination. 

Thank goodness we don’t have to drink blood to remain immortal. Dracula really did get the bad end of the deal. Then again, he was able to pass on his strange disease to others—though he did it quite badly. If we had that capability, would you take advantage of it? Would you create for yourself a forever valentine? The idea is tempting, though only Lord knows who it would be. It certainly won’t be this actress, fine as she is to gaze upon. 

I will write again to tell you of my thoughts about the film, by which point you may have seen it as well. I personally am in the habit of going to see pictures the day they come into theaters  and perhaps you are too. How would I know when you never tell me anything beyond the contents of your work? Though I suppose I can’t complain too much when you’ve secured the eminently capable Mister Weston, Esquire. Do let me know if he requires any further information from me to secure our entry into new life. 

I hope the mysterious work you’re doing in Washington is yielding the results you hope. I continue to enjoy the Western part of this country immensely and will remain here for some time, as,

Your friend,

John Fogg

[a letter received by C.X. Chambers, with the following card enclosed]

[to read the pre-1917 entries, join Atypical Artists and get access to the archive of 24 entries (5,000+ words), as well as ad-free episodes of Atypical's whole catalogue. to receive future monthly missives straight to your inbox, sign up for free here]

[toon-tales]

Thanks for @blorbopostingtime for this idea!

FERAL BRANCH!

LET OUR BOY UNLEASH HIS INNER MONSTERS!

Anyway, I suck at writing angst so you can TOTALLY feel free to add or say anything about this. I accept and appreciate criticism

Enjoyyy!

~~~~~~~~~~~

"Well, an apology isn't going to fix everything…" Branch muttered, taking a step back.

"We know, but-"

"But what?" the youngest stammered, anger slowly replacing his initial fear. "But what?!"

"Branch, calm down-"

"Calm down? Calm down?!" he yelled, not caring if it was Floyd he had interrupted this time. "Do you even have any idea what I've been through?!"

Clay took a deep breath, trying to speak in a gentler tone than his brothers, if that was even possible. "We know we messed up, but we're here now, and we want to make things better."

Branch scoffed. "Now? Now when what? Now when I've managed to battle my own demons? Now when I've found happiness? When I've moved on from Grandma's death? Where were you during all that?"

They froze, racking their brains for a logical justification.

But there was none.

Seeing no response, he went on. "Where were you when I was having a panic attack every single day, blaming myself for Grandma's death?! Where were you, when I was living alone in the wilderness, huh?!" He stomped his foot in frustration, his hands unknowingly clenching and unclenching in fists. "Do you even know what it feels like to be rejected by your OWN people, just because you're different, because you're sad?! Instead of them actually helping you?!"

Poppy hesitated, tears welling up in her eyes as she tried to move towards her boyfriend, to hug him, to comfort him, but something inside her screamed at her to stop. He needed this moment to let it out, and they needed to hear it.

He glared at them with tears in his eyes, feeling a surge of resentment and betrayal. "You abandoned me! You left me alone and I was only a freaking five-year old baby! And now you come back, acting like nothing happened, like you care about me?!" he shouted.

"Branch, we're sorry, we're so sorry-" Clay said, his voice cracking.

"Sorry? Sorry doesn't cut it!" Branch snapped. "Do you have any idea how long I've been waiting for you? How many days have I woke up hoping against hope that you were back?!"

They took a step back, unsure of what to do or say, if there was even something to be said. They messed up, big time.

Floyd's eyes were starting to water, and he managed to mutter, "Branch, we don't want forgiveness, we just want to talk about it-" before his brother stopped him with his sarcastic tone.

"Oh, that's so great, let's talk about why we abandoned our baby brother and never came back, even though we promised, didn't we, Floyd?" he spat. "Was I even on your mind? Because if I was, I'm sure this whole talk wouldn't be happening right now!"

"That's not true, Branch, that's not true!" Floyd protested. "We love you, we've always loved you!"

"Then why did you leave me?" Branch asked, his voice breaking. "Why did you leave me when we could've talked it out? When we could've been a family?!"

They lowered their heads, unable to answer. They had their reasons, but they knew they were not good enough. They had made a mistake, a terrible mistake. And now, it was their turn to handle its consequences.

"Branch, please, listen to us-" Floyd tried again, reaching out his hand.

However, his brother flinched and slapped his hand away, shaking his head. "Don't touch me!"

"Alright, no touching, no touching!" the red-haired troll retreated, holding his hands up. "Just listen to us, please."

"Alright." Branch took a deep breath, letting it out as a frustrated sigh as he pretended to zip his lips. He gave them a sarcastic smile, silently allowing them to stand up for themselves.

Bruce began, seeing no attempt from the others. "We messed up, okay? We know we did. But we love you, we love you so much."

"Yeah, bro, and nothing will change that," John added, his voice shaking slightly as he expected another interruption. But to his surprise, their youngest brother stayed silent.

"We just want a second chance," Floyd chimed, "And we promise, this time, we'll do better."

But Branch had stopped listening long ago. What was the point? He'll trust them, get attached, then bam, they'll leave again. Same old story. Even Floyd, the one who's never broken a promise in his life, broke one promise - his and Branch's promise, and Branch didn't know if he'll ever be able to forget this one.

Everything hurt. His head hurt, his chest tightened, and his limbs were starting to shake. He closed his eyes, trying to pull himself together, but the dull troll was greeted with the room swirling around him in a dizzying manner as soon as he opened his eyes, and his brothers' intertwined voices weren't helping, if anything, they were adding to his headache. He put a hand on his forehead, desperately trying to regain his balance, but the more anyone talked, the more the room swirled. All he wanted was some quiet.

Which was the opposite of what he got when he collapsed to his knees in a heap.

"Branch! Are you okay?"

His girlfriend, as always, he thought, was the first to be by his side, and he felt her hand gently lifting his chin, locking their gazes.

"You okay?"

He nodded, deciding it'd be better if he didn't try to get up in his current state.

"Do you want water, anything?"

He shook his head, and instantly regretted the small gesture as the dizziness that was starting to subside persisted.

"Sure?" He felt her hand squeezing his, as if trying to convey as little reassurance as she could provide at the moment.

He blinked, just now realizing that his brothers were surrounding him, each putting a hand on either his shoulders or back. He took a deep breath, finally managing to his voice, and without thinking, he choked a weak, "Leave…"

"But-"

"Leave!" Branch yelled. He stood up abruptly, and quickly reached out for the nearest piece of furniture to steady himself. Great, now the room was spinning again.

"Branch, you're not okay, at least lie down-"

Branch cut off the pink troll, softer than he did with his brothers as he slurred, "Fine… fine…" His head was pounding, but he didn't care. He turned to the remaining audience with a feeble wave of his hand. "Get out…"

But their bodies wouldn't listen.

"GET OUT!"

They gasped, unconsciously taking steps back but not fully comprehending their youngest brother's words.

Till they hardly dodged the shreds of his wooden table.

"Get out! Leave me alone!"

At this point, Branch was crashing anything that came his way as he paced back and forth, moans and screams escaping his lips and palms pulling at his hair, taking out dark hairs on their way back.

"Leave! Now!" he shouted, not even looking up to face his brothers. "What part of NOW don't you understand?!"

They tried to move, but they couldn't. What happened to the baby of the family?

"Get out of my bunker! Now! Or I'll show you CRAZY!" He screamed, flipping his entire bookshelf and maniacally tearing at his books, a sight that left Clay in a trance-like state.

Poppy was the first one to recover, eyes darting between the shattered furniture and the blood on her boyfriend's hands.

When she said she wanted him to let it out, this was not what she meant, not at all.

Slightly panicking, the Queen took her sister's hand and quickly led her to the elevator, before doing the same with Branch's brothers. Each was holding another one's hand in an attempt to drag him along, though Poppy was already on that mission.

And in a blink, they were gone.

He was alone.

—------------

He was alone.

So why wasn't he calming down? Why was he still screaming?

The bunker, once tidy and organized, was now messy and dusty, debris crumbling down the walls and onto the ground. Why was he doing this? Branch didn't know for sure, all he knew was that his hands were itching.

He wanted to crash something.

He needed to crash something.

He wanted to let it out, but on what, when he's destroyed his own home?

The troll felt a surge of rage as he smashed his belongings. He had spent years building this bunker, treating it like home, like his safe place. But now it felt like a prison. He was alone, just like he had always been, so why did it hurt this time? They didn't really think that after leaving him for over two decades, and then come back, that he would want to join their party with open arms, did they? He didn't need them. He didn't need any of them.

He stormed in and out different rooms through his bunker, looking for something else to break.

But there was nothing. He'd crashed everything.

And that's when he collapsed to the floor, his chest heaving.

[soaps-mohawk]

Oh my gawd WHY IS IT STILL SO PAINFULLL. This chapter was still so sad to read. 'mega clearly didn't want to watch the whole thing or kill him(even if the freak deserves it(coming back after the hiatus was quite the contrast after spending months fixated on that stupid Texas bastard)) like Simon himself said way before the kidnapping that she's not a soldier, she hasn't been condition to live with that pain and guilt, AND THE LACK OF COMFORT OH MY GOD. It's something I noticed from the start of the fic that always gave this air of things never being quite ideal but it takes center stage now(even if mega is still now willing to forgive them, rightfully so) is the way they don't notice the small things?? Especially now when they're realizing how little they knew about poor 'mega. Johnny nudging her inside despite not wanting to, the hovering John's insistence on doing everything himself. Like even when they finally took her out to the sea this unwillingness to be truthful. Especially in this chapter when 'mega finally said outright that she doesn't like surprises and they'd known if they would have paid attention. like yeah it's small things BUT THOSE THINGS ADD UP, AND JUST MAKE THE SITUATION EVEN MORE PAINFUL(like John not even telling her why they brought her there until the last moment like JESUS. That was a red flag for me.) but the Convo with Dr. Keller and the set up that 'mega will finally confront them about this GOT ME SO HYPED. The girl deserves to shed those pushover habits, it's probably the most frustrating part of reading this series personally as someone who's also putting a lot of effort into unlearning them. What an emotional banger, that I've been obsessed with for like 2 months now. I even made a playlist for it, combining vocaloid, video game music and Tchaikovsky so here that if you're interested

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLdvKg781XoUfaZkGXLmqVLsbj4UD2y-C6&si=Z8iLaV--w0-nTVQv

(also will we ever get a bad ending au where the bond does break..? I know it wouldn't happen soon with everything in the world rn and the angst marathon that we had before the rewrites.. but I'm still a sucker for guilt angst. Things turning out to be unrepairable, the 141 left to live with a hole in their heart, and 'mega trying to move on without them.)

Things really have been tense in the fic, huh? You're so right though, the whole fic has kind of revolved around the idea that things really aren't ideal and all of them were kind of forced into this situation without any chance to really get to know each other first. Even the 141 had to learn about each other on the fly. There's a lot they don't know, especially about 'mega. They haven't really been paying attention, relying on 'mega to kind of adjust and be the one to tell them everything instead of learning themselves. Which we know babygirl isn't going to just outright say something, or at least she wasn't going to at first. Now...now things have changed a bit. I'll say that much.

I'm so going to listen to that playlist! I love when people make playlists omg I've never had that done before this fic.

I don't think I'd ever write out the full angst-filled version where things don't turn out as ideal. I do have an idea for how it would play out, but I'm not sure I could actually write it.

[wi55iams]

Worship (noun):

1. the feeling or expression of reverence and adoration for a deity.

2. great admiration or devotion shown towards a person or principle.

I have a lot of thoughts about Carlos Sainz Jr and it's about time i shared them. I'm trying to write a fanfic but i'm finding it difficult to articulate my ideas, this was is test run of sorts to see if I can communicate a message in a way that makes sense. Enjoy. Credits under the cut.

‘Hope is the biggest of our foolish things’ -Alfred de Vingy // Mark Thompson for Getty Images // Carlos Sainz believes he deserves F1 seat // ‘To wish was to hope and to hope was to expect’ -Jane Austen // Carlos Sainz’s last race with Toro Rosso // ‘Expectations were like fine pottery. The harder you held them, the more likely they were to crack’ -Brandon Sanderson // Sky Sports // Marina And The Diamonds, Oh No! // It's like everyone tells a story about themselves inside their own head. Always. All the time. That story makes you what you are. We build ourselves out of that story’ -Patrick Rothfuss // Medium // An ode to my father, the matador // ‘Maybe if you sleep where another person sleeps and do what that person does, then eventually you’ll start turning into that person’ -Jack Cheng // Ferrari, one name two destinies // Jos and Carlos Sr on their sons’ rookie seasons // ‘Christianity is a religion built around a father who does not rescue his son. It is the story of a son whose father is a ghost’ -Terrance Hayes // Carlos Sainz poses with his father // Jos and Carlos Sr on their sons’ rookie seasons // ‘Perhaps it’s impossible to wear an identity without becoming what you pretend to be’ -Orson Scott Card // Sky Sports // Junior status; Sharing dad’s name a mixed bag // ‘Who did I think we were. Who did I think I could make you. This is the oldest mistake, to confuse wanting with magic.’ -Marty McConnell Emily Kagan Trenchard // Sainz thrilled with first podium after Hamilton penalty // The Crane Wives, The Moon Will Sing // ‘If you spent your life concentrating on what everyone else thought of you, would you forget who you really were? What if the face you showed the world turned out to be a mask... with nothing beneath it?’ -Jodi Picoult // Top Gear // Carlos Sainz: the boy who became a man // Motorsport.com // Mikky Ekko, Who Are You Really? // ‘Sometimes we want what we want even if we know it’s going to kill us’ -Donna Tartt // RacingNews365 // Max Verstappen tells Carlos Sainz ‘I felt sorry for you’ // Racefans // Carlos Sainz has openly discussed his contract regulations // CNN // Sainz wins thrilling Singapore GP // ‘Who wouldn’t want you? Whose most demonic appetite could you possibly fail to answer?’ -Louise Glück // Sky Sports // Carlos Sainz Sr Wikipedia // 'Do you still believe myths can save you? Foolish creature. Let me be clear: every version of the story ends with you being slaughtered' -Tory Adkisson // Sydney Morning Herald // Planet F1 // Luvbug, Icarus // ‘Sometimes I prayed so hard for God to materialize at the foot of my bed it would start to happen; then I’d beg it to stop, and it would.’ -Marie Howe, // ‘Click here to be saved’, unable to find original author // ‘God’s favorite follower’ by Tumblr user quiet-plaything // ‘God is fucking with my oblivion. If he wants forgiveness, he shouldn’t have given us memory’ -Vi Khi Nao //  ‘What you have to understand, is your father was your model for God’ -Chcuk Palahniuk // John Mayer, In The Blood // ScuderiaFans //

[nonagesiiiimus]

eden's tlt reread: chapter two

finally getting to write up my chapter two thoughts! let's gooooo!

starting off strong with some numbers! this is gideon's 87th escape attempt (p.25). interestingly, harrow is also the 87th nona of her house. when looking into this, because everything means something with tamsyn, there's an interesting bible quote from Judges 8:7: "So Gideon said, "Well then, when the Lord has given Zebah and Zalmunna into my hand, I will flail your flesh with the thorns of the wilderness and with briers." (adding Orange here as my biblical references color!) of course this feels extra significant because of Gideon's name mention, but the promise of violence and demise ties back into the Tamsyn's comments in the naming guide, about someone's demise being written in Gideon's name ("Gideon is a prophetic name: someone named their own demise in her" (468)). i also think it's worth noting the quote from John 8:7, "When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” while it doesn't directly tie into any events, i think it relates to some of the overall themes of forgiveness for sins/perceived sins in this series- especially harrow, who is always seeking forgiveness and striving for perfection to make up for where she feels she has sinned.

harrow comes to gideon as the last of the three temptations, in our Gideon-is-Jesus framework. the devil tempts jesus three times in the desert, and each time jesus refuses... "The temptation in the desert shows Jesus, the humble Messiah, who triumphs over Satan by his total adherence to the plan of salvation willed by the Father". except, in our case, Gideon doesn't refuse. she gives in to her own personal temptation- the idea of freedom, and of savagely beating Harrow's ass. she is not immune to temptation, for sure...

i liked noting all the references to harrow's hands leading up to the battle between them, which in looking back makes it SO much more obvious Something Is Up. first one is on the first page of the chapter (25), but we chalk it up easily to harrow being cloistered in fabric because of her supreme gothiness. then, her massaging her hands (26). she's clearly sore from digging all night! (why, harrow, no shovel? why no shovel harrow? why?)

also the first instances of understanding the true War Crimes committed by Harrow's parents, and Gideon's understanding and role in them/covering them up: "That’s the moment I squeal,” said Gideon. “I squeal so long and so loud they hear me from the Eighth. I tell them everything. You know what I know. And I'll tell them the numbers. They’d bring me home in cuffs, but I’d come back laughing my ass off” (26).

“rattling both their prayer beads and their unlubricated knee joints” (26): prayer beads are clearly an allusion to rosaries!

“How coarse and ordinary,” she said. “How effective, how crass. My parents should have smothered you" (26). @hauntingofthewoods and i were also talking about how often Gideon is referred to in a way that is like how someone would talk to/about an animal or something lowly that casual cruelty, like one would dole out to a pest, is a common and building theme in how Gideon characterizes herself throughout the series. we saw this in c1 with Aiglamene slapping her carelessly like "a barking animal", and here again i was reminded of that with the smothering comment. also, the description of Gideon squealing in the section before is also quite animalistic, even if it is a saying already. Gideon sees herself as a mistreated forgotten animal, and one of her core motivations seems to be To Be Seen as something More. horrible, heartbreaking. moving on before i cry.

banging ass quote (by banging, i mean heartbreaking) that will come back to haunt us: "All because,” said Gideon, checking her clock again, “I completely fucking hate you, because you are a hideous witch from hell. No offence.” There was a pause. “Oh, Griddle!” said Harrow pityingly, in the silence. “But I don’t even remember about you most of the time" (27). this sentence comes back to haunt us twofold, as we'll see.

there is another repetition of three temptations from Harrow to Gideon: the muster, Gideon's sense of duty, and then a bribe. which, ultimately, Gideon falls for.

"Paper- real paper!" (27). completely fascinating to me, and something that i'll continue to track mentions of.

"She’d lose rights to Gideon forever. Gideon went absolutely cold" (28). i love the double entendre you can read in this quote: Gideon's understanding that Harrow being willing to lose her hold on her is super serious, and also the potential that the cold feeling is from Gideon not knowing how to feel about complete and utter freedom from the Ninth once she is actually handed it. shock and disbelief, and maybe a little unsurety?

"You threaten my House, you disrespect my retainers, you lie and cheat and sneak and steal—you know full well what you’ve done, and you know that you are a disgusting little cuckoo!” “I hate it when you act like a butt-touched nun,” said Gideon, who was only honestly sorry for one of the things in that lineup" (29). Gideon is only sorry for disrespecting Aiglamene :(

also! a cuckoo is a bird known for laying its eggs in the nests of other bird species, leaving those unsuspecting birds to raise its young. As the cuckoo chicks develop, they often push out the host bird's own offspring. this is another gideon-as-animal description, referencing her 'adoption' into the Ninth house. tysm @hauntingofthewoods for pointing that out!!

i like seeing Gideon's first stripped-down description of Harrow at the end of p. 29, as a "cropped black head and her face pinched with wrath... a desperate girl younger than Gideon, and rather small and feeble" (29). it's so interesting to see how Gideon views Harrow, sees into her soul, but also still underestimates her in this moment.

"Gideon had seen Harrow in this mood only once before, and had thought she would probably never see her in this mood again" (30). when would she have been so desperate for a raw fight? in the instance Gideon describes in HTN, when they are fighting before Harrow decides to commit suicide via the tomb? when her parents kill themselves?

"Cruz stared back at her with the hate of an exploding star: the empty hate of pressure pulled inward, a deforming, light-devouring resentment” (32). at first this is just a sick and wicked simile. and then i went- wait. hatred of a dying star… dying planets... RESURRECTION BEAST REFERENCE??? ALECTO??

"I gave her my whole life" (31). kill me, gideon. kill me. this hurts so bad.

i like the contrast between what Gideon thinks should happen in their fight- "What ought to have happened was that Gideon raised a booted foot and knocked Harrow ass-over-tits"- and what DOES happen: Gideon, gets her ass beat by Harrow's secret and spiteful skeleton army below the drillfield, and is ended with the final sentence, "Harrowhark kicked Gideon in the face" (31-33). the callback to Gideon wanting to kick Harrow but instead getting kicked BY Harrow is so good.

their banter at the end of this chapter is so good. so mean. and i hurt so badly for gideon. seeing this: "She couldn’t; she was too winded still. She couldn’t even raise a shaking middle finger to the victor: she just kept looking at the shuttle, and her suitcase, and her sword" just HURTS.

that's all i have on chapter two! i thought i wouldn't have much to say, and still wrote a fucking book. sue me!!!

[ceilidho]

Hey, hope yo ur well ☀️ i was wondering about the new chapter of country roads? No pressure, obviously. I just cannot wait to see feral price looking for his wife and tearing apart everyone who’s on his way. And he thinks she’d fled but she didn’t and then she’s hurt that john still thinks she’d do that and then kate HAS TO intervene bc how can john treat her like this when she’s in this much pain and then john learns what’s happened and is a sorry bastard and in agony that she thought she couldn’t tell him and then begs on his knees for her forgiveness

Is it too obvious I’ve been thinking about it since the last chapter? No? I can resonate with reader soooo much that there has never been a more reader inserted fic for me in the history of time. I’m so her and angst w/ happy ending gives me so much comfort AND I LOVE THEM (us, I mean) (hehe) AND IT’S MY FAVE FIC EVER AND I’m gonna print it one day and read it like a holy book. (Wouldn’t even entertain the idea without asking for permission)

Anyway, how are we feeling about the new chapter? Pretty please?? 🥹🥹🥹😭

it’s about halfway done :) but then i need to write the next chapter because i think it’ll be boring to post just the next one (it’s a weird chapter to post and then wait another week or two, it just feels like more needs to come with it).

thank you so much though!!! I’m so glad you’re enjoying my fic 😭😭💕💕💕 the rest will come soon - just been finishing up some other fics so i have less wips rotting away haha

[mariacallous]

Griffin Dunne has just written a book. He had been meaning to do so for ages. It was one of the items on his bucket list: learn a musical instrument, master Spanish and write his damn memoir. “One down, two to go,” he says, beaming in via video link from his home in upstate New York. The actor and film-maker turns 69 this weekend. He reckons that still leaves him time for the music and Spanish.

Dunne imagined his memoir as a family portrait in the style of David Sedaris’s Me Talk Pretty One Day. He pictured something light on its toes, witty and poignant, a weave of essays and anecdotes. But then the book changed direction, as though it had a will of its own. It went where it wanted and needed to go. He says: “On some level, I knew there was this big subject ahead. And so, as I’m writing the book, I’m thinking: oh, OK, I know where this is going now.” The story leads to the scene of a 40-year-old crime. It revisits the death of Dunne’s younger sister, Dominique, and the grisly murder trial that followed.

I tell Dunne I really like the book, which sounds crass in the circumstances, but is true. While The Friday Afternoon Club is about the death of a loved one, it’s full of light, life and colour. It’s a startling tale of precarious American privilege, spotlighting a family that is blessed and cursed.

Dunne casts himself as the Hollywood prince at its centre, surrounded by famous faces, clamouring to be noticed. He tells how Sean Connery rescued him from the family swimming pool, how Billy Wilder critiqued his childhood pranks and how he roomed with Carrie Fisher before she went off to make Star Wars (“This movie is going to be a fucking disaster,” she said). Dunne was raised among storytellers (his dad and uncle were authors; Joan Didion was his aunt) and he writes with a loose, easy swagger. His memoir is tart, buoyant and playful right up to the moment it’s not.

In the early 1980s, when he was in his 20s, Dunne was hitting his stride as an actor. He had secured his breakout role in 1981’s An American Werewolf in London, playing the undead grad student Jack Goodman, doomed to haunt the adult cinemas of Soho. His 22-year-old sister was also faring well, having co-starred in 1982’s Poltergeist. But, on 30 October 1982, Dominique was strangled by her ex-boyfriend, John Sweeney, and died in hospital five days later. The trial, says Dunne, was outrageous, a farce. Implicitly, it seemed to put the Dunnes in the dock, framing the bereaved family members as frivolous dandies. Sweeney was convicted of manslaughter, but acquitted of murder. He served just three and a half years in prison.

Four decades on, Dunne’s account of events burns with rage. He is furious with the judge who intervened to block crucial evidence. He is furious with the killer’s employers (the Los Angeles restaurant Ma Maison), who stepped in to pay his legal fees. He is furious with Dominique’s then co-star, David Packer, who remained inside the house while Dominique was being attacked outside. “All the old anger got re-stoked,” he says. “I tapped right back into my vengeful side.”

During the trial, Dunne was approached by a mobster who offered to have Sweeney killed. He discussed the idea with his brother, Alex. “At that time, we would have been diagnosed as crazy people,” he says. “I told my brother that we had an opportunity to have the killer dealt with in the county jail. We decided not to kill him, but to mess him up, to have his hands smashed, like we were ordering pizza and choosing different toppings from the menu. And that was just the beginning of our madness; it carried right through. Even writing it down, I thought: I’ve got to let this go, because you can’t live in hate.”

In the end, they did nothing. Dominique’s killer changed his name after being released from prison and is likely still alive today. “I will neither forgive nor forget,” Dunne says. “But I’m not going to let that be the A-story of my sister’s life.”

Dominique was a victim, but that doesn’t make her life tragic. What is clear from the book is that people adored her. She comes across as whip-smart and droll, grounded and private. “She was a serious, substantial person,” he says. “Serious about her acting, her animals, her family. And, actually, rather intimidating, even though she was the youngest of the family.”

Dominique cared for their mother, Ellen, who had multiple sclerosis. She also cared for their father, Dominick, who was bisexual and closeted and yet confided in her. “So she was somebody we were all a bit in awe of. She was always wise beyond her years.”

She sounds like the family’s moral compass. “Yeah,” he says. “But also a bit bossy. She always knew what she wanted. My brother and I were a little fearful of her. It was like she’d been born already built.”

Dunne, by contrast, was a work in progress. In his memoir, he says that his first word was “taxi” and that he was always in a hurry – always running before he could walk. He was expelled from school for smoking pot. He was “coked to the gills” on the night Dominique was attacked. He was bumptious and entitled. His sister’s death changed him, he says, because how on earth could it not?

“For one thing, I never thought about domestic violence, the abuse of women. I grew up in Los Angeles and when I was in high school, pre-Roman Polanski, it was incredibly common for 13- or 14-year-old girls to be dating guys in their 30s. They’d go to these decadent parties in the hills and then come back and tell us all about it. And that was the culture; it felt exciting. I was unaware of what it meant. But then you have my sister, a 22-year-old girl, who finds herself in a domestic violence relationship with someone who’s twice her weight. So everything looked different to me afterwards.”

Perhaps it affected his career as well. In the mid-1980s, Dunne was on the threshold of stardom. He combined the charm and grace of a leading man with the prickly intelligence of a great character actor. The door kept swinging open, but he seemed to keep shutting it. He turned down The Fly and Sex, Lies, and Videotape in favour of making Who’s That Girl, with Madonna, and a reviled comedy, Me and Him, in which he played a yuppie architect who quarrels with his talking penis.

Dunne’s agent accused him of making “self-destructive choices”. He had always craved fame, only to find that it spooked him. “Too much attention at that time was a little fearsome for me,” he says. “I found it very stressful.” He hesitates. “And also my father,” he adds. “That had a lot to do with it, too.”

Dominick is the third main player in The Friday Afternoon Club, a high-flying producer who came to earth with a crash. He would eventually find his voice as a writer. He became Vanity Fair’s star reporter, first covering the Sweeney case, then the OJ Simpson and Claus von Bülow trials. But the in-between years were hard and humiliating. He suffered a reversal of fortune that took the whole family aback.

“I saw my father fail,” Dunne says. “I watched real failure in action in real time. He was a man who had a big house and a beautiful car and a great job and entertained the most famous actors and directors in the world. And everything was taken away from him, partly through his own actions, but nonetheless. People came out of the woodwork, kicked him when he was down.

“They were like: ‘I always hated you, I always knew you were closeted, you’ll never work again, pack your bags.’ And the effect it had on me, just entering the business as he was being destroyed in that business …” He draws a breath. “Well, it had a lot to do with the choices I made.”

In hindsight, the 1985 black comedy After Hours was his fork in the road. It’s also the picture with which he is most identified. Dunne developed the film as a co-producer and convinced Martin Scorsese to direct. He also took the lead role of repressed Paul Hackett, who embarks on a long, dark night of the soul through the streets of Lower Manhattan.

On set, Scorsese made one big stipulation. He ordered Dunne not to have sex for the duration of the shoot. I am gobsmacked by this, but the actor was unfazed. “It made perfect sense to me,” he says. “I knew what he meant. The character had to be boiling over with this unfulfilled anxiety. You had to see …” He pauses. “Not to be crude, but you had to see the semen build up to where it’s practically coming out of his eyes.”

One Saturday night, though, Dunne cracked and broke the rule. The next day of filming, Scorsese spotted the change and went berserk. “You’ve fucked up the whole picture,” he shouted. “I don’t think I can finish it now.”

Dunne says that he was probably being directed here, too. “Because now I’m afraid. I’m terrified. And it turns out that a certain level of fear is the same as not having sex. So [Scorsese’s] second piece of direction is telling me that I’ve ruined his movie. That’s excellent direction. It brought all the old anxiety back.”

It should have been a tough prospect, sitting down to write his book. Emotionally, because it meant revisiting the worst time of his life. Practically, because the Dunne family had already set the bar high. They are all dead now: his dad in 2009; his journalist-screenwriter uncle, John Gregory Dunne, in 2003; Joan Didion in 2021. But their reputations are daunting. It must have felt as though he were writing in the shadow of Mount Rushmore.

Dunne says it wasn’t that way at all. He had always assumed that writing a book would be a lonely endeavour. In fact, it felt warm, intimate and weirdly convivial. “I didn’t feel daunted, trying to write and being related to all these prominent figures. Quite the opposite. I felt their presence. When I described them, it was like I was seeing them again, living with them again. It was like I was back meeting Joan for the first time. It was as though I was spending time with her and John, my father and my sister,” he says. “They were alive to me. When I finished the book, that was the sad part. It felt like I missed them all over again.”

[tartagluvr]

the soft sound of a sorcerer

unfortunately my flavor of autism is music and association to it. every song i listen to has to have a connection for me personally to a time, place, person, etc. fortunately though that gives me endless creative writing ideas :D since beginning nightbringer, a lot has screamed solomon at me. i wanted to share the songs so *drops this on your doorstep and runs

warnings: me being an autistic fuck and over analyzing a fictional otome game character like babe get a life its been five years

word count: 937

immortal human; solomon, the wise

- nova amor; state lines

"are you sure, did you call? did we ever really talk, i don't know." / "i've been awake in every state line, dying to make this last us a lifetime. trying to shake that its all on an incline."

i can't really rationalize my solomon association with this one, listen to it on your own and see for yourself if you feel as i do. as an accidentally immortal being, solomon has been everywhere and all at once. he knows pasts, presents, even futures that have not a thing to do with him. he hasn't yearned to lose his immortality once until meeting you, desperate to hold onto you forever.

- lana del rey ft father john misty; let the light in

"cuz i love to love to love to love you, i hate to hate to hate to hate you." / "i need to need to need to need you."

this one is less of a lyrical association and more of a feeling. something about the chords and melody line make me think of the sorcerer. especially the minor harmony in the chorus, and over all the post production of the vocals as well. the reverb has got to be either long hall or church, the way it rings in your ears unlike studio does. yes i'm insane

- wolf larsen; if i be wrong

"what if i'm wrong, what if i've lied? what if i've dragged you here, to my own dark night?" / "ten thousand cars, ten thousand trains. there are ten thousand roads to run away. but i am not lost, i am not found. i am not dylan's wife, not cohen's hound." / "if there is a will, there is a way. i will escape for sure, i am david blaine."

there is something so carnally nb!solomon about the lyrics of this song, which is why i quoted so many of them. to me, nb!solomon is terrified he has made a wrong decision in following you to the past. it terrifies him that he so quickly chose to break time just for you, no matter the consequences. no matter if he loses his immortality, becomes stuck, passes on. he has lived so many lives and yet the only one that matters anymore is the one he wants with you. goodness me solomon.

- hozier; unknown/nth

"do you know i could break beneath the weight, of the goodness love i still carry for you? that i'd walk so far just to take, the injury of finally knowing you." / "you know it's more than being unknown. and there are some people love who are better unknown."

i don't think this one requires me to add any notes :3

- adrianne lenker; anything

"i don't want to be the owner of your fantasy, i just want to be a part of your family. and i don't wanna talk about anything, i don't wanna talk about anything." / "weren't we the stars in heaven? weren't we the salt in the sea?" / "dragon in the new warm mountain, didn't you believe in me?"

a gentle reminder that solomon is still at core a human. he has human emotions, feelings, yearnings. something about this song is so domestic and nostalgic to me, like how i imagine flicking through the pages of solomon's life would feel. its a bittersweet hug wrapped in acoustic notes.

- ethel cain; sun bleached flies

"god loves you, but not enough to save you. so i said fine, cause thats how my daddy raised me." / if they strike once, then you just hit them twice as hard. but in the end, if i bend under the weight that they gave me, then this heart would break and fall as twice as far." / "i forgive it all as it comes back to me."

thinking a lot about solomon before he became a sorcerer. thinking about his family, where he came from, how long gone that all is now. barbatos taking him in and raising him not out of love yet also not out of spite. i wonder a lot if he still remembers what it was like to be just human. perhaps he has forgotten by now, and time is the only one to blame. he just takes the punches with a smile and runs on.

-nicole dollanganger; angels of porn II

"my hair is falling out again and i don't really care, i try to stir my conscience it was never really there." / everything is fine in heaven, but i'll never get to know." / "soak all my clothes in holy water, and drown them like a crying son."

okay please hear me out on this one i know this song is a bit out there but its always on repeat for me. please there is something solomon in this song to me. don't crucify me i know i'm onto something here

- trixie mattel; the well

"loving's just a name for saving face, and running's just the way i won the race." / "no i won't come running at the ringing of the bell, no you don't throw wishes to the well." / beneath the neon moon, i'm in the light. tell me, do i ever cross your mind?"

swear this one isn't solomon associated just because it talks about running more than once. to me it reads like solomon speaking to mc, and feeling like he is always second to the demon brothers. he wants to be the one by your side before anyone else gets there, but he is always too late. so he just keeps running, from witches, from his past, from you.

-

that would be all for now :3 i love recommending music to my loved ones and crafting personalized playlists based off lyricism and overall vibes. i have a handful of songs that i associate with each demon brother as well and will probably end up yapping on my page about them sometime in the future. thanks for reading !! feel free to pretty please send me your solomon songs, or just obey me songs in general. <3 -tete