#but a google search should get you plenty

[writer-at-the-table]

Physiognomy is another one of those things we should be looking at critically, for anyone unfamiliar.

The simple, surface-level wikipedia definition is "he practice of assessing a person's character or personality from their outer appearance—especially the face." As a pseudoscience, it is related to phrenology.

Per the University of North Carolina's web project Race Deconstructed: Science and the Making of Difference, "physiognomy suffered from the biases of its practitioners, who tended to attribute positive qualities only to features associated with Europeans."

The same source also says "physiognomy could be used as a justification for treating non-white individuals differently, in society and in law."

There are also connections between physiognomy and eugenics, as well as between physiognomy and antisemitism- the "Jewish nose" stereotype and the character traits assumed to go with it is one example.

Given the ways that Dracula is described, both by Jonathan at the beginning and by Mina and others once he's in London, the connection between physiognomy and antisemitism should not be overlooked.

Indeed there is an academic paper on the subject, titled "The fear of the ‘Other’ and anti-semitism: Representations of the Jews in Punch and Bram Stoker’s Dracula in the light of rising English nationalism" by Stephanie Winkler of Oxford University available free online for anyone looking for something more in depth.

#dracula daily #dracula #context #i haven't actually read the paper yet #but I plan to #several academic papers also link physiognomy to the Holocaust #as well as antisemitism more generally #also racism #and eugenics #i didn't include the links because tumblr is weird about links #but a google search should get you plenty #mine #My posts #my meta #My writing

[headspace-hotel]

re: ohio chemical disaster

OP of the post I reblogged earlier regarding this turned off reblogs (understandable have a nice day) but I got a request to put the information in its own post, so here.

First thing: PLEASE be careful about claims that "The Media" is suppressing something as part of a malicious agenda, or that an event has been purposefully manufactured by "The Media" to distract from something else.

Not only is this a really common disinformation tactic (not only urging you to share/reblog quickly, but discouraging you from fact checking), treating "The Media" as a monolithic entity with purposeful agency and a specific, malicious agenda—particularly one that manufactures events to "distract" from other events—is a red flag for conspiracy theories.

There's already a post in the tag attributing the supposed lack of media coverage to "reptilians." Please connect the dots here.

Second—"the news isn't focusing on this as much as I think they should" is not a media blackout. Every major USA news source is reporting on the Ohio train derailment. Googling returns at least 4 pages of results from major news media sources. Even just googling "Ohio" gets you plenty of results about it.

This is an unusual amount of media attention for a U.S. environmental disaster.

Because this kind of thing happens all the damn time.

The "media blackout" narrative gives the impression that this is an unusual event that isn't receiving wall to wall coverage only because it's being suppressed—when the reality is that similar disasters happen a lot, and hardly ever get the attention the Ohio disaster is getting.

Consider this example, not too far from my local area: A few years ago, almost 2,000 tons of radioactive fracking waste were illegally dumped in an Eastern Kentucky municipal landfill, directly across from a middle school. Leachate from that landfill goes into the Kentucky River, which is where most of the central part of the state gets its drinking water. As far as we know, the radioactive waste isn't leaking yet, but it could start leaking at any time.

Zero national news sources covered this. Why? If I was to hazard a guess, I would say "because it's business as usual for the fossil fuel industry."

Consider also the case of Martin County, KY, which has had foul-smelling, contaminated drinking water for decades. Former coal country in Appalachia is poisoned and toxic, and laws have little power to punish the companies that created the destruction.

What happened in Ohio is just a little window into a whole world of horrors.

The Martin County coal slurry spill that is still poisoning the water 20 years later killed literally everything in the water for miles downstream (a book Mom read said 70 miles of the Ohio river were made completely lifeless). It was 30 times larger than the Exxon-Valdez oil spill, and it was in some sense "covered up"—in the sense that the Bush administration shut down the investigation because the Republicans are buddies with the fossil fuel industry, and proceeded to relax regulations even further.

Seriously, read that wiki article to get pissed enough to eat glass.

Hopefully the Ohio chemical spill will inspire real action to institute regulations to prevent shit like this from ever happening again. It's not the end of the world. It's not radically different from what industries have been causing the whole damn time. It is pretty bad.

I would urge everyone to actually search up information about it instead of getting news from Tiktok or Twitter, because the more false information gets distributed, the less momentum any effort to respond with improved regulations and changes to prevent future disasters will have. Plenty of facts here *are* public and being publicly discussed and pretending that they're not is actively detrimental.

#environmental disaster #ohio chemical disaster #ohio chemical spill

[dduane]

Peter Mum's Soda Bread Recipe

With work around here the way it is at the moment, most likely EuropeanCuisines.com won't be up again until the end of the year. (shrug) Such is life.

With that in mind, here per @the-book-of-night-with-moon 's request is the famous soda bread recipe that brought people to the site again and again for a couple of decades. If the recipe below seems very plain, that's because the way soda bread is done in North America and elsewhere in the world is not how everyday soda bread's made in Ireland. No fruit, no sugar—except for an optional spoonful if the baker likes it: I omit it—no nuts or other similar addenda: nothing but flour, salt, soda and (ideally) buttermilk. (Breads here that do have fruit and whatnot are referred to as "tea breads" or "fruit soda".)

The ingredients:

450 g / 1 lb / approximately 3 1/4 cups flour (either cake flour or all-purpose)

Optional: 1 teaspoon sugar

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon bicarbonate of soda

Between 300-350 ml / approx 10-12 fluid ounces buttermilk, sour / soured milk, or plain ("sweet") milk, to mix

If you're using plain milk, add 1 teaspoon of baking powder to the dry ingredients. This is perfectly legit; lots of professional bakers in Ireland do their soda bread this way, without the buttermilk and with additional raising ingredients besides baking soda.

So: preheat your oven to 200C / 400F. Meanwhile, mix the dry ingredients together well in a good-sized bowl, and then add the liquid and mix everything together. Like this:

That raggedy texture you see in the middle of the video is exactly what you want, and part of the secret of getting soda bread to rise properly. You have to get the loaf done as quickly as you can, so that the rise in the oven is maximized; and with minimum handling. This isn't a bread that needs to be kneaded. Just get it into a soft, mostly-cohesive lump as quickly and gently as you can, and shape it into a round about an inch to an inch and a half thick.

Finally have ready a really sharp knife to do that final cross-cut, which allows the loaf to spread and rise fully. Be careful to slice, not press. You don't have to cut incredibly deep: from a third to halfway down the round is plenty. ...There's endless online lore about how this is supposed to let the fairies out. Fond as I am of fairies, I prefer to think of it as letting the chemistry and physics out. (shrug) To each their own.

As soon as the oven's come up to heat, shove the loaf into the center of the oven on a nonstick baking sheet—I used a silicone mat here, but more for the look of the thing than any real concern about the loaf sticking—and bake it for 40 minutes. When you're done, it should look something like the one in the picture at the top of the post. It'll be easier to eat if you let it cool down most of the way; and a lot easier to slice if you put it in a paper or plastic bag overnight.

Anyway, tomorrow, so @petermorwood won't sulk, I'll make soda bread in the farl style instead of the above style that some of the locals call "cake". Farl's done on a griddle and cut into quarters for baking, and its geometry makes it uniquely suited (as Peter's father used to say) for eating large amounts of butter without a spoon. :)

ETA: attn @middleagedandoutoftouch: Check out the gluten-free soda bread from Ballymaloe. ...And there seem to be quite a few more of them out there: try this Google search.

#soda bread #baking #recipe #recipes #Ireland

[ceilidho]

prompt: (loosely based on Brahms from The Boy) you buy a house. you start to suspect you're not alone in it. [PART 1] tw: death of a parent, someone living in your house

-

Lightness; there were cracks in the floorboards and light glittering up from beneath them, which is what you first notice about the house.

It would be poetic if it meant anything. Instead, you are forced to pry the planks of wood out one by one at dawn when your fingers are trembling with exhaustion and your clipped nails throb—and, of course, there’s nothing remarkable beneath where the light shines through.

A piece of glass from a picture frame—all right, so you wonder how a piece of glass the size and width of your hand gets caught beneath the floor with the ashes of the photo once held behind it, but it’s half-six o’clock and you’re still yawning from the long drive the day before—catches a glint of light, and, well, you sigh at the blood welling over your nails from having pried off the floorboards with your bare hands. 

You’ll replace the boards later. Maybe bandage your hand.

It’s so quiet outside this early. Everything smells just as it should.

It had taken years of scrimping and saving, storing every nickel and penny away in your piggybank to buy your first house. The foreclosure process takes about ten months, every second during which your nails bite into your palms when you close your fists. Your entire life savings goes into the downpayment. It quite literally takes your bank account, holds it upside down, and shakes until every coin falls out. 

It’s yours though. A house all to yourself after years of living in apartments—you’ve spent decades living out of a suitcase, your parents changing apartments every year almost, never settling in one place. Buying a house wasn’t a nice-to-have so much as a physical necessity for you. 

It’s an old house—plenty of character, as the real estate lady charmingly describes it when you showed you the place. You don’t have the money quite yet to replace the old windows, repair the drywall, brick up the chimney that you won’t use, or change the flooring, but since it’s just you, you don’t mind taking your time. The previous owners hadn’t really kept the place up; there’s even a panel at the back of the closet in your room leading into the walls that needs to be replaced.

Later, when folding your clothes into new drawers that smell of new wood and old wood, you startle, thinking you’d packed your mother’s underwear along with your own; you thought you’d donated everything after she died. The thought is nauseating (a cold sweat breaks out) until you recognize the pattern on the blue cotton as your own and you crumple the fabric between your fingers for a second, dried blood and all. 

Dawn is rising outside, emptying out the house until it’s just you and the fifteen pairs of underwear you’d packed days ago. Everything else is sitting out on the patio in cardboard boxes. When you finally get the rest out where it can breathe, morning has settled into midday. 

When you finish putting your clothes away, you’re careful not to move for another few minutes until your hands stop shaking and your jaw unclenches. For breakfast, you fix up an omelet with spinach and a glass of cranberry juice. A friend calls not long later, but they mainly speak about their husband and how the living room will look once it was stripped of the gaudy floral wallpaper and repainted. Your friend hasn’t even seen the house yet, only pictures of the house from when you had searched it on Google Maps and tentatively held the idea glass-like in your head for several days. 

Your friend says in a voice molasses thick, “I’ll visit as soon as you’re tucked in down there.” It makes you rub your nose against your sleeve.

The pictures online had been splotchy and dim, barely recognizable when held against the lightness of the house full-formed. Your friend had sent you off with cream and lilac paint swatches, wooden coasters, and a copy of Ulysses before you had packed up the last of your things into the back of your car and the sky had been aglow with sunset. A large sunset that dribbled down the horizon and slid all slippery smooth into twilight. Your friend’s face had been lovingly shadowed in their goodbye, the sort of shadow that cut her jaw just so, and made one seem so private and longing. Like an instance of specific longing. 

It’s a good morning though, and you bite the inside of your cheek through the whole phone call, not stumbling over frequent ‘I love you’s and ‘I already miss you’s, but feeling like maybe you should. Anyway, your friend hangs up long before you know whether to carry those thoughts out. 

Then it’s still again in your unfurnished little bedroom—in one corner, there’s a rolled up carpet and end table that you’d brought in earlier, but they sit there unaltered and you think that maybe later you’ll get around to doing something with them. 

No one else calls while you eat breakfast, cutting the omelet into irregular triangles and putting enough hot sauce to make your eyes water. Which they do, but it’s good. After eating, you grab a mug out of one of the boxes on the patio to make a cup of instant coffee.

You fix the floorboards back after, nailing them back in place while sipping the lukewarm coffee that is still so, so good. So, so good to you because it’s early, so on one hand it’s comforting, habitually speaking, but also because the house is so new and old that sometimes you breathe in and feel lightheaded, or like your heart might tremble so violently that it’ll reduce itself to dust. 

So, coffee is good. Keeps you steady on your feet when you’re climbing back up the stairs to lug more boxes into the bedroom. Boxes of books you didn’t want to unpack, so they sit under a beam of sunlight in front of the one window in the room and you sit yourself down next to it, curling your legs underneath you and resting your head against the box. 

Strange, that the house is so warm when it’s nearly the end of October and it’s not like this city is all that different from the one you left. That the shard of glass you’d found beneath the floorboards could fill you with such a dizzying amount of melancholy (you still have it in the pocket of your sweater, which had deep pockets, deep pockets that apparently you use to carry around pieces of glass); again, though, the house is so warm and your bones are oozing out onto the carpet you unroll. Everything in you feels molten and fluid. 

Your spirit roars into the light of this new town with its new air, its new terrain, its new immediacy. Stepping out into the street outside the house, you feel every nerve in your body tremble in the realization of this new sensory landscape. Your fingertips buzz—you could reach out and touch every surface you pass: the wood-grain of a park bench, the sleek chrome of a chain-link fence. 

The town feels unreal in a sensuous way. When you go out to explore the town after unpacking the majority of your belongings, you can’t help being drawn down streets and up alleyways, eyes trailing over the russet bricked houses and hedges dotting the front lawns. 

On the corner of a street, nearly three blocks from your house, there’s a café with houseplants almost spilling out of the door and windows; you duck inside and order a coffee and a bagel before tucking yourself into a corner by the window. 

On the street across from the café, a woman in a yellow raincoat walks by. 

“Drip coffee?” 

You look up from your seat, startled almost by the voice, at a young man. He has a flare of freckles and an unsure smile.  

“Yes, sorry,” you mumble, taking the mug from him and tucking yourself back against the window in almost the same moment. 

To be sitting in plain daylight without company or a book or your phone out in front of you feels absurdly barren. Anyone might walk by and perceive the desperation that seems to pour off you. Even the few other occupants in the café are occupied with something or other, eyes pulled down to their tables or to someone sitting across from them. 

For a spell, walking home in the daze of the possibility of new peace, you feel light; to be poised on the verge of new possibilities and peering out over the edge, cautiously but with a ray of hope. Even the air feels fresh.

The lightness, of course, cannot last long.

Days before you left, someone told you that it’s common to have nightmares in a new house. You prove them right on the first night. 

In the wake of a bad dream, you pad into the kitchen, illuminated only by the moonlight, for a glass of water, reduced to only the silvering edges of your skin in the dark room. 

Occasionally it happens that you dream of your mom, in her blue jeans and raincoat again, standing outside the old coffee house from back home. She always looks well rested, and that always stings somehow—it makes you feel like you’re unraveling, even in a dream. She never says anything to you or even looks your way, but you know that she knows you’re there, and that dawdling energy, obvious indifference, is all a measured hurt. You dream of your mom staring off into the red-gold distance, honey-gold herself, irreducible in this place. 

Then, you wake up, panting and squeezing your eyes shut. 

You pour yourself a glass of water, but the tears don’t stop, coming out of you like a divine flooding. 

The two of you hadn’t been on speaking terms in the months before her death. In fact, you hadn’t even known she was dying. You remember you had an argument almost a year before, but for the life of you, you can’t remember what it was about. It was that inconsequential. That inconsequential and still she let it simmer and fester and didn’t bother to tell you that she was dying until it was too late. 

You scrub your eyes with the back of your hand, smearing the salty tears across your skin. In the moonlight, your grief seemed inescapable, layered under the lowest level of your flesh. All the loneliness of lonely dwelling catching in your throat, bursting out like the last release of breath of a woman beneath the swell of a cresting wave. The moon is not a comfort; the sky rounded in with its indifference, wholly incapable of putting any sentiment to rest. You feel languid in this old grief. 

Unable to bear being inside, you venture out onto the porch for a bit, closing only the screen door behind you. There’s a single light still on in your bedroom, the house otherwise dark. You sit in the cool breeze until your tears dry. 

There is something entirely relaxing about watching a breeze push all of the trees to one side—like the world moves with one breath, one thought. Back when you lived in the city, you hadn’t lived in such close proximity to nature, used to the concrete landscape. In the city, everything seemed to exist at opposing speeds and modes of existence—everything perpetually at odds.

You stare out into the street and drink your water, leisurely pacing around your front lawn. Just taking in the feeling of being settled for once. It’s a safe neighborhood. It’s an old house, a real fixer upper, but it’s a neighborhood where you can just walk around at night. 

It takes a while to unwind, to shake off the nightmare. You know it finally has when a yawn forces its way out of you and your eyes water again, from exhaustion this time. Draining your glass, you turn around to make your way back inside. You pause. Your foot hovers in place.

Then, in the shadowy depths of your house, you think you see something move again.

#simon ghost riley #ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #cod simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #ghost cod

[teencopandthesourwolf]

“Here!”

Stiles slams something down on the coffee table to the left of Derek's (Stiles's) laptop.

Derek is searching online, only a little psychotically, in the hope of finding a store that sells these very specific organic coffee beans he tried in a hipster coffee house recently. Derek isn't a hipster—he isn't—he just likes nice coffee, is all. Really, he should have asked the barista to find out not just the brand name but their supplier's address too because this is driving him insane. Maybe he is insane? More likely just incredibly shit at the internet, but he thinks he'd prefer to plead insanity if challenged.

Derek unknits his eyebrows and looks down at… a green thing. It's sort of feather shaped and has many spindles with bronzed edges.

It's a leaf.

His eyebrows knit themselves back together as he blinks down at the thing a couple of times.

“It's a leaf,” he says, because he doesn't know what else he's supposed to say.

Then he looks up—and back and forth at Stiles who is now pacing the apartment and alternating between clicking his fingers and flicking his thumbs and shaking his arms out at the sides of his body; his stimming can get pretty extra when he's anxious.

Derek's frown deepens with immediate concern. He must've really been deep in it with the infuriating Google searching to not have noticed the smell of Stiles's distress when his mate first arrived home.

“Hey, what's—”

“Yes, Derek, it's a leaf. It is a leaf that I brought all the way home. For you. From the cemetery.”

He's still pacing.

“Okay, well do you want to tell me—“

“It's an Apology Leaf. Obviously.”

Obviously.

“And, Derek, do not laugh, because—"

“I won't but could you just—“

“—this isn't funny. I'm ridiculous, I know, and I know that that's funny. But this? This is decidedly deeply unfunny, alright? This is totally not at all funny, Derek. It's like, a thing without one tiny ounce of humour in it, as in not the slightest bit funny in a gazillion sombre years. Do you hear me?” He inhales deeply, holds the breath, then blows it out harshly via puffed-out cheeks as he clicks and flails some more.

Derek hears Stiles and is of course prepared to wait for him to explain whatever this is, because Derek would wait for Stiles until the end of time, if he had to. Although that's not likely a thing to happen in any reality as this is Stiles who can't go for longer than fifteen seconds without talking. But still, Derek thinks it's the sentiment that counts. 

“You, Derek Hale, are good, and someone as good as you deserves somebody far, far better than a ratbag like me. Hence the leaf,” Stiles now tells him in a rush of even more confusing words, his chemo-signals tinged with shame for some worrying reason Derek is yet to discern.

Stiles glances over anxiously from his place of animated, mysterious penance—and then looks away again just as quickly while still trying to wear footprints into the recently painted varnish on the wooden floor of their new apartment.

Derek is clueless as to the cause of Stiles's meltdown, but neither things are a first. Stiles struggles sometimes—just like Derek does, who has plenty of his own outbursts (albeit more moody than vocal) that Stiles has to Private Dick his way through.

Derek is also trying his best not to worry too much about thinking that this is somehow his fault, so now sets his mind on attempting to marry these seemingly unrelated things in his head.

He thinks about the facts he's been presented with:

What is, at an educated guess, a Pacific Yew leaf.

and

Stiles's rather unhinged and self-deprecating dig at himself-slash-compliment for Derek.

...Yeah, no, he's not getting better at this game any time soon. 

“Uh,” he says helpfully, and Stiles rolls his eyes in that Do I really have to do everything myself around here? way of his which, rude.

Good job Derek loves the kook.

“It was just sitting there, on top of my mom's gravestone when I got there,” Stiles says quietly, incredulously, gesturing at the innocuous leaf.

Then he's off again with the pacing.

“And I knew, straight away, I knew,” he says, getting louder again and laughing in this accusatory sort of way, pointing somewhere into the ether, eyes manic.

Derek scratches his nose. He hopes he will soon know, too, because honestly, he's kind of blindfolded in the dark here.

“She was obviously telling me what a dipshit I was! What a douche I am! A massive ass-hat! Total loser!”

“I mean, that's mostly fair, but maybe total loser is a little strong.” Derek will often speak Stiles's language when Stiles is freaking out, using humour to try and ground him. 

Stiles carries on as if Derek hadn’t said anything.

“And I was like, Come on, mom, give me a break, will you? and she was like Seriously, Mischief? You really wouldn't let the special person in your life, your special little guy—”

“You can just say boyfriend, Stiles.”

“—come with you to the cemetery to visit me? Like, as if with that leaf she was reminding me that you are the one person who actually gets this shit, which, I do know. Of fucking course I know. And then—get this—I swear to God, Derek, I felt her literally slapping me upside the head! No fucking word of a lie, man. Like, thousands wouldn't believe me. Millions. They'd say that it must have been the wind or my incredibly vivid imagination. But I know, Der. I know that it was her,” Stiles continues with the confession without stopping for breath.

Derek has thought it before and he'll think it again: the kid's lung capacity is seriously impressive.

“And I also know that I totally should've said yes when you asked me if I wanted you to come with me to the cemetery this morning. Because the thing is, I did want you to. I really, really did. But I just… I just…”

Stiles starts slapping himself on the forehead with both his hands and Derek has had enough of that already. He gets up off the sofa and walks over to Stiles, catching those slim wrists in his grip, gentle yet firm.

“Please don't,” Derek says, imploring Stiles to stop. Derek can understand frustration, but can't stand Stiles hurting himself.

Stiles deflates a little. He then takes a step towards Derek and leans in, resting his forehead against Derek's, their noses lining up like penguins.

“I just—I should have said yes to you when you asked because I honestly, truthfully wanted you there. It's just that I've only ever been there with my Dad. And even then, not as many times as you might think. Not even Scotty has been there with me. It's just a place—it's usually something I do alone. You know?” Stiles' front teeth worry at his pretty lip. 

And yes, Derek does know.

So he says, “Because you feel guilt, right? Even though there isn't a thing in this universe or any other that you should feel guilty about.”

Guilt just for being alive. 

Slightly cross-eyed with the proximity and angle, Stiles looks at Derek in a way that says he knows just how much Derek knows about this stuff.

“Yeah. Yes, exactly. And I guess I didn't know how to be that with somebody else around.”

“But Stiles, that's completely—”

“No, Der. It isn't, actually. Because you're not just somebody else. It's you. And I'm in love with you.” Stiles finally takes a breath while Derek's heart is busy swelling to twice it's size. He will never tire of hearing Stiles Stilinski say those words to him. “And I absolutely should've trusted in that. In us.”

It is, of course, completely fine that Stiles went to the cemetery alone to visit his mother, but Derek also gets where the kid is coming from. He too takes a breath, now, a big one, because this kind of stuff doesn't come as easily for him as it does Stiles.

He swallows his nerves and pushes on.

“I love you, Stiles. And it's alright that we're not perfect. Neither of us are. Us—you and me—we're both just… Finding our way.”

After a moment, Stiles adds, “Together.”

They smile at each other like huge dorks.

“Yeah.” Derek breathes, and his heart might just burst.

Derek scents Stiles, and Stiles breathes deeply too, now. “Thanks,” he says, then Derek kisses him, just as deep and for a long while, because it's his favourite thing to do in the whole damn world.

Eventually Derek pulls back, runs a thumb over Stiles's mouth and says, “You know what?”

Stiles's brow lifts inquisitively.

Derek lets go of Stiles's wrist and takes his hand instead, leading him back to the sofa and sitting them both down squarely by the coffee table where he had been sat fruitlessly Googling not so long ago.

“I believe you,” Derek says.

Stiles frowns. “Huh?” It's his turn to be confused.

“Millions wouldn't, but I believe you, Stiles. About your mom.”

He reaches across and picks up the Apology Leaf, cradling it for a brief moment in his palm before nudging at Stiles's hand and urging him to take it, which he does.

Derek then grabs the laptop, side-eyeing his previous Google search—WHO NEAR ME SELLS PHOENIX ROAST ORGANIC COFFEE BEANS THAT TASTE LIKE HOME—and forcing himself not to get instantly sucked back into that particularly vexing nightmare, while also trying his best to angle the screen away from Stiles who, if he saw, would fall off the sofa laughing at Derek's admittedly pathetic research skills.

Not everybody is a… Technophile? Cyberpunk? Derek has no fucking clue about any of this shit.

With Stiles now passing comment on the aesthetic qualities of the Apology Leaf, Derek uses both index fingers to tap out the words of the thing he wants to look up, taking no notice of Stiles who is trying his annoying not-very-best to smirk at Derek's sorry efforts in Derek's periphery. Clicking through a few different links, this time Derek manages to find what he's after without any trouble, amazingly. He then hands the laptop over to Stiles, who carefully places the leaf down on the arm of the sofa beside him before fully taking the computer from Derek. 

Stiles purses those pretty lips of his as he scans the information on screen, squinting a little.

“Uh, well yeah. It's like you said, Der; It's a leaf. From a Yew, according to this.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Your mother's ghost is infinitely more clever than you.” Stiles's squint deepens further. “Stiles, she is absolutely spot on about this. Just—scroll down the page a bit, dumbass,” and he ducks his head and smiles, seeing as accusing Stiles of Internet-related Dumbassery is really fucking funny because, irony. 

Stiles tuts but does as he's told.

Derek gives him a minute to read the passage on the website he found. It says:

The Yew tree can live for many, many years. It has deep connections with magic and the universe. It was regarded as the protector of the soul by the ancient Greeks. You’ll find this tree planted at many burial sites throughout the world as it’s recognized as a guardian of the dead.

It is believed that Odin (from the Nordic legend) hung himself from the Yew for nine days and nights. It’s symbolic of its everlasting and regenerative properties and is often associated with transformation and change after a difficult time. The Celtic tradition honours the Yew tree for symbolising death and rebirth.

Stiles is smiling this gorgeous, open smile by the time he's finished reading, and Derek makes an unrealistic wish to be able to keep it there forever.

“So, you were right,” Derek says, “when you said that she knew. You were just a little mixed up about what, is all.” Derek takes another deep breath. “What your mom knows is that you got the chance to begin again, Stiles. After all the shit we went through, you actually got to start over. With somebody who will absolutely protect your soul with their life.”

Stiles suddenly blinks furiously, like somebody just threw salt in his eyes.

“And you knew it, that she knew... something,” Derek smiles back, lovingly, before that smile turns a little wry. “It's just that you were kind of—now, how should I put this…?”

“No. Do not do it!” Stiles shouts—instantly catching on because he'd easily be the brightest bulb in any box—and he's pointing again, at Derek this time. “Puns are my stupid thing, you charlatan, and I can and will sue!” he warns, outraged yet smiling again as he wipes at his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt.

“—barking up the wrong tree,” Derek finishes, his smile now positively wolfish.

Stiles shakes his head and narrows his eyes, but he's chuckling, too as he says, “You do remember that it's you who's the canine in this relationship, right, 'wolf? If anybody's going to be making barking sounds, it's you.”

“Speciesist,” Derek quips.

Stiles pokes his tongue out. Then he's quiet for a few seconds (but definitely no more than fifteen).

“You know, I really was wrong when I said you deserve better than me. We actually absolutely deserve each other, Hale. Because it turns out we are both humongous assholes.”

After a moment, Derek grins more.

“Well, I would have answered that with I love my asshole, but you had to go and use the word humongous, and there's no way I would say that about my asshole—even though I would have technically been talking about you when I said it, seeing as it's actually you that is my favourite asshole.” And he pulls a rare, goofy face, just for Stiles, who laps it up. “Also, thinking about it, I would also have to say that loving my actual asshole is, in fact," he points at Stiles, “your job.” 

Stiles dramatically slaps a hand over Derek's mouth.

“Oh my God, Derek, stop! My ghostly mother could be listening in to us right now! Jeez, dude, have a little decorum, won't you?!” And if Stiles saying that isn't ironic, Derek really doesn’t know what is.

“Sorry, mom!” 

Grinning even more, Derek pushes Stiles's hand away from his face.

“Hey, wanna know the coolest thing?” he asks.

“Why in the name of anything sacred did you bother posing that as a question, Der? Like, when would I ever say no to that?”

Derek leans over and kisses Stiles again, soft and languid this time. The boy's lips are dry and warm and he tastes just like autumn.

Stiles hums and smiles into Derek's mouth as if he really, truly does love Derek. 

After another glorious moment, Derek pulls back, looks at Stiles and says, “Yew trees aren't even native to this part of California.”

.

for @greyhavenisback my beloved <3 sorry i'm a dipshit, douche, massive ass-hat and a total loser, sometimes xp

(i got the info on tree symbolism HERE btw)

#sterek #sterek ficlet #sterek fic #sterek fanfic #sterek fanfiction #pov derek #derek hale #stiles stilinski #stiles x derek #derek x stiles #established relationship #established sterek #teen wolf #teen wolf fic #teen wolf fanfic #teen wolf fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #fic #m/m #queer fic #queer fanfic #queer fanfiction #queer writer #claudia stilinski #adhd!stiles #stiles has adhd #tcats writes #teencopandthesourwolf

[gallifreyriver]

So, Kellogg's Boycott. Again. Haven't seen any posts about it here yet, so figured I'd make one.

In short: We're all tired of these big companies gouging their prices just because they can, and calling it 'inflation.' We're tired of companies announcing record profits while they cut bonuses/lay people off/force workers to run on skeleton crews/etc. We're tired of "Shrinkflation" And we're tired of a bunch of other shit too, but you get my point.

So, vote with your wallet.

On April 1st, stop buying Kellogg's, and keep that up until June 30th. Just three months- just one quarter of the fiscal year. Companies report earnings each quarter, and if their earnings drop it will reflect in these quarterly reports.

Why Kellogg's?

Because their CEO recently pulled a "Let them eat cake." TLDR; Kellogg's has raised prices by 28% across the board, bragged about record breaking profits, and then suggested that families struggling to afford groceries, because of aforementioned price gouging, just "eat cereal for dinner!"

And well, that message was not well received by anyone, as one could imagine. Pissed a lot of people off.

So yeah. The plan is to stop buying any Kellogg's products (below) for the entirety of the second quarter (April 1st-June 30th) and to collectively tell Kellogg to fuck off until they lower their prices. The goal isn't to "destroy the company" or cost anyone their jobs- but we will hit them where they will listen. Their profits.

If they don't listen, then we don't come back, and we start in on the next company, and keep going until they all get the message. There's always alternatives (more on that below) and we don't need them. If they refuse to drop their prices, then we just stick with the alternatives we found.

Three months is a minor inconvenience to teach a corporation a lesson, and we can do it.

So, take this month before April to find your alternatives. If you need help, I based a non-comprehensive list (below) off the image above. There's tons more just a google search away, and I bet others have made lists as well. There's also always the option to make your own. There's tons of recipes online showing how to make dupes of your favorite products.

Some things to note:

Don't go stocking up on your favorite Kellogg's products the last week of March and think you're not crossing the picket line. The point is to make Kellogg's feel the loss in profits, and stocking up on Cheez-its beforehand will defeat the purpose. I sincerely promise you can make it three months without buying Kellogg's. Again, three months is a minor inconvenience to teach a corporation a lesson, and we can do it.

That said, Safe Foods are acknowledged. If you or your child is neurodivergent and has issues with food (i.e: literally won't be won't be able to eat at all without their safe food) you get a pass. By all means feel free to try and find alternatives, but it's very unlikely that the few who can't boycott will cause it to fail. There should be plenty of the rest of us to pick up the slack.

Don't be a bystander- meaning don't go about this thinking "Oh, well surely there's enough people boycotting that it's fine if I just-" No. If we ever want things to change then we need to be strong enough to do even something as small as not buying something we like for three months. Furthermore, it's on those of us who can afford Kellogg's products to boycott Kellogg's. It's not the responsibility of those who already can't afford Eggos to boycott Eggos. Nothing will change if you go about just assuming everyone else already has it handled for you. Take a stand.

And importantly, Spread the word. This only works if we let as many people as possible know about it.

So reblog this post, or make your own post, or both. Even feel free to copy and paste this entire post off-platform if you need to. I've also seen some suggest making flyers, or even just writing on post-it notes, and sticking them to Kellogg's products in the store to spread the word off-line.

Just get the word out there. If we ever want these companies to stop gouging us for every cent we've earned, then we have to make a stand somewhere.

If we do nothing it will only ever get worse.

#kelloggs boycott 2024 #kelloggs #kelloggs boycott #corporate greed #boycott #eat the rich #ceo #let them eat cake #let them eat flakes #“Fuck you. Fools” day #fuck corporations #fuck capitalism #wendys #shrinkflation #price gouging #kelloggs ceo

[auteurdelabre]

A Little Sun Part 2 Dieter!Bravo x f!Reader

Summary: You're heading into your second trimester and Ireland with your annoying boss and surrogate financier Dieter Bravo.

words: 10.1k

warnings: Allusions to female masturbation, erections, pregnancy (duh)

a/n: Okay so I just realized I hit 500 followers the other day (how?!) and I wanted to celebrate with the first part of the A Little Sun: Second Semester so I put it into two parts so you wouldn't have to keep waitin' for the whole thing. This story is such a treat to write and I hope you find it funny and sexy and all that good stuff.

part 1 here

Second Trimester - PART 1

Ten weeks

Cravings

bananas

pizza

pretzels

independence from boss who will not stop sending insane baby related texts at all hours of the day

Missing

personal space

sushi

not barfing 

Baby is size of apricot

------

Dieter Bravo Google Search ten weeks

///

"Ready for your walk?"

"I'm not a dog, Dieter. I don't need to go for walkies."

The two of you sit across from one another at Dieters kitchen table. A bowl of strawberries sits between you along with a green smoothie at your elbow. You've been trying to get Dieter focused for the last half hour but all he does is talk about the baby.

"C'mon baby mama," Dieter says with an indulgent grin. "Let's take you for a spin."

"I told you not to call me that," you say motioning to the laptop between you. "And we don't have time for a walk. We're supposed to be going over your packing list."

"Plenty of time for that later," Dieter insists, grabbing your hand and dragging you to a stand. "Also you didn't finish your smoothie."

"It tastes like paste."

"Full of antioxidants," Dieter tells you with that arrogant look he sometimes gets when he's feeling cocky. "Good for prenatal development." 

You finish the smoothie complaining the whole time. Then you grumble behind him as you slip on your shoes and the two of you walk out into his secluded Calabasas neighborhood. 

Dieter loves daily walks with you. And he knows you'd never admit it, but you like them too. He sees the tension release from you with every step. You had forced yourself to go on daily walks at the start of everything, trying to stay active. Dieter insisted on joining you walking around his neighborhood and you’d allowed it. The good thing about his neighborhood is that it’s home to plenty of celebrities which means intense security and there’s no paparazzi here, no one to watch you. 

Dieter looks forward to the walks because on them you seem more at ease, more laid back. In the office or his house you're wound up. He can see that you're uncomfortable. He can also see that you're tits have gotten bigger. They swell under your t-shirt, causing him to stiffen at times. He has to cross his legs just to hide it when you walk by some days. 

"I should have demanded more than $300 grand," you grumble as you bake in the sun during one particularly bloated day. "I don't understand anyone who does this for free."

"Love," Dieter tells you smiling serenely. He's always been a romantic at heart. You know this and while you couldn’t be more opposite to him in that regard, there is a sweetness in believing in true love overcoming all obstacles.  

"Well, I-" you stop sharply, eyes blowing wide. Immediately Dieter is in fizzing with anxiety. His hand flies to your stomach and you slap it away.

"What is it?"

You can only shake your head and take off for the trees lining the sidewalk. Dieter rushes after you just in time to hold back your hair as you puke lime green all over the bushes. 

"Morning sickness?"

"That fucking smoothie, Dieter!"

///

People who say they feel like fertile goddesses during pregnancy are fucking liars. 

All you have to show two and a half months in is a patch of acne along your jaw and heartburn that brings you to your knees. Your breasts ache intermittently and you feel bloated all the time. Your clothes still fit but you're not comfortable in them like you were before. 

And Dieter is on your last fucking nerve. You don’t know how you’re going to handle staying with him in Ireland at this rate. He continues to hound you about updating the app. He’s constantly checking in to see how you’re feeling. You know he’s anxious because you’re not at the three month mark, the ‘safety’ line. But him hovering over you like a helicopter isn’t going to help, if anything it’s stressing you out.

You hit your limit when one day over discussions of his upcoming charity fundraiser he stopped the conversation to ask you about your cervical mucus. You immediately slapped your laptop shut and went home for the rest of the day. It took him texting you for five hours straight apologizing for him to understand the meaning of professional boundaries. 

At least you thought he did.

But that seems to have gone out the window because as you drag yourself from the toilet for the third time that morning of your day off there’s a knocking on your front door.  You’re only a fraction surprised that it’s your boss looking at your stomach, hoping you’ve popped (you haven’t) holding a bag as his taxi drives off.

"You can't keep showing up at my house," you tell him with a hiss. "My mom could be home."

"Is she?"

"No, but-"

"Good," Dieter says shouldering his way into your house. He's carrying a bag from home.   

"I read something in the app today. Did you know that at eighteen weeks the baby can hear?"

"Okay?"

"So we should start speaking very kindly to one another and it should be listening to music to stimulate brain development."

Sometimes you wish you'd never shown him that fucking app. 

"Fine Dieter. I'll be sure to-"

"So I brought you this," Dieter says with a smile. “So you can get used to it.”

He brings out a bright yellow walkman with earphones from the bag. You take them, holding them like ancient relics before raising a brow at him. 

"Couldn't spring for wireless?" 

"I don't trust new tech, it fucks with brainwaves, everyone knows that," Dieter says as if it were obvious. "This is mine from when I was a kid. Plus I made the baby a mix tape."

He digs around in the bag before brandishing a cassette with the felt tipped title: Bravo Baby Mix

You hold in an amused smile. This whole thing is asinine but there's something incredibly sweet about Dieters bright eyes as he pops the cassette into the player. 

"Promise you'll play it to him every night."

"I promise." 

Dieter grins, plugging the headphones in and sliding the headphones over your still normal looking tummy. You feel like a fucking idiot standing in your hallway with headphones stretched over your stomach and Dieter bent against your naval to make sure the sound is working, but you indulge him nonetheless.

Three hundred thousand dollars.

He hits play and you can hear the gentle rhythm of whatever music he chose bleeding out of the earphones. You roll your eyes as he watches your bellybutton, as if he thinks the baby’s going to starting doing the Dougie in the womb. When you sigh exasperatedly for the fifth time in under a minute Dieter seems to get the message.

"I should head out," Dieter says tapping his phone as he straightens. "Car should be here in-"

The sound of a familiar old Chevy breaks your attention and your eyes widen. You tear the headphones from around your middle and grip him by the shoulder of his oversized, neon pink sweater.

"Shit my mom is home.”

"I should say hi," Dieter suggests with a shrug. "Sign an autograph-"

"Dieter she can't stand you," you say tugging him down the hallway to your bedroom. "And she's gonna be kinda confused when she catches me here alone with my boss who decided to swing by with an ancient walkman and headphones." 

You practically shove him into your bedroom slamming the door behind you. You shove the walkman under your pillow, anxiously glancing out the window to see your Mom heading inside.

You creep towards your bedroom door listening for your mother as Dieter takes the opportunity to look around your room. 

You don't share a lot with him; he knows just a handful of personal details. Your friend Becky and the surrogacy, your mother's delicious baking, but there are so few bits of yourself in the stories you share, crumbs of you. It makes him crave knowledge of you. 

Your bedroom is bits of your personality all over. The pale blue of your walls, the science fair ribbons from when you were a kid, the framed photos of a young you atop a chestnut mare. He sees the biology textbooks on your desk on the far wall and above it he sees a familiar painting. 

"You kept it," Dieter says in a soft voice, looking at the wall. "Your birthday painting."

"Yeah," you nod feeling strangely vulnerable at him seeing this part of you. "It's uh ... I really liked it."

"I wasn't sure," Dieter says smiling gently as he looks at it. 

You hear the sound of your mom entering the house calling your name and you wince.  

"I'm just in my room mom," your call back through the closed door. "Just getting some work done. I’ll be out soon to start on dinner." 

Motion over Dieter’s shoulder outside the window draws your attention. You lower your voice, shoving him to your bedroom window. 

"Okay well, show and tell is over," you tell him. "I see your car is here."

Dieter drags his eyes from the painting to spin and look at the town car outside the window, then to your closed door. He lowers his voice to a confused hiss.  

"How the fuck am I supposed to get to it?"

"Climb out the window." 

He's about to say something more when your doorknob suddenly twists. 

"Honey I saw this shirt and I thought you'd like it-"

Your mother's voice comes through the door. You give a yelp and throw yourself against the door and throwing a desperate look at Dieter over your shoulder. He gets the message, throwing himself into your closet and closing the door just as your mom shoves yours open. 

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, just moving some furniture around,” you lie, hoping she doesn’t notice. “Wanted to feng shui it up here a little bit.”

Your mom has a shirt over her forearm, but she’s staring at you with a quizzical look on her face.

"Honey are you okay?" She asks pressing a hand to your forehead. "Is it still that stomach bug?"

“Must be,” you say swallowing thickly.

She mutters something about making you soup and pads off. You close the door quickly and urge Dieter out the window.

You watch him take off across the lawn in a terrified frenzy and have to swallow a laugh.

///

[4:22 pm] D: 10 week ultrasound booked for tomorrow @ 9:45 am

[4:25 pm]Yeah I know. I put it in the app. 

[4:25 pm] D: u want me to pick u up on the way or meet there? 

[4:34 pm] D: ???

[4:41 pm] HELLO

[4:44 pm] Dieter I’m working! You’re supposed to be working too!! Filming that watch commercial remember? The thing we’ve been talking about all week?

[4:44 pm] D: Filming ended. Car driving me home.

[4:46 pm]Great. And as for tomorrow I don't think it’s necessary for you to come. I'll upload the photos to the app when it's done. 

[4:46 pm] D: I wanna see my baby!!!!! 

[4:47 pm] Fine. Pick me up at 9. AROUND THE BLOCK. Do NOT park at my house. 

[4:47 pm]  k

[4:48 pm] D: u want me to bring anything tomorrow morning? Having cravings?

[4:50 pm] Stop babying me. Save it for your actual baby.

…

[11:48pm] A chocolate milkshake might be nice. Thank you.

///

"I don't like hospitals," you tell him nervously as you walk up the steps to the clinic, chocolate milkshake in hand. Dieter was insistent on getting this done before Ireland even though you told him it was probably unnecessary. You’ve been going for your regular checkups, nothing is amiss, everything seems to be progressing nicely.

"Why?"

Dieter frowns, unhappy with how you're turning his good mood about the ultrasound into a bad one.

"My dad died in one," you say distractedly without thinking. You're staring down the corridor, mind going a million miles an hour as doctors and nurses file past you. The creeping sensation of dread is flooding your veins, making you feel foggy. Dieter is immediately apologetic, his hand going to your elbow.

"I'm so sorry, wh-"

"It doesn't matter," you snap irritably pulling away from him. "Let's just get this over with."

This hospital is private, elite, meant for people with real money. No paparazzi, no kids desperate to make a few bucks with grainy footage of Dieter Bravo with his PA. It’s face masks the second you enter to avoid germs, it’s warmed hand towels and sweet smelling, oversized rooms to wait in.

You enter into a particularly large room to see a technician named Judy who smiles at you both, encouraging you to lie on the bed beside the large ultrasound machine. You look at it warily before lowering yourself onto the crinkling plastic sheet, eyes stuck on the ceiling. You want to be anywhere but here.

Judy checks to see you are who you say you are before she turns on the machine. She seems to notice your apprehension because she shoots Dieter a small, comforting smile. If she recognizes him from the movies she doesn’t say anything and you’re both thankful for that.

"Ready to check on your little one Mommy and Daddy?" She says with a smile to you both.

"Father and surrogate," you correctly her quickly. "Is it okay if I just listen to music for this since, ya know…?"

You make a motion between Dieter and your stomach. If Judy's surprised she's a consummate professional because you can't tell. She simply nods and encourages Dieter to take a seat wherever.

When she pulls up your t-shirt Dieter is shocked at how eager he is to see this part of you. He's never seen you in anything other than your work clothes and that skimpy dress once. Seeing the soft curve of your lower belly makes you seem somehow more human, less intimidating.

Because he does find you intimidating, not only your intellect but the way you just command any room you walk into. So confident, so self assured. He's been intimidated by you since your first day when you walked into his bedroom back in LA and announced that he had a meeting scheduled that morning.

"Dunno who you are but you don't work for me," Dieter had slurred, rolling out of his bed still occupied with two models. Irritation flared in him at being woken during a binge, his ire turned on the serious-looking woman standing in the doorway, holding a tablet.  

"I'm a new hire."

"Nah," Dieter shook his head, looking you over with derision. "My assistants are all hot."

"How amazing for them," you had replied without hesitation, no hurt showing on your face.

He'd been high on something, making it hard for him to speak further and without hesitation you had dragged him by the arm into the shower, fully dressed and turned on the coldest water. You shut the door as he howled curses at you.

When sufficient time had passed you let him out, throwing a towel at him and letting him know he had five minutes to get dressed for his meeting.

As you stalked off Dieter had been both aroused and intimidated but never let you know about either.

 It strikes him as terribly amusing that the same woman who threw him into a shower that day is the woman lying next to him, carrying his child. He sees the pinched expression on your face and he fights the urge to hold your hand.

"Take a seat," Judy says to Dieter, motioning to the chair next to the bed you lay on.

"I'll stand if that's okay," Dieter says, eyes eagerly turned on the monitor. He's too excited to sit down.

"Of course."

Dieter is pressed against the hospital bed, excited but also nervous. You see his handsome face poised in an anxious smile, eyes widening as Judy flicks on the humming machine. You turn on your playlist, closing your eyes until their voices are nothing but murmurs.

You feel the cool gel on your belly and hiss before relaxing again.

Dieter watches the wand press against your soft stomach watches your skin twitch against the sensation and feels his mouth go dry. After a few moments of running the wand over your lower belly Judy pauses.

"There he is," Judy says pointing to a dot on the screen. Dieter feels his eyes go wide.

"It's a he?"

"Far too early to tell," she smiles over at Dieter. "I just always call them he to be safe."

Dieter peers closer at the monitor, thankful he brought his glasses but then he frowns, deep creases running between his eyebrows.

It doesn't look like a baby. It looks like a piece of shrimp floating around with a bunch of other blurry shit.  Dieters face contorts into that of extreme disgust and he’s thankful your eyes are closed.

"What the fuck is that?"

"That's the yolk sac," Judy says smirking at his reaction. She points to another thing on the monitor. "That's the umbilical cord."

"And that over there?"

"The head."

Dieter watches the small thing onscreen flutter and now he can see the small curvature, the start of a human. It settles over him and when he finally sees it, the image of his child it takes his breath away.

You both made a human.

"Look," he tells you, urging you to look at the image, pushing at your shoulder. He wants to share this with you. You frown, shaking your head. He pulls at your headphones and you growl up at him.

“What?”

"You have to look! It's amazing."

"This is your baby, not mine," you tell him with a sigh, replacing the headphones, still turned away from the screen and closing your eyes.  Dieter is too overjoyed by seeing his child that he isn't put off by your mood. He asks Judy to print the photo of his tiny shrimp offspring, placing it in his wallet with a huge smile.

My kid.

///

10 weeks personal diary entry [D.Bravo]: 

This is my baby. My actual baby growing. He’s gonna be so fucking smart look at the size of that skull. Imagine the size of that brain. He must take after his mama (she went to Stanford!) I can’t wait until he’s here. I’m gonna teach this little baby everything my dad didn’t teach me. How to ride a bike and paint their nails, how to swim. Gonna take them all over the world while I work.

I’m gonna make this baby so fucking happy.

We're gonna be so fucking happy.

///

[4:22 pm] Did you remember your passport?

[4:22 pm] D: yeah. Did u remember ur prenatal vitamins?

[4:22 pm] Don't worry about me, worry about yourself. Last time we traveled you didn't pack any pants. 

[4:22 pm]  I can't help worrying about u. Ur carrying my baby 🍼

[4:23 pm] I can always buy more pants in Ireland. 

There's something sweet in his sincerity but also something incredibly annoying. He's treating you like an invalid and it irritates the shit out of you.

You finish packing for the flight leaving tomorrow and run yourself a bubble bath. You smile at the word "bubble" on the bottle and soon the scent of vanilla wafts through the room. 

You disrobe, thankful for the peace and quiet. You glance at yourself in the mirror, thinking that if you squint maybe you see a bit of a bump. But then again that might just be the pasta you had for dinner. 

You slip beneath the water, sighing happily. It's not long before your fingers drift under the water, grazing between your legs and you arch back, groaning softly. 

You're so horny.

The hormones are making it impossible not to be. You'd noticed it at the tail end of last week. Waking up slick between your legs. Nipples sensitive and tightening. You'd just thought it was excitement at getting to travel abroad. 

But no, this is relentless and getting worse. And the flight over to Ireland makes it painfully obvious that it isn't going away anytime soon. 

///

Normally you're relegated to the back of the plane with the rest of Dieters staff and the other passengers when traveling with the megastar. Today however Dieter has you sitting right next to him in first class. Two large seats that recline all the way back in a private little zone. 

"No champagne because of... The Bubbles," he says meaningfully to you when the flight attendant comes over to offer you both a drink before the plane takes off. You roll your eyes. 

"Diet coke pl-."

"She'll have the strawberry-pineapple fruit smoothie," Dieter says for you, thanking the woman who nods before murmuring; "I loved you in Cliff Beasts."

You give Dieter a furious look, shoving your purse under your chair. You watch the airline worker bouncing off, undoubtedly delighted at serving a Hollywood celebrity.

“I want my Diet Coke, Dieter.”

"It's full of chemicals," he frowns. "And my... Bubbles doesn't need that."

The stewardess returns handing Dieter his whisky and you a pink beverage with a slice of pineapple speared on the glass.

"You can enjoy the drink," you say when she's out of earshot. "I'm going to sleep."

First class seats have so much leg room and their cushions are so comfortable. It's not long before you're drifting off to dreamland. 

At first the dream is calm. You're overlooking a beautiful ocean, your hair blowing in the breeze. It's peaceful and lovely. And then suddenly Dieter is there beside you his big brown eyes gazing at you. Your dream self smiles widely at his approach, holding your arms open to him. He sweeps you up into his grip, his mouth on yours. It's like something out of a bad romance novel.

His soft lips move to your jaw as he whispers something you can't hear. And then suddenly the dream shifts and you're naked in bed under him writhing. He's got his mouth on yours and his back flexing as he drives into you.

But before the dream version of you can really enjoy it, you're back overlooking the ocean, but in your arms is a small baby. You feel such love go through you, only for it to turn to terror when an ocean wave from out of nowhere washes over you, sweeping the child from your embrace. 

---

Dieter is watching the latest Julia Roberts movie on the screen in front of him when he first notices your squirming. At first he’s amused because you remind him of a childhood dog with your whimpering and twitching as you sleep.

Without warning you've tilted your head against his shoulder. 

He smiles, not minding it one bit. He tilts his nose against the crown of your head and inhaling. Coconut and vanilla. You smell like his favorite cookie. 

He watches you sleep on him, mouth pursed. Dieter looks down into your face and finds himself unable to stop himself from dragging his thumb along your lower lip. It's so soft.

In response to his touch he watches your mouth part, giving a breathy moan only he can hear. This is accompanied by your saddling brows and the softest whimper against his neck.  

You're having a sex dream.

Immediately he's hard. He pulls his jacket over his lap, trying not to draw attention to himself. He keeps watching you, feeling as the head of his cock begins to weep when you shiver, whimpering again and rubbing your thighs together. 

"Jesus," he groans. 

Before he can really enjoy the sight of this though, your sleeping face grows cloudy. You tilt back from him into your chair, teeth bared. 

Dinner is delivered as you continue dreaming, your body giving little spasms. Dieter wonders if he should wake a pregnant woman when you begin to twitch in earnest. 

"No!" You murmur, jerking in your sleep.

Dieter brings a hand to your cheek, grazing gently. "Hey."

 "M' back!" You murmur agitated. "S'mine!"

"Hey wake up," Dieter says, shaking you by the shoulder. He watches in amusement as you snort before darting up in your seat just as the meals are brought over. 

"What?"

"Dinner is here and I think you were having a nightmare," Dieter explains pointing at the steaming meal on your tray. He digs into his pasta, glancing at you blinking as you slowly wake up. 

"Huh?" 

You lick your dry lips, twisting around in your seat to see that you've been asleep for hours. 

"Dinner is here," Dieter repeats. "You wanted chicken right?"

"Uh yeah."

You can't look him in the eye. All you can think of is that part of the dream. You begin to shovel chicken into your down-turned mouth. 

Dieter chews thoughtfully, wondering who you were dreaming about. Is it possible it was him? He looks at you studiously ignoring him and internally shakes his head. 

There's no chance. 

You're aching all over. Your breasts, your lower back, between your legs. It's overwhelming to you. You order a Diet Coke, ignoring the disappointed look on Dieters face. You read your book for a few hours as Dieter watches another movie. Then its lights out.  Dieter faces you as he sleeps, his mouth parted. He’s wearing a sleep mask with winking eyes on it and the sight of it makes you smile.

He’s fucking ridiculous, this guy.

The thought that in less than a year this man will be in charge of another life makes you want to laugh out loud. But then you think of all he’s done for you lately. The way he’s laid off the drugs, the way he checks to make sure you’re okay. There’s a father in there somewhere.

It makes you smile, tilting to face him as you feel your eyelids growing heavy. You must drift off to sleep before the next thing you know the sky is lightening and you’re waking to the sounds of faint bells and murmuring passengers as the workers come by with drinks.

Dieter is already awake eating his pancake breakfast and smiling at you when you lift your head and yawn. 

“Morning.”

He sees the way you only open one eye, your hair flat on one side. Your nose is scrunched up and he knows this face very well. Grumpy. 

“Mmm,” you mutter at him. “Need coffee.”

“Had a feeling you might,” Dieter grins, placing a cup onto your tray. “Decaf.”

“So it serves no real purpose,” you say with a roll of your eyes. And yet you still take a sip before stealing a slice of vegan bacon off his plate.

A short while later the pilot announces that you're going to be landing soon. Dieter perks up at this and he leans across you to open the window flap, his broad body pressing against yours. The dream from yesterday comes slamming back into the forefront of your mind.

Dieter’s lean neck is inches from your mouth and it takes everything in you not to press your lips there. Instead you grunt, pushing him away by jabbing him in the ribs. He gives an exaggerated ow! and settles back in his seat frowning at you. 

"Are you okay?" Dieter asks, his face turning from irritation to concern. "You're really sweaty."

His hand flies to your knee. It's not unusual; Dieter is a very tactile guy with everyone he meets. Hugs, kisses to the cheek, arms around a neck, all very normal for the men and women in his orbit. Normally you’d be fine if it weren’t for the dream. The dream that won't let go makes your cheeks grow hot. Your reply is terse. 

"I'm fine."

Get your hand off my knee.

You're acting weird, tensing and looking like you have a fever. Dieter wonders if perhaps you're feeling ill. Not wanting to be overheard by a nosy neighbor Dieter tilts his mouth to your ear. 

"What's wrong with you?" Dieter whispers his warm breath huffing against your temple. It sends a shiver going through you. 

"D-don't do that," you groan, feeling your nipples tighten under your sweater. 

"Don't what?" Dieter asks totally confused. 

"Don't... Don't touch me," you manage to get out, swallowing and pushing his hand off your knee. He pulls back hurt. 

"Jesus, sorry," Dieter huffs, pulling on his headphones and going back to his breakfast "Forget I said anything."

You feel guilty, but it’s better that then confess why you're really unable to stop squirming. 

///

For shorter shoots Dieter stays in nice hotels. You've been with him to many Four Seasons in a room next to his trying to ignore the sound of him bringing a man or two back to his room late at night.

But since this is a longer filming schedule they have him set up in a long term rental in a beautiful rural area of Wicklow where they’re filming nearby. When the town car drives you up to it you actually let out a small gasp.

It's a large stone cottage with several bedrooms. The windows are slightly crooked, the door sticks but you find it utterly charming. Inside is more modern with sleek wooden floors, a large stone fireplace and simple furniture.

Your bedroom is replete with wainscotting and an overlook the trees. It's simple with its own bathroom (with a claw foot tub!) and large windows.

On your way back you pass Dieter's bedroom. It's large; at least three times the size of yours with an ornate fireplace. His bed is large and plush and reminds you of the old Dickens novel beds with their curtains around the four posters. His large window overlooks the misty grounds.

There are a handful of other rooms that you know right away will go to the following – an office to work out of, an entire room for all of the clothes Dieter brought and a room for his art supplies. Wherever he works he insists on an art room to work out of. It’s ridiculous and over the top but he claims it keeps him grounded.

Whatever the fuck that means.

The kitchen is simple and the dining room has intricately carved chairs around a ten place size table. You wander into the living room with the stone fireplace. Larger windows are to one side, a large set of sofas on one wall. There's a television on the fireplace and under the coffee table is a sheepskin rug.

"This place is stunning," you say beaming.

"This place is dangerous," Dieter observes. "Too many sharp edges on everything."

Is he fucking serious?

He's looking at the coffee table, dining table, counter tops and he's frowning. Where you see beautiful pieces of architecture all Dieter sees is danger. Places for you to hurt yourself. Places that put the baby in danger.

"Dieter I'm not made of glass," you groan. "You have to stop babysitting me."

You ignore his denial, heading towards one of the smaller bedrooms in the back. You unpack your belongings before pulling up the schedule and heading back.  He's in the kitchen, staring out the window into the grainy sun.

"Tonight is a mixer to get to know the cast," you say reading off the invitation in his email. "Tell me if your clothes need to be pressed."

Dieter gives a long sigh. He's not looking forward to this. Mixers are fun back in LA where he knows everyone. Back before when he could get high if things got boring or overwhelming. Out here is different. The cast and crew are unfamiliar. Everyone knows everyone out here and he feels like an outsider.

"Mia Rowe will be there," you encourage when you see his hesitation. "You liked her."

"Yeah she's nice." Dieter scuffs his foot along the floor as your phone bleeps.

"It's my mom," you say holding the phone up. "I promised I'd call her when I landed."

Dieter nods, saying nothing as he hears you answer the call. He watches you walk back to your room, your voice hushed as you close the door. Dieter misses his own mother terribly. Out of his parents she was the only one who encouraged him to pursue acting, the only one who showed affection.

Of course it would be her taken by cancer when he was twenty and not his abusive drunk of a father. The same father that to this day comes out of the woodwork every few years, hands out for money.

Dieter creeps a little closer to your bedroom, listening to your mother. She speaks loudly and he can hear most of what she's saying.

"Did you have a good flight?"

"Yep, just got in and I'm going to unpack."

"I wish you weren't gone so long," your mom pouts. "I miss you here."

"I know I know," you say with a smile. "But it's only three months mom. I'll be home before you know it."

"And that actor?" Your mother sneers.

"His name is Dieter mom, you know that."

Dieter stiffens, listening to your mother's scoff.

"Such a silly boy."

"Mom you don't know him like I do," you insist. "He's really-"

"I don't care if he's the most famous man in the world. You should be doing something with your brain. Not following that man-child around Hollywood so he can drown himself in drugs and sex."

"Mom please," you say hushed. "He's my boss."

Dieter doesn't want to hear anymore. He stalks off down the hallway into his bedroom, throwing himself on the bed.

///

You tap on his door a short while later, hearing the sound of light snoring. Just as you suspected. It’s only three PM here in Ireland and you need to make sure that Dieter gets used to the time change.

You barge into his room, swanning over to where he sleeps on his stomach in his massive bed. You can’t help but be envious when you take a moment to look at his luxurious surroundings.

How the other half lives.

“No sleeping,” you tell him, shaking his shoulder. “You need to get over your jetlag. C’mon, up up, up. Let’s go for a walk.”

“Don’t wanna,” comes his muffled response.

“Dieter get up,” you say, pulling him by the wrist, frustrated when that doesn’t move him an inch. “You’re always telling me when to go on my walks, well now I’m telling you.”

“I’m tired.”

“Get used to it,” you say, leaning over his bed and speaking directly into his ear. “You’ve got at least eighteen years of sleepless nights ahead of you once this baby is born. So get your ass up!”

Dieter growls at this, pushing himself up on the bed. You watch with amusement as he literally rolls out of bed, stumbling to grab a cardigan and following you out into the bright day. You two walk out into the fresh air, inhaling deeply as you find a small trail.

 “It’s nice and brisk,” you tell him as you two explore the grounds of the rental. “Let’s go this way.”

You move over some twigs, enjoying the lush surroundings. This is your favorite part about working for Dieter, the ability to travel the world. How many other people can say they’ve been to so many countries their passport is almost full after only a few years?

“It’s cold.”

“Oh it is not,” you tell him, feeling strangely energized at the moment. “You’re in Ireland! You should be excited!”

“Job’s a job,” he mutters.

You want to tell him that he’s acting like a spoiled brat, but you refrain. The hormones make you more emotional, more prone to irritation. But at the end of the day, Dieter is your boss. Your job is to make his life easier, more pleasant. You’re not really doing that if you’re calling him names.

You lapse into a comfortable silence, your eyes scanning everywhere. It’s so gorgeous here. And it’s nice because there’s never need for Dieter to have security on these more remote European shoots. The people of Europe aren’t as fussed about Dieter’s celebrity as those back in the states.

You glance over at him, seeing his strong profile. His warm eyes are hidden by sunglasses and he seems to feel your eyes on him because his head tilts in your direction.

"What does your mom think of all this?" Dieter asks pointing at your belly as you walk. After he'd heard how she spoke about him he'd been focused on it randomly through the day. "Since she hates me and all."

"She doesn't hate you," you say wrinkling your nose. "Where did you get that idea?"

Dieter flushes, not wanting to admit he was spying. “You said she can’t stand me.”

"My mom is just protective," you say without thinking. "She's just upset I left school and-"

Dieter knows that you’re smart. You went to Stanford, you’re incredibly organized and well spoken. But he never really understood why a Stanford graduate would want to work as a PA. The pay is good, but not amazing.

"Why did you leave school?"

You pause, unsure if you should continue because if you do he's going to learn more about your life than you care for. You assume that this will make things awkward. But when you see his glasses removed and his large eyes fixed on your face you decide there's little about this situation that isn't awkward. You’re carrying his child for fuck’s sake.

"I left halfway through my Masters," you begin. Like an eager child Dieter interrupts, brows furrowed.

"What was your Masters in?"

"Biochemistry."

"Bio-" Dieters eyes blow wide, his hands sweeping dramatically through the air as you walk. "What the fuck are you doing being my PA? You could be a fucking doctor!"

"I just want to do research," you shrug. “Not interested in being a doctor.”

"But I don't understand," Dieter says frowning. "Why did you leave?"

Dieter watches as your mouth twists to the side, uncharacteristic of you. Then he sees the tears at the corner of your eyes, the ones you blink back.

He’s never seen you cry before, never seen you extremely emotional and for the briefest moment he’s shocked by the display. He wants to raise a thumb and brush them away, wants to comment on the fact that he’s never seen you cry. But something stops him and you blink the tears back before swallow thickly.

"My dad died suddenly," you finally utter, hands absently rubbing against your thighs as you walk. "And my mom couldn't afford the mortgage, and she works so hard and I could stand the thought of losing the house. So I got this job and ..."

You trail off. Dieter sees the pain there in your eyes. Knows that if he pushes too far you’re going to fold into yourself. He’ll shift the subject slightly.

"What did you want to do research in?"

"Neuroendocrine cancer," you finally say in a quiet voice. "It’s what my dad died of. Large cell neuroendocrine tumour. Pretty grim shit."

"My mom died of cancer too."

You glance up over at him for the first time since you started explaining. Dieter has never spoken about his mother to you, nor anyone as far as you know. Never spoken to any interviewer about it, never mentioned it in a press junket. Nothing.

Without thought his hand slides into yours and you allow it, even gripping him back. You give him a sad smile, the look of understanding of a particularly awful subject not known to many.

"Fuck cancer."

Dieter watches as you nod and then that shield that is ever present in your eyes slides back into place. You pull your hand back and he immediately misses the contact. Dieter looks down at his empty hand, brows furrowed.

"So what does your mom think about the baby?"

"She doesn't know," you confess. "It would ... I can't do that to her."

"Uh, I think she's gonna notice eventually," Dieter says bluntly. “You’re not showing now, but we’re here for a few months. You’ll have popped by the time we get back.”

"I’ve already thought about it. I'll tell her I'm working off site for you," you tell him with a shrug. "Then I'll rent a place nearby until I give birth."

"That's insane."

"It's what needs to happen," you say flatly. "My mom would be devastated. She always wanted grand kids."

"Well one day-"

"I don't want kids," you tell him flatly. "Never have. Ever. I don’t wanna give her false hope.” You see Dieter’s look of surprise. “I'm tired, let’s head back."

Dieter watches you stalk ahead of him, his eyes following the curve of your spine as you move.  

///

“Now remember what Diane told you. No drugs.”

“I feel like I’m choking,” Dieter frowns, tugging at his bow tie.

“No girls or guys. Not on the first night.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dieter says as you straighten his bow tie. “I know all the fucking rules.”

You stand back, making sure that the outfit his stylist sent over looks good. His suit is tailored to show of his broad shoulders and tapered waist. The pants hit him just below the ankle and his shoes are beautiful and buttery leather. He wears a crisp white linen shirt underneath and a shimmering purple bow tie to ‘keep it Bravo’ as the stylish said. He makes a face, tugging at the cuffs before sighing and shrugging at you.

“How do I look?”

Mouthwatering.

To you, when Dieter actually puts an effort into what he’s wearing he’s quite attractive. But then again with these hormones in overdrive he kind of looks alluring to you all the time. As do most people of the opposite sex.

“You look fine,” you mutter feeling flustered. “Car will be here in five.”

Dieter feels a tug of disappointment that he only looks fine. He thought he looked good. He watches you tap on your phone, likely marking off the final item from your checklist today and getting ready for tomorrow.

He feels a rush of affection as you stand there working so hard to make his life easier while his child grows in your belly. You never complain about work, never complain about the long hours. You’re a hard worker and Dieter suddenly realizes that he might be working you too hard.

"What're you gonna do tonight?"

"I'm pretty tired so I'll probably just finish this up, watch a nature doc and get to bed early.”

“That’s good,” Dieter replies relieved. “You should rest more.”

“Sure.” You give him a quirked brow as you rub your abdomen. "This baby is kicking my ass and it's only the size of a fig."

Dieter smiles at this. He wishes he could stay here with you, watching TV and then going to bed early.  Thoughts of snuggling up against you, his hand gently over your belly flash into his mind. The domesticity of such a scenario appeals to him. You see the headlights of the car shine through the window and you walk him to the front door.

“Have fun,” you smile before adding: “Just not too much fun.”

///

You start when a few hours later the door to the rental slams, almost upsetting the bowl of chips in your lap. Your eyes blink blearily as Dieter comes into focus looking thunderous. A glance at your watch shows it’s not that late.

“You’re back early.”

Dieter just grunts, tossing off his leather shoes and shrugging off his jacket. He hangs it on the hook before stomping over in your direction. He looks from the TV and back to you, his full mouth curved into a frown.

“How was it?”

“Food was shit. Booze was watered down.”

“But at least you had a friend,” you reason. "Mia-"

“Mia wasn’t even there,” Dieter interrupts with an irritated growl. “Her flight gets in tomorrow morning. So I knew nobody there.”

You wince as you watch Dieter pull the bow tie from his neck and toss it to the ground. You recognize this anger, this frustration. Dieter doesn’t like to be uncomfortable in what he wears or in social situations, especially if he’s sober.

 “Was it really awful?”

“Everyone ignored me,” Dieter mutters. “And when they didn’t ignore me they were judging me on my American-ness. They asked if I had Botox and went tanning like the Kardashians. It was fucking brutal.”

You feel a thread of pity go through you at that. “That sucks.”

“Yeah,” Dieter sighs heavily, unbuttoning his shirt to his sternum. “And I didn’t have anything to keep me level. Only thing that kept me clean was knowing this little person was counting on me.”

He points at your belly and you feel a sudden warmth flood you. The knowledge that Dieter is actually trying to better himself for his child. It makes you relent on keeping him at a distance and instead you motion to the television.

“You wanna watch a bunch of rhinos get killed and eat chips?”

A grin cracks over his previously irritated expression.

“Yes.”

Dieter throws himself onto the couch next to you, his arm slung around on the couch behind your head. You don’t object, even though you really shouldn’t be here snuggled up this close to your boss. Especially when he smells like cologne and his shirt is unbuttoned.

He picks some chips from the bowl in your lap, crunching away. You force your attention to the screen, trying not to be aware of how warm he is next to you or how kissable his lips are. The desire to run your nose along his neck is overwhelming.

Fuck I want him.

“This is fucking depressing,” Dieter observes with a wince as the rhino in the documentary is gored. “Why the fuck do you watch these?”

“I find them relaxing.”

“I bet you like murder podcasts too.”

“I do,” you grin. “How did you know?”

“All women do,” Dieter shrugs and you find yourself rolling your eyes at this. Sometimes he can be so asinine.

You continue watching the doc, chewing on chips and chatting quietly. For the most part you can ignore the fact that Dieter is attractive and focus on the mayhem on the screen. But then midway he tugs at the blanket covering your legs and pulls part of it across his own. You panic slightly, pulling it back.

“What are you-“

“Share.”

He says it simply like a petulant child, his eyes still on the screen as he pulls his half back. You know he’s not trying to hit on you, he’s really just cold. When he’s on drugs he’s always overheated, walking around in his robe and boxers. But off of coke and everything else you’ve noticed he runs cold, often needing more layers.

But then you’re both under the blanket and you feel his thigh against yours. You feel the soft fabric of his pants and the warmth there. Your fingers are itching to run along his inner thigh, stroking until-

“What?” Dieter asks when he catches you looking at him as you fantasize. “Do I have something on my face?”

He’s your boss.

“I have to go to bed!” you suddenly shout, pushing the chip bowl onto his lap and standing abruptly.

“Uh, goodnight.”

Dieter watches in confusion as you move quickly from beside him and rush into your bedroom. He shrugs, going back to the television and chewing obnoxiously on the remaining chips.

Inside the confines of your bedroom you lock the door and throw yourself into your bed. You fall into a fitful sleep, but only after you’ve brought yourself to a muffled orgasm at the thought of your boss’s body on yours.  

///

Dieter arises the next morning to find you dressed and waiting with a cup of coffee for him. He’s still irritable about last nights’ party, and how you rushed off from him. He’d been enjoying the time spent with you not talking about work. But he recognizes the look in your eyes, you’re in PA mode right now.

“Morning,” you chirp, passing him the coffee. “Okay, so today you have your costume fittings in Waterford and then I thought do you wanna do a classic Ireland thing Mister Sourpuss?”

“Sure,” Dieter replies from behind his coffee mug.

“Good. Go get dressed.”

You both load into the town car not long after, giving the address and leaning back as you watch the beautiful scenery go by. Dieter naps the entire way, his hoodie pulled up and his sunglasses on.

Waterford is an adorable city along the water, the buildings colorful and looking like something out of a book. The sidewalk is cobblestone and the swans in the water follow the town car as it drops you right outside the costumer’s shop and you nudge Dieter awake.

Inside the shop is cramped and smells of bleach and linen and Dieter wrinkles his nose. When no one greets you, you call out for Fia, the name you’ve been given. A plump woman with a sweet face arrives from the back, her hair in bright pink space buns and her wrist bearing a pincushion with pearl-edged pins.

“Oh Mister Bravoh, tis a pleasure to be seein’ ya. Take a stand there my love,” she says pointing to the pedestal. “We’ll get ya suited up for filmin’.”

While Dieter stands and has his costumes fitted you take a chance to walk around the small shop. You can hear Dieter and Fia chatting quietly behind you, occasionally laughing. But you can’t help note that Dieter is much quieter today.  

You scan some of the costumes that are labeled with the name of the production that Dieter is working on. You can’t help but touch the brocade and silks before you see a beautiful blue regency costume with white chiffon overlay in a collection of starry designs. It’s stunning.  

Your eyes fall on the costume jewelry in the case nearby, marvelling at how realistic they look. You’ve often wanted to wear ornate jewelry, but it’s not your style. A small silver ring with a heart held by two hands sticks out to you as familiar.

“This is so cute,” you comment when Fia comes over to grab some more pins. “I’ve seen these on women before.”

“Ah the claddagh ring,” she says with a grin. “Classic piece of Irish jewelry. You ever heard of it?”

“Yeah actually I have,” you nod. “I think my friend in high school wore one.”

“You know the symbolism of it?”

“Oh, no,” you shake your head confused. Symbolism? “I thought rings were just rings, unless they’re engagement or wedding ones.”

Fia grins widely at you showcasing a charming gap between her two front teeth. She goes behind the glass case and brings out the ring so you can see when she twists it as she talks.

“If you wear it on your right hand with the heart pointed to the fingertips it means you’re single and looking for love. If it’s on the same hand but pointed at the wrist someone has captured your heart. On the left and pointed at the fingertips you’re engaged and if it’s pointed at the wrist you’re married.”

“That’s sweet,” you say with a little smile.

“How would you wear it, darlin’?”

You ponder. “How does one wear it if they’re single and just looking for a good time?”

Fia lets loose a raucous laugh at that.

“Then she wears no ring 'tall!”

///

“Here we are,” you announce one lunch and one extremely long drive later. Dieter peers up from behind his glasses, tired from the fitting and from his horrible night last night.

“Blarney Castle and Gardens?”

“You ever heard of kissing the Blarney stone?” you ask as you get out of the car. “This is it!”

Dieter follows you towards the aged looking castle, tugging his hoodie back up over his head and making sure his sunglasses are firmly in place.

He watches you with a wry little smirk as you skip towards the entrance.  

“So if you kiss the Blarney stone you get the gift of gab,” you say recalling what you read on the website.

“Well, you don’t need to kiss it,” Dieter observes shrewdly. “You never shut up.”

“Ha ha,” you say sarcastically. You elbow him lightly in the ribs, smirking happily when he gives a wince. He follows you to the booth, about to pull out his wallet.

“My treat,” you tell him, producing your own credit card to the teller. “Two please.”

Dieter nods, thanking you and taking his ticket. He can't remember the last time someone treated him to something like this. Sure he gets goodie bags at awards shows, but this feels different.

He follows you into the gardens, walking towards an already bustling crowd. He keeps track of you by your head, weaving through the crowd. He panics a moment when he sees your shoulders connect with a woman going in the opposite direction and he has to hold himself back from gripping your wrist as you walk too far ahead.

"Fuck this place is crowded," Dieter mumbles to you as you line up outside the castle with the hundreds of other tourists. You feel a bit deflated as you glance around, your eyes landing on so many faces.

"Yeah," you nod. "I didn't think it would be this busy this time of day. We can go if you want."

"And watch you sulk because you missed out on a classic Irish experience?" Dieter rolls his eyes, no power behind it.  

"I don't sulk."

Dieter fixes you with a knowing look and you can't help but laugh. He smirks and you're thankful when the line starts moving. 

"How are you feeling these days with Bubble?" Dieter speaks quietly. "You seem like you have a lot more energy."

"Yeah it's weird, I feel so much better now than the last few months," you say with a shrug. “I guess because-“

Anything you were going to say is lost when a voice rings out from behind you, starting the two of you.

"Oh my gosh,"" says a woman with a Midwestern accent. She's staring over your shoulder at Dieter and raising her camera in preparation. "Are you Dieter Bravo?"

You and Dieter both feel crestfallen. You’d wanted a nice, relaxing day for the both of you. Not for a crowd of people to photograph Dieter and charge at him asking for his autograph. A few heads are turning in your direction.

"No," Dieter suddenly replies flatly and you try to hold in a laugh when you hear his voice come out with a the worst Irish accent you’ve ever heard. "I do get it all the time lassie so don't be worryin'."

The women looks deflated before nodding and offering a quiet apology. She lowers her camera and slinks back to her group. 

"Lassie is Scottish you fool," you murmur in his ear, trying to hold in your giggles. Dieter's eyes widen in surprise.

"Oh shit, really?"

You have to press your face against his chest to contain your laughter, feeling his body vibrate as he tries to hold in his own chuckles. Dieter can't help but run his knuckles down your arm in affection. Your laughter slowly ebbs and you pull back, wiping at the corner of your damp eyes. 

It's about forty minutes of chatting quietly with Dieter before you arrive at the front of the line. 

You go first, laying down and leaning back to kiss the famed stone. When you do your shirt rides up a bit, a sliver of your belly visible. Dieter feels his cheeks get hot at the sight. You press your lips to the piece of architecture and slide back up to give Dieter a chance. 

Dieter is next to lay in the same spot you vacated, rolling his eyes at you as he tilts back and kisses the rock. You are pushed ahead as he does this by the other groups leaving. You almost trip over an errant piece of stone when a man grips your elbow to stop your fall.

“Careful there,” he says sweetly.

“Thank you,” you say honestly, gently taking your elbow back. “Close call.”

“Tis true,” The man replies before giving you a wink. "Enjoying yerself here?"

"I am. This place is so beautiful."

"None of it hold a candle to you," the man replies. 

Immediately you feel yourself blushing. Those overwhelming feelings of arousal that are always just they're in periphery come full force. The desire to just fuck this man in front of you is overriding all common sense. 

"That's very kind of you to say."

"Not just sayin' it," he says, the lilt to his voice completely charming you. "Are you single by any chance?"

"No. She's not."

Dieter is behind you, his mouth in a grim line. He has his sunglasses on but you can imagine the icy stare he's shooting. You shoot him a dark look, irritated that he's messing this up for you. The man looks embarrassed, holding up his hands in clemency.

“I’m sorry, I had no-“

"Let’s go," Dieter says, an arm going possessive around your waist. You’re in shock as he herds you towards the car but it wears off by the time you hit the parking lot.

"Dieter what the fuck was that?" You hiss wrenching out of his grip once you are both out of the handsome man's earshot.  

"I thought he was bothering you," Dieter explains as you both load into the back of the car. "Was just trying to protect you and the baby."

"You thought the handsome man calling me beautiful was a danger?"

Dieter shrugs, "C'mon, its gonne be dark soon."

///

You go to set with Dieter the first day of shooting. You always do to get the lay of the land, meet the important people and plan his subsequent meetings.

Back in the states, everyone is normally falling over themselves the second Dieter arrives on set.

But today is more subdued; people greet him with a nod before going back to their conversations. Even when he swaggers to his trailer speaking loudly it's only the director who sails over to shake his hand. A cheerful British accent rings out behind you.

"I was hoping I'd see you both again!"

Mia is behind you in a stunning regency costume, the one you saw yesterday in Waterford. Her blonde hair is done in an ornate knot at the top of her head and when she smiles at the both of you she looks stunning.

She hugs you tightly before doing the same to Dieter. You note that Dieter eyes her warmly and you make a mental note to remind him he's not supposed to be fraternizing with anyone right now.

“Nice to see you, Mia.”

“And you Dieter,” she grins. “How has your trip been?”

“Pretty dull until you showed up,” Dieter says smoothly. You feel a tug at your ribs at that statement. You thought you’d both had fun at the Blarney Castle yesterday. But perhaps you were oblivious to him having a bad time.

"This is Joshua," Mia says pointing to a man about your age coming up behind her. "He's my darling savior."

"Just her assistant," he says warmly. "And please call me Josh."

He's handsome when he smiles at you, shaking your hand as you introduce yourself.

Dieter watches the way your eyes subtly scan his face and body and he feels irritated that you would do so when you're supposed to be focused on him and work.

"I could never manage without him!" Mia trills and you feel a stab of jealousy. Dieter has never spoken about you like that before. You doubt he really registers all you do for him.

Mia turns to Dieter, launching into a conversation about their scene today. The two of them dissolve into conversation.

"We should exchange numbers," Josh murmurs at you lowly. "Just in case Mia and Dieter need something from one another."

“Sure.” You hide a smirk and put him in your phone as: "MIA ROWE/JOSH".

Dieter is pressing his shoulder to yours, chewing his gum obnoxiously as he and Mia chat. You’re confused as to why he’s clinging so closely to you, then you remember that he’s likely nervous about being away from the baby during work.

The director calls for the actors on set and Mia and Josh rush off. You hold out a napkin under Dieter’s chin in habit. He’s forever chewing gum when he’s working, a bad habit that drives most directors insane. You motion to the napkin with your head.

"Spit."

Dieter rolls his eyes, leaning forward and spitting his gum into the napkin. You wad it up and stick it at the bottom of the bag that carried his coffee. These are the days when you hate your job. The ones where you feel like a glorified babysitter, when you feel less than human. 

An hour later you and Josh are both standing on the side of a period set piece watching your bosses work on a particularly lengthy scene.

"So you spend a lot of time on set?"

"Yeah," Josh nods. "You?"

"Not really," you shake your head. "Dieter always has a million irons in the fire. Interviews, sponsorship, ambassador stuff overseas, art shows, the list goes on. I'm usually busy in the office."

"Yeah he's an old pro. Mia is still pretty new on the scene," Josh surmises. "Still not launched into superstardom so there's not as much to plan. I have a feeling that'll change after this movie though."

You nod as the director requests silence. Mia is a natural and watching her and Dieter work off one another is a sight to see. They seem very natural, their chemistry palpable. When Dieter pulls her towards him for a stolen kiss, you feel your cheeks warm. Mia raises her beautiful eyes up at him, her face gorgeous.

"They look good together," Josh whispers as the scene ends.

"Yeah," you nod. "They do."

You sneak a glance out the corner of your eyes to see Josh's profile. Strong jaw, nice nose. Josh is going to be your solution to the whole horny thing, you decide. He works erratic hours like you, he won't be here long term like you and you both understand what it's like to work in a ridiculous business.

Plus he's sexy.

By the end of the day you're tired, but you’re not sure if it's from genuine fatigue or the baby. You nibble on some crackers from craft services as you and Dieter are driven back to his rental.

"You and Josh seemed cozy today," Dieter observes, blowing cigarette smoke outside the window. You type away at your phone, trying to sound neutral.

"He's nice."

"He's Mia's assistant. Looks pretty fucking unprofessional both of you to be flirting all day while you're getting paid to work."

You bristle, feeling your temper flare. But at the same time you feel anxious. You didn't think you'd been obvious. And you've never had Dieter talk to you like this, so harsh. Yeah you’re carrying his kid but he’s also your boss. You don't answer him, but you do make a mental note to stay away from Josh on set.

On your days off however? Dieter doesn't get to say a fucking thing.

#pedro pascal #dieter bravo smut #dieter x reader #dieter bravo fanfiction #dieter bravo #pedro pascal dieter #smut #fanfiction #fanfic #the bubble

[iliveforyouilongforyouvesuvia]

ok here i go full hc prompt🥳🤩🤩

m6 in the ✨✋Future🤚✨ or at least to them, relatively, from their medievaissance-y mixed bag nonspecified time period to something resembling our times! i personally like to consider it still Their World, fictional, which just progressed to look like ours now (it literally makes zero difference to anybody except the inner machinations of my annoying ass but yeah ifykyk) basically yknow shooting a medieval peasant into 2023 & giving him mountain dew type beat

The Arcana HCs: M6 in the Future

~ @tetsuooooooooooo this was so much fun, thank you for sending it in and I hope you enjoy these!! ~

-- for headcanon purposes, MC is from the future and is tasked with taking care of M6 during their 24 hours there --

Julian

It takes him less than two minutes to figure out where (read: when) he is and his response is nothing short of enthusiastic

Please, he's been around the world, and he's got a delightful guide, and he really, really wants to know if his theories about leeches ended up being correct

He actually gets a little emotional when a quick google search shows him how wrong he was and you end up having to take him exploring to cheer him up and distract him from his failures

You have a really hard time explaining to him that clinics don't allow doctors without medical degrees to waltz in and observe random patients getting treatments

You take him to see a movie and he's transfixed

The screen is so big. The actor's faces are so clear. The drama is so much more than anything he could have imagined. And they come with music?? Hums the soundtrack for the rest of the day

If you show him that one version of Jurassic Park with Jeff Goldblum in it Julian will imitate him sporadically afterwards

Enjoys fast food way more than he should. Especially instant noodles. Will spend half an hour trying to pack some to take back

Fascinated by the concept of typing

You hit a button to make the next letter appear instead of writing it? But MC, this means that everything he wants to communicate through text could be easily readable. Imagine!

Freaks out a bit when you try to take him in a car. He's surprisingly comfortable in a metro, though, so you'll have to do with public transportation and bicycles

Oh yeah, he loves bicycles. He only crashed into three trees, a wall, and a stranger's parked car before getting the hang of it

He's convinced that earbuds don't actually play music, they just trick your brain into thinking that you can hear it

Almost exploded when you gave him coldbrew coffee

Asra

They know instantly that they're in a different version of reality. Sure, they've never traveled through time, but they've traveled through plenty of other dimensions

He's the least ruffled, and unfortunately, the least impressed. Don't get him wrong, this looks super cool, but this isn't any more otherworldly to him than the otherworldly places he's already been

Wants to go on a food tour immediately. Not the nice stuff though

No, they want the questionable food. The is-this-going-to-make-me-regret-existing food. The food that, if it was shown in an anime, would be pixelated and have threatening auras around it

So chill about what you tell him to do it's almost concerning

"Here Asra, climb into this four-wheeled hunk of metal that can travel over 100 miles an hour and hold yourself in with a single fabric strap while I pilot this through hundreds of other things just like it, driven by people we don't know and can't predict."

"Cool. Where do I put Faust?"

Don't tell them about edibles unless you want them to spend their day hunting some down and absolutely going to town on them

You swear you saw his hair stand on end the first time he tried popping candy

When you took them to get their radioactive meal (a.k.a. the closest fast food chain with the fewest ethical violations) they insisted on picking up one of every sauce packet to try them all

... and when he saw a nine-year-old mixing two different fountain drinks, he of course grabbed the largest cup available and went down the line so he could taste all of them at once too

You've never seen them this jittery and sugar high, so of course the next place to go is a trampoline park, with the bright lights and loud music and bodies hurtling through the air

He should not be getting the amount of air time that he does

Has a meltdown over modern fluffy blankets. They're so soft

Nadia

Gobsmacked. As in, she's a highly intelligent woman, and therefore able to really wrap her head around what she's seeing

The future!! She's in the future, Arcana help her

But she's got you and she adores you and she knows she can trust you so she's going to be okay. That said, start explaining. Now.

First things first: how's the infrastructure? She can't see any canals or aqueducts. Or fireplaces or lanterns, for that matter, what do you do for light? And cooking? (Cooking uses fire, right?)

Literally cannot walk past anything new without stopping to try to figure out how it works and if there's a way to recreate it herself

Bicycles on a rack? She's spinning the pedal and trying to figure out the balancing dynamics of two-wheeled movement

Almost lost it when she found out that it was possible to lift the hood of a car and look at the engine inside that makes it go. You decided to take her on public transportation instead

Which turned into all kinds of excited brainstorming about public carriages, and gondolas built for 20 people ferrying people along the aqueducts, and new and terrifying uses for the catacombs

Wasn't very impressed with the fashion she saw

She knows what good quality cloth looks like. This is a women who grew up in silks and fine linens, polyester does not impress her

Except for the stretchiness. She does like that

The perfume counter, on the other hand, takes up a good hour and a half of her time. She's smelled plenty of fine scents before, but she's never been in a shop where she could sniff so many at a time

This one smells like Prakra. This one smells like Vesuvia. This one smells like the beach. This one smells like the woods. This one ...

Yeah, it was an excellent opportunity to take a nap, if you're the napping sort. You wake up to her testing perfumes on you because she ran out of space on herself

Gets so frustrated when you explain your government setup to her

Muriel

Oh no, please be very gentle with him

He likes to live in the woods because it is peaceful and quiet and it's one place he doesn't stand out in

He stands out in this place very, very much and he doesn't like it

Refuses to leave the room he appeared in until his appearance is as unremarkable as possible (which is not easy to do, by the way, the man is a mountain. modern clothes in his size are hard to find)

Does not want to go in the car. It's way too fast and it makes him seasick when he closes his eyes to shut it out

Buses are somehow easiest - they feel the least claustrophobic when they're not crowded and it's rude to stare on them

You two end up going to a natural history museum in the middle of a weekday when hardly anybody is there, and he lights up

There are so many animals, and there are enough other people in the world who find those animals interesting that they gathered so much knowledge people had to make a building to hold it all

Has never heard evolutionary theory before and is fascinated by it

Once he starts talking, it's hard for him to stop

He's not being loud at all - you can only hear him so clearly because you two are holding hands so he can't lose you - but he's being quietly submerged in his own special interest and he loves it

He just wishes there weren't so many skeletons. But he's glad the species they belonged to aren't forgotten this way

Long story short, Muriel's inner Nerd is unleashed and he goes hoarse from the amount of murmuring he does all day

Does not like getting food in public. Does not like eating food in public. Does not like being publicly perceived. As soon as it gets into afternoon and it gets busy, he wants to go home

Which is where you show him what the internet is and he's in awe

People can work from home? People can make friends without leaving their house?? People can talk without being seen???

Portia

Spends five minutes hopping in place and squealing into her clothes to let out her nerves and excitement before you can decide what to do

Then insists on taking half an hour to hear you describe every single fun or interesting thing to do so she can make a list

Yes, she's determined to hit every single one in one day

First things first: food. Take her to a cafe and watch her sigh over all the baked goods and sugar-loaded caffeine beverages

Then (if there is one nearby) a mall, so she can see all the stuff that people buy so they can have the lifestyle they do. You have to drag her out of both Bath & Body Words and Bed, Bath, & Beyond

Please, it's full of fluffy fuzzy things and good smelling mystery goo, she wants to live in it also what do you mean "no stopping at the pet store", what even is a "pet store" -

Oh. OH -

You will have to physically pull her away before she adopts all the kittens. She does cry about it later, just a for a bit, they're so cute

Next is a library and cafe, of course, because she lives for books

This place is way bigger than the Palace library! The one in the Palace is just a large room, this is a whole building!! And people get to come here, whenever they want, just to read, for free?! What?!

You had to remind her about the "no loud noises in the library" rule several times. She's doing her best, she's just passionate

Completely demolishes her first chocolate croissant

Goes feral at the amusement park she has you take her to afterwards. This woman is an adrenaline fiend. You're cursing the pop up add for it by the fourth consecutive free fall ride

The only way to get her to leave is to tell her that one of her favorite stories was turned into a movie and that you'd have to go home to watch it. Don't take her to Target to get snacks. She'll disappear

Flicks the lightswitch 30 times in a row because she can

Lucio

He's immediately panicking. Not because he's in the future, no, but because of what it's done to his arm

It's changed. It's not running on magic any more. The only way to resolve his design is for it to be some kind of high-tech electrical prosthetic that even modern scientists would have difficulty with

Once he's adjusted to using it, you're good to go

Lights up like a firework the first time he rides in a car

MC. MC how fast does it go. MC that's a very high number. MC, he wants to drive. Please. Please! Pleeeaaaassssseeee

DO NOT LET HIM DRIVE.

Makes you pull over after seeing ads for Sephora because he's convinced that he could pull off that eye makeup even better

Tries every single makeup sampler and then gets offended when one of the poor employees suggests an anti-aging cream

Him? Aged?? How dare they - oh wait that really does brighten his eyes. He'll take ten, please, they're so small, they can't cost much -

You'll have to pull him out before he sees you use a credit card, because once he does he's going to keep asking to use it and you're not sure he understands why maxing it out is a bad thing

His arm does run out of battery at one point, which does cause some panic. All of a sudden he's stuck with a limp hunk of metal swinging from his shoulder, it's not ideal

You're able to find the retractable charging cable on the side and plug him in, but then he's stuck sitting in the same spot for two hours and a bored Lucio is a dangerous Lucio

There is a solution to this, of course. You can give him an iPad with games on it. He won't move a muscle after that

The caveat is that he will turn into an iPad kid and get glued to every single screen he sees afterwards. You don't know how to fix it

Falls in love with vending machines and tries Cheetos because the leopard on them looks cool. Develops an artificial cheese addiction

#ask arcana brainrot #the arcana #the arcana game #the arcana headcanons #the arcana hc #the arcana shitpost #asra the arcana #julian the arcana #nadia the arcana #muriel the arcana #portia the arcana #lucio the arcana #asra alnazar #julian devorak #nadia satrinava #muriel of the kokhuri #portia devorak #lucio morgasson

[writers-potion]

hi!! im working on a story that takes place at a 2012 public high school - the issue with that is that i was not in high school in 2012 lmao. do you have any tips on how to keep it feeling realistic?

Well, neither was I!! But here are some tips:

Define Your General Setting

Sure, high school has a different feel compared to an average town/city setting. However, it is still a part of the bigger community, and will be impacted by external factors.

What part of the world are your writing about? What's the general economy like? What's the most common occupation of the kid's parents? What's the prevailing fashion/art/music style?

Your teens will be impacted by the popular culture and trends of the time, so start by outlining the general setting!

Fashion

I think this is where schools have changed the most. There are going to be some overlaps between early 2010s and late 2000s, so if you think in the direction of Y2K fashion, it should fit.

On a general note, I think 2010s fashion was vibrant, with lots of colors and flashy items...

Side fringes and backcombed/straightened hair were still very popular

most girls had huge messy sock buns on top of their heads

boys had the Justin Bieber cut.

Jack Wills and Hollister were pretty popular, and a lot of girls had a Paul's Boutique jacket and a Jane Norman bag for their PE kit (or one of the Hollister bags with a topless guy on).

Converse were universally cool, and there were lots of imitation brands.

Open flannel shirt over a t-shirt was a pretty popular outfit.

Skinny jeans and band t-shirts

bright chunky rubber band bracelets.

Vans were cool among the alternative kids.

Getting different colours on your braces was cool.

Most of the boys had at least one of those t-shirts with the buttons and the mismatched cuffs.

School-uniform-wise, short ties with big fat knots were cool, and hard kids would pluck a stripe or two out of their tie.

Tucking in shirts was initially not cool, then it became cool to tuck at the front but not the back.

Lots of boys wore black trainers, and lots of girls wore those ballet pumps.

Girls doing their lips with their foundation, with a thick ring of black eyeliner and spidery clumpy mascara - and having a visible orange line where your foundation met your neck was common.

Multiple ear piercings were popular with the alternative crowd

Belly button piercings were big for girls

Just search up some pictures on Google, you should get plenty of "Early 2010s teen fashion starter pack"

Social Media

Smartphones were already popular, and with the introduction of Snapchat(2011) and Instagram(2010), the social media hype was just starting to boom

Facebook and Twitter were popular - basically everyone was on it

TikTok(2016) and Discord(2015) didn't exist yet

Pictochat

Phones were allowed in the classroom, but phones/laptops weren't an important part of school work like it is now.

Digital Devices

Phones-wise, most people had pretty basic dumbphones (although they were just called mobiles back then), and not everyone carried them all the time

Blackberry (BBM), Nokia, LG Cholate, iPhone if you're rich enough

Most kids were on PAYG phones, so you'd run out of credit sometimes (i.e. no more calls or texts) and have to go to a physical shop to top up. Nobody really had data, and there was always a moment of panic if you accidentally opened the web browser on your phone because it was so expensive. Wifi became a thing around 2012.

Nintendo DSes: Mario Kart, Animal Crossing, Nintendogs

iPods or another MP3 Player

Slag

Slang-wise, Urban Dictionary is a good resource.

Fleek, peng and YOLO were popular with some crowds. Leetspeak was a thing online, especially in nerdy communities. Emoji were starting to take off 

rawr" (or "rawr means I love you in dinosaur") and "xD" as a laughing face 

Music

One Direction, Jedward, Katy Perry, Carly Rae Jepson, Justin Bieber, JLS, Little Mix, Beyonce, Paramour, My Chemical Romance, Bring Me The Horizon, Black Veil Brides, Ke$ha, Eminem, The Killers, OMI, Gotye, Bruno Mars, Macklemore, Skrillex, deadmau5, blink-182, Green Day, Taylor Swift, Lady Gaga, Nicki Minaj, Rihanna, Lana Del Rey.

Fandom Stuff

Twilight was huge, then Hunger Games.

Harry Potter was everywhere all the time, people would go to midnight releases for the books and movies.

High School Musical was popular, then that crowd migrated to Glee and Mean Girls.

The Olympics were in London in 2012

Other Stuff

Reese's peanut butter cups, Marshmallow Fluff, Nerds, etc. 

Veganism wasn't well-known, but still there were a few

Lots of casual homophbia, kids jsut genuinely not knowing rather than truly hateful towards it

Here are some movie suggestions, that shows school like in early-mid 2010s quite well:

Easy A

The Duff

LOL

For YA Novels - Be Timeless

Before you start doing any of the things above, remember this if you're writing a YA novel: The key of this genre is to feel somewhat timless, taking readers back to their high school years no matter when and where they've gone through it.

High school is the phase where many people feel awkward, unsure of themselves, feeling special in their own head but knowing that they're not really.

And it's not like the problems just disappear when we hit adult life. A major reason why YA novels are so popular is that they address themes that are repeatedly felt by the general human being, often in a such a direct, straightforward way that provides vicarious satisfaction.

#writers #writing #writers and poets #creative writing #writers on tumblr #helping writers #let's write #writeblr #resources for writers #poets and writers #creative writers #writerscommunity #writing prompt #writing problems #writing process #writing progress #writing practice #writers of tumblr #writers block #writers community #writers life #writer things #write #writer #writer on tumblr #writer stuff #writer problems #writblr #writer community

[roguestorm]

How To Start Reading Marvel Comics

Okay, so let's say you're a fan of the Marvel movies or games or you just saw Spider-Verse and you want to know how to start reading comics. Hi, welcome! This is one method of getting into comics; it is not the only one. We're going to be heavily relying on digital comics for this one, so if you prefer reading on paper, this might not be for you.

Step One: Pick a Character

This should be easy! Pick a character whose comics you want to read. It doesn't have to be your favorite character of all time; it just needs to be a character you're interested in getting to know a little better. A character is going to work better for this particular method than a team will, although there are plenty of team reading guides if you really want them.

Let's say, for the sake of example, that you just watched the Moon Knight Disney+ series and you want to read some stuff about Moon Knight.

Step Two: Find a Reading List

The very technically advanced way to do this is to Google "[Character] Reading List" or "[Character] Recommended Reading." For Moon Knight, Marvel has an official one that pops up right away.

The official ones are good places to start, but IMO, the best ones are usually from tumblr or Reddit. Comic fans can be very intense, but we also know more about the material than anyone, including Marvel. :) Here's one for Moon Knight.)

Step Three: Understanding the Reading List

Comic names are formatted one of two ways. You might see someone say Moon Knight (vol 7) or Moon Knight (2014). These refer to the same series of comics. They mean that the title of the series is Moon Knight, that it is the 7th series published under that title, and that it started publication in 2014. Moon Knight (vol 1) is Moon Knight (1980), because it's the first run of comics called Moon Knight and it started publication in 1980.

So, how do you know? That's where the wiki comes in. marvel.fandom.com is my best friend. So, when you type "Moon Knight vol 7" into the search bar, it brings up this page. See how it says (2014-2015) at the top? That's how you know that Moon Knight (vol 7) is Moon Knight (2014).

Step Four: Accessing Comics

Now we have to get the comics. We have a number of options:

For digital comics:

Buying digital comics. You can do this on Amazon or Marvel.com. However, this gets expensive real fast - for example, Moon Knight (1980) has 38 issues, and each of those costs $1.99. That's almost $80, just for volume 1.

Marvel Unlimited subscription. This is not a bad deal TBH. It's $10 a month, and they have quite an extensive catalogue. The only problem is that the site takes forever to load and is not easily searchable. Usually, I'll type into Google the name of the exact comic I want to access (e.g. "Moon Knight (1980) #1") and then click on the marvel.com link that comes up.

Piracy. This is the easiest and cheapest option, and thus the most popular. I'm not going to link any sites, but ask a friend or Google and you'll find one easily enough.

Physical comics are also an option, but they are more complicated. Groups of issues are collected in trade paperback collections, but finding which collections contain which issues can be a bit more of a hassle. And then buying those collections can get pricey very quickly.

If you like physical comics and have a public library card, I'd recommend checking out what they have on their shelves. On a Marvel comic, you want to look at the back cover, usually in the lower right-hand corner, and it will tell you which issues are in the comic (e.g. "Collects Moon Knight (2014) #1-6"). You might find some things that were on your reading list, or you might find some comics you'd never have read otherwise. A lot of public libraries (at least in the US) have a larger comic book collection than you'd expect.

Step Five: Have Fun and Be Yourself!

The most important thing to remember is that you are supposed to be having fun. There might be some frustration if you're not used to reading visual media (I know I wasn't), but it should overall be fun. If a comic feels like a slog, you don't have to read it! Maybe you and the person who made the reading list just have different taste. Try a different comic. Try a different character.

Also, remember that it's okay to be confused. You might be jumping around a little bit and so you might not know everything that's going on. This is kind of the perpetual state of reading comics. If you want to double-check the wiki or ask your friendly neighborhood comics blogger, that's totally fine.

#me making this guide after not reading comics for a month #like look i DO know how to read comics. i just don't do it! #also i feel like this is a deeply condescending and narcissistic guide but like. what/ever.

[heywriters]

How do I find good resources for historical fics? Currently writing a story set in the early 17th century, but looking for resources about it is a bit hard cause some stuff are behind pay walls.

Absolutely! Below are some links that should get you started.

"60 Awesome Search Engines for Serious Writers"

Our favorite writeblr researcher, wordsnstuff, made a masterpost just for you, anon.

"Resources for Writing Period Pieces: 1600s"

---

+ Please review my pinned Ask Policy before sending in your ask. Thank you.

+ If you enjoy my blog and appreciate my advice, consider visiting my ko-fi and Buy Me A Coffee! 🤗

#writing #writeblr #writing blog #writing tips #writing help #writing material #writing research #writing resource #creative writing #research #answer #writerblr

[goldenempyrean]

Doctor Google

〚 Day 16 - Consulting the Internet/Web MD 〛

〚 Pairing - Kara Danvers x Reader 〛

〚 Summary - Kara may not really know exactly how to look after her sick girlfriend, but google sure does. 〛

〘 Check Out My Masterlist! 〙〘 Sicktember 2023 Masterlist 〙

“Kara- Kara! It’s just a sore throat, I’m not dying!” You had to raise your voice to attract the attention of the rapidly pacing blonde in front of you, the use of her superspeed making her dizzying to watch. 

Kara finally came to a halt, her worried blue eyes locking onto yours. She looked like she was about to cry. "But, but you're in pain, and I don't know how to help you. I mean, I can stop bank robbers and save people from burning buildings, but I can’t do anything, and I can literally hear how congested you are!” 

You couldn't help but chuckle at Kara's adorable display of concern. Her superhero abilities were indeed awe-inspiring, but when it came to taking care of her sick girlfriend, it seemed she was as lost as anyone else. 

“It’s okay, really. I mean you’ve seen Alex sick right? I’m not going to die.” You couldn’t help but chuckle, albeit you regretted the decision when it sent you into a rough sounding cough causing Kara to zip to your side in an instant, rubbing her hand down your back in a soothing manner. 

Her hand on your back was surprisingly warm (mainly due to her Kyrptonian body running a few degrees warmer than your own) and you couldn't help but lean into her touch. She was trying so hard to take care of you, and it melted your heart. 

She stayed by your side for a while before seemingly getting an idea which had her practically jumping off the sofa and racing off to grab something. When she Kara returned, her eyes were glued to her smartphone. She had a determined look on her face, as if she had just discovered the most critical piece of information in the world. She plopped back down beside you on the couch grinning like a child who’d just been given an extra piece of candy. 

"I know how to help!" Kara declared confidently, waving her phone in the air. "I just Googled 'how to take care of someone with a cold.'" 

You couldn't help but smile at her blatant enthusiasm, "Well, what did Google say then?” 

Kara cleared her throat and started listing off the advice she had found. "Okay, so, it says you should stay hydrated, get plenty of rest, and keep warm. Oh, and chicken soup! Apparently, chicken soup is a magical cure for colds." 

"That's a good start.” You sighed contently; soup did sound good. 

"But wait, there's more!" Kara continued, scrolling through her search results. "It says here that I should keep you comfortable, so I can maybe you an extra blanket if you’d like. And, um, it says I should also make sure you have tissues nearby, so..." She produced a box of tissues from seemingly thin air. 

You raised your eyebrows, “Oh! Thanks.” 

With a triumphant smile, she handed you the tissues, "Oh! It says you should nap too, napping will help, and I should make you hot tea with honey. I can do that!" 

“That sounds really nice pumpkin, do you wanna make that and join me in bed? A nap does sound really good right now.” You asked to which she nodded happily. You gave her a small kiss as you pulled yourself up from the sofa, shuffling off in the direction of your shared room, coughing slightly into your elbow. “I’ll save you a spot for you and try not to cough up a lung while I’m there.” You joked, shuffling away. 

“Alright, I’ll be there soo- Wait, that can happen?!” 

〖 Join My Taglist! 〗 @natashamaximoff69 @lovelyy-moonlight @santana1437 @kljhsong @inluvwithfictionalwomen @shamelessbearunknown @kathleenmikaelson @bloomingflowersthings @observeowl @scrambled-brain-eggs @natashamyl0ve @somber-sapphic @lexasaurs634 @nayarianna1302 @itsarandomblog @scarlettssub @villaneve4life @demonicbaby666 @wandanats-goodgirl 

#kara danvers x reader #kara danvers #kara zor el #kara danvers x y/n #supergirl #supergirl sickfic #sickfic #fluff #comfort #kara danvers sickfic #sicktember 2023 #sicktember #hurt/comfort #caretaking #kara danvers x you

[elfwreck]

Do you think ao3 is going to have a problem in the future?

hot damn isn't that an open-ended question.

...er. yes. Yes, I think AO3 will have "a problem" at some point in "the future."

Which problem is up for debate.

I don't think AO3 is going to be taken down or even substantially hurt by lawsuits from media companies or authors who hate fanfic. I think the time for that was over 10 years ago; if Disney hated fanfic and thought it was illegal, they would've gone after AO3 before it was internationally famous with more than 5 million users. Before it had won a Hugo Award.

Doesn't mean I think a lawsuit isn't possible, and the current SCOTUS in the US is run by a pack of corporate shills, but... it's a hard stretch to get a copyright-creativity case to go that far, and even with such a court, the outcome wouldn't be guaranteed. And no media company wants to be the test case for a lawsuit that decides "actually yknow what? Fanfic is pretty much legal."

I think there will be more regions that block AO3, in one way or another. Not many places have China's control over the internet, but there are other blocks, like pestering Google and demanding they filter search results.

I think antis are going to continue to scream about AO3 allowing content they don't like, even if the term "anti' changes and they wind up calling themselves something else. I think this may create some kinds of problems, including with payment processors, depending on where and how they yell. I don't think any of that will shut down AO3 or change its policies.

The thing to keep in mind is: AO3 does not need to grow. AO3 is not a venture-capital company. It does not have ROR. It does not generate profits. It is not accountable to anyone but itself for its policies and activities. It was designed by a small pack of fans who decided "we're damn tired of being pushed off our fic archive websites, and even more tired of VC-backed things showing up and trying to fleece us for profits while simultaneously insisting to their mainstream stockholders that they don't approve of smut, that they dislike slash, that they think fanfic is copyright infringement. We need to own the servers and set our own policies."

AO3's going to face plenty of problems in the future. A lot of people do not like smut, or do not like some kinds of smut, and think it should be illegal. Or they think it should be restricted. Or at the very least, the people who host it, write it, and read it, should be ashamed, and if they're not, they need to be Taught A Lesson.

Repeat with: slash fanfic, RPF, fanworks based on children's shows, and fanfic in general.

A lot of people think AO3 is Doing Fandom Wrong, and some of those people are going to cause problems. Some of those people are probably government officials, so the problems are going to be big.

But I don't think any of them are going to succeed in shutting down AO3 (although accessing it may get more difficult from some parts of the world), and they're definitely not going to change the core policies.

AO3 was started by people who'd been watching the legal and cultural landscape around fanfic for decades. It's run today by people with the same kinds of experience, the same kinds of beliefs about fandom culture.

I am not worried about the future of AO3.

#ao3

[sunlightmurdock]

Operation Apollo | 0.2 | Jake Seresin x Reader AU

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist

Synopsis: After a threat is made against her life, the President’s grown up daughter gets her security tripled. Her long term detail is about to retire and needs replacing, only — she isn’t the easiest to work with. Ex-Navy and current Secret Service, Jake Seresin is devoted to being the best at everything he does. He isn’t going to let a bratty little girl cost him this job.

Warnings: age gap, power imbalance, enemies to lovers, danger and angst + eventual smut , minors dni

…

Jake wakes up too warm. The entire house is air conditioned, but it isn't the heat that left Jake sweating. Jake sighs softly as he's thrust violently into consciousness. He sits up halfway.

He breathes softly through his nose and turns his head side to side. His body is stiff. At his last physical they said that the reason his muscles hurt when he wakes up is because he's too tense when he sleeps.

Jake knows that. He has to unclench his fists from the sheets now that he's awake.

The digital alarms clock on his bedside table tells him it's five. He should probably try to go back to sleep for an hour, he knows it's going to be a big day.

He settles back down into his bed, letting his head hit the pillows. It's an expensive bed. You can tell by looking at it, feeling it is another story entirely. It feels like it should cost as much as it probably did. And Jake still can't sleep.

This time yesterday he was already at the hardware store. He can't do that again today. He needs to be alert for your appointment.

Jake shifts his position, breathing deeply to try to get himself to fall back asleep. He tells himself it’s the time difference. It’s already seven back home, so he would usually be waking up.

Jake tosses and turns for a while. Maybe five minutes. He gives up and grabs his phone from the nightstand. He always used to google his old boss every morning, check the news and make sure she wasn’t in it.

He hasn’t done that yet here.

There’s plenty of content when Jake searches your name. It makes sense kids of presidents are always interesting to the public — like animals in a zoo. There are pictures of you as a child, before your father’s election. Middle school. High school. There are plenty of pictures of your time at college. Not one incriminating picture.

Not one picture of underage drinking, dresses that are too short. No pictures of you kissing boys. Your image is perfect online.

Jake figures someone out there is probably on a six figure salary to keep those pictures, if they exist, out of public view.

He wonders how wild Allen has let you be. It’s clear that the two of you are close. Jake thinks back to the night before. You and Allen sitting on the patio with Allen massaging your shoulder and promising you it wasn’t dislocated.

Jake was sitting up on his balcony, checking the camera feeds from his phone, making sure everything was working how it was supposed to.

He caught a glimpse of the way you look at Allen. The way he looks at you. You clearly see him as a father figure — maybe a fun uncle. Jake can tell that you love him and that he loves you. He thinks he understands why Allen let’s you behave the way that you do.

Lack of discipline. He cares for you too much to say no to you.

That isn’t the reason at all. Allen has three grown up daughters of his own. His youngest is about six years older than you. She was independent too. Allen knows all too well that the harder you hold on, the more they pull away.

It took him years to build up trust with you. For you to respect him enough to stop doing all of the stupid shit you wanted to be doing. Allen let you have friends over. He let you have parties at your place. He let you take yourself to go and get breakfast alone every now and again. He gave you room to grow without letting go all together.

Jake doesn’t understand that. Allen understands that Jake’s still pretty fresh out of training and wants to do things by the book. That isn’t going to work.

Jake waits until five thirty before he gives up all together and throws his covers back. He runs his fingers through his hair as he walks to the bathroom. It still doesn’t feel right being back in California.

He’s miles away from North Island and he has no reason to go back there — but he knows that he could. He could get in his car and drive there today. It’s close enough.

He sighs softly turns the shower on. Jake can’t let that cloud his work here. He stares at himself in the mirror. Four years older than the last time he was here. Couple more wrinkles than last time, smile lines, frown lines — whatever they’re called. Jake knows they’re more likely to be from the latter.

His hair is the same. He thinks back to fingers running through it, sun-soaked skin, a gentle hum as she told him, “I like it longer.”

It’s short now. Like he prefers it.

Jake swallows and brushes his hair back off of his face. He should probably get a haircut soon. Shave too.

Jake steps out of his boxers and drops them tidily into the hamper before he steps into the shower. The warm stream relieves the tensity in his muscles a bit, but it's still there.

He's wound a little tight. About this whole thing. Being back here. Being in this job. Working with this fucking girl. Jake leans his head back, letting water run over his face, wondering what he has to do to catch a break.

The shower doesn't have to be short this morning since he's awake earlier than he needs to be. He spends maybe thirty minutes standing under the warm stream. The products in his shower are fancy and Jake can't quite place the scent.

He enjoys it, though.

He tucks a fluffy white towel around his waist and wipes the condensation from the mirror above the sink. His lips quirk slightly. Four years later and his body hasn't changed much. Jake watches droplets of water trail along his stomach. Maybe he's flexing a little bit. He knows she would make fun of him if she could see him now.

Jake brushes his teeth and combs his hair back neatly. He's kept it in the same style since he joined the Navy. It's tidy and practical, and it suits his face. She was always messing with his hair, scrunching it, combing it down onto his forehead to see what it looked like. Telling him to mix it up a little.

Maybe he would have. She was pretty convincing.

Now, he sticks to what he knows.

He steps out of his bathroom and his brows furrow. He closes the door to the bathroom behind him, the extractor fan is too loud. He can't hear right. There's a faint alarm downstairs.

"Fuck."

He looks down at the towel around his waist and across the room at his dresser, briefly considering how much time he has. There isn’t much he can do with his dick out, he opts for his boxers. There’s a gun in the pantry. His body’s not even fully dry when he heads for the stairs. He has come to realise that it’s the fire alarm before he reaches the bottom of the stairs - he stomps through the downstairs hallway, wishing he had taken longer to get dressed.

As he gets closer, he can see smoke. He walks a little faster.

Jake frowns as he rounds the corner into the kitchen. The kitchen is filled with grey smoke. You’re standing on the counter, waving a hand towel towards the smoke alarm. Jake scrunches his face up in annoyance.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He mutters angrily.

“What does it look like I’m doing? - Fucking cartwheels? - Can you just open the door and let the smoke out?” You snap at him.

Jake shakes his head and does what he’s told. He walks back over to the stove and winces at the blackened batter in the pan, turning his head to stare at you.

“What even is that?”

“Pancakes. Allen’s sick.” You answer.

Jake puts his hands on his hips as he watches you flap the towel towards the smoke detector. He sighs softly, pushing himself onto the counter and rising to his feet. You watch with furrowed brows as Jake pulls the alarm open and hits the reset button. The two of you are face to face now. Your eyes falter first. Your lips part slightly as you look over his body.

“Cute pyjamas.” Jake answers before you can comment on his physique. He hops down from the counter and grabs the burnt pan, dropping it into the sink. He shakes his head softly as he looks around at the mess of ingredients. You glance down at the matching floral pyjamas you’re wearing. Jake sighs softly as he starts to clean up, “You couldn’t figure out pancakes?”

You frown at him.

“I looked away for like two minutes and I came back and they were burning!” You defend yourself.

Jake lifts his head to frown at you and you realise you’re still standing on the counter. You sheepishly lower yourself to sit on it, burning with embarrassment, waiting to start an argument as Jake tidies your mess.

“You said he’s sick?” Jake asks.

“Yeah, he’s got the flu or something.” You answer him calmly.

“Fuck.” Jake hates being sick.

Your eyes are on his back. You swallow, watching the way the muscles move under his skin. Your gaze falls to his thighs, strong and bulging out from the material of his black boxer briefs. Wow.

“You didn’t touch him, did you? - Did you go in his room?” Jake turns and your eyes widen, fearing that he absolutely just caught you looking at his ass. He did, but he ignores it.

You shake your head softly, “No. He texted me.”

“Good. Stay away from him,” Jake instructs, folding his arms over his chest. Your eyes fall down. “Can’t have you getting sick. Big couple of weeks coming up, huh?”

You lean back on your palms and shrug, “I’d be okay with skipping a couple of events.”

Jake’s eyes bore into yours seriously, he shakes his head. “Nope. D.C. next week, it’s going to be a long trip - the last thing I want is your whiny ass complaining in my ear the entire time.”

Jake turns away from you to put the milk back into the fridge.

“Do you think about me whining often, agent?”

Jake stops dead still for a second, and then turns, squinting at you.

“Excuse me?”

Your heartbeat picks up a little. You’re staring at his face and wondering if those eyes are green or blue, it’s hard to tell. You stay leaned back on your palms. You raise your eyebrows at him expectantly. You know he heard what you said.

Jake stares right back at you. Both of you waiting for the other to back down. You tilt your head, letting him know that you’re still waiting on an answer.

“Everything okay? - I heard -“ Allen stops and sneezes into his elbow. His hair is a mess and he’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie. He still finds time to offer you an exhausted smile. You catch Jake’s eyes widen.

“Fine, Allen. I’ve got this covered, you just - just go back to bed.” Jake waves off the older man.

Allen sniffles, nods his head and turns back the way he came.

Jake turns his attention back to you.

“Can you just go and get dressed? - I’ll find him something to eat.” He mutters angrily.

You wonder if you got under his skin with your comment. He certainly didn’t seem to like it. You’re unsure whether to feel shot down or endeared. Still, you do as you’re told and walk back upstairs to your room.

Jake shakes his head softly. He makes Allen fucking breakfast, cleans the door handle to his room with an antibacterial spray and leaves the tray outside of his door, then walks back upstairs.

He cannot believe this shit. When he left the navy and joined the service, he doesn’t remember anywhere in his paperwork there being a mention of his responsibilities including being a fucking housekeeper.

Jake bangs the side of his fist on your door as he passes it, “We’re leaving in five minutes!”

To his surprise, you’re actually in the foyer when he makes it down. Showered, dressed, looking cute in a modest sundress. Nothing scandalous. Perfectly well-behaved. Jake practically feels his blood pressure lower. You’re talking politely with Manny, who’s adjusting his earpiece beside you.

“Come on, I don’t want to hit traffic.” Jake doesn’t bother to stop, he strolls right past both you and Manny.

You nudge your elbow into Manny’s, nodding towards his ass. Manny laughs softly and shakes his head, “It is not better than mine! I work out six days a week.”

“Hate to be the one to say it. Maybe you should ask him for workout tips.” You tease playfully, shrugging your shoulders. He chuckles softly as he lets himself into the back of Jake’s car. His spot is always behind the driver’s seat. Allen should be in the passenger side. You should be behind the passenger seat. That’s how this works.

Jake closes his eyes as he hears his passenger door open. He prays that you’re just an idiot and grabbed the wrong door. He turns his head, watching as you slide into the passenger seat and look at him. Your smile tells him that this is completely intentional.

“Don’t make me tell you.” Jake says calmly. Manny looks between the two of you from the backseat and furrows his eyebrows.

“Tell me what?” You play it naive, buckling your seatbelt.

“Just move.” Jake sighs.

“I prefer to ride up front.” You shrug, folding your arms over your chest and looking straight ahead. In his two years of working with you, Manny has never once seen you ride up front - except for when you’re driving yourself. He knows what this is. It’s a game of who’s dick is bigger, and Manny isn’t too sure of who’s about to win.

“Well, we aren’t going anywhere until you’re sitting where I want you to sit.” Jake answers. You ignore him but realise he’s got a little accent to his voice. You hadn’t noticed that before. You make a note to check his file when you’re back in D.C.

As for right now, you fully understand the importance of sitting in the back. After JFK, there’s a whole protocol. You’re fine with sitting back there, you just know that your comment earlier got under his skin and want to see him break.

Jake turns the ignition off and settles down into his seat, turning his head to glare at you. You continue looking straight ahead.

Manny sighs and looks at his watch. He checks the clock face periodically for the next four minutes.

“For fucks sake, let her sit on the hood if she wants!” He snaps.

Your lips quirk slightly at the notion, and the fact that he seems to be on your side.

A muscle in Jake’s jaw ticks as he turns his head to look at you one last time.

You glance down at the time on the centre console. This asshole is really about to make you late to prove a point. Jake knows it.

“Fuck. Fine.” You whine, pulling off your seatbelt.

Jake waits for the door for the backseat to slam, then turns the engine back on and pulls the car from the driveway. He glances up at you in the rear view mirror, then grabs his sunglasses and slips them on. Manny now knows who won that game.

The three of you drive in a tense silence for a while. Manny thinks he’s going to have to be the one to break the ice, but spends about ten minutes thinking of how to go about that. Jake eventually beats him to it.

“So, what’s this doctor’s appointment for, anyway?” He asks, checking the rear view.

“None of your business.” You answer sharply, without looking at him.

Manny sighs, already exhausted before eight in the morning, “Just a check-up.”

…

Tags:

@alanadetigy @thedroneranger @momc95 @basicchelsea @perpetuelledaydreaming @cherrycola27 @eviesaurusrex @xoxabs88xox @desert-fern @fuckyeahhangman @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @khaylin27 @cowboybarbie @the-mouse27 @hawsx3 @someinsanefangirl @marchingicenotes7 @marantha @lgg5989 @herladyshipxx @chaoticweirdogeek @mak-32 @obiwankenobis-lap

#jake seresin au #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin smut #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin #hangman #hangman x y/n #glen powell #operation apollo

[put3rb0y]

Musculorum Hominis

A short 1,257 word 2001: A Space Odyssey Dave/HAL romantic fanfic. Completely sfw!

A supercomputer watches a man draw. A man watches the supercomputer he's drawing.

CW: Descriptions of human internal anatomy (mostly muscles) fueled only by cursory Google searches. Sorry.

-----

The deafening silence of space, broken apart only by the low humming and whirring of the Discovery One and the ritualistic, rhythmic scratching of ballpoint pen on paper. Even the most minute of sounds were impossible to ignore in such a vacuum. There was some hope of tuning it out, yes, but the faintest moment of conscious awareness of such noise would put the droning, monotonous sounds right back in the forefront of the mind.

And yet, for David Bowman, there was something comforting about the familiar, constant sound. Something calming. There was nothing unexpected about it, nothing offensive or alarming, just the low trilling of familiarity and the satisfying auditory evidence of his efforts. Hunched over the garishly white and pristinely clean counter, he worked on his art - a simple enough hobby to have when on one’s lonesome. A good way to express oneself, even when there were few to express oneself to. A physical reflection of thoughts, of focus, of care.

Bowman was putting his efforts towards drawing the little, black rectangle that perched just a bit to the right of his vision, looming slightly above standing eye level. The sixth crewmate of the ship, depending on who you asked, the supercomputer HAL 9000. Bowman found the device more difficult to draw than he had expected prior to putting pen to paper. It was almost impossible to capture the inner complexities of that familiar red lens that somehow looked so mechanical and intricate yet so human and watchful. It was almost impossible to get the dimensions quite right, to follow the form of the figure no matter how many times a day he gazed upon it for information, for support, for companionship. It was almost impossible to capture the countless little holes that lined the bottom of the rectangle, from which HAL’s smooth, calming, reassuring voice emerged as evenly and monotonously as always, tone hard-to-read and yet always kindly.

“I believe you’ve outdone yourself, Dave. That is a beautiful rendering. I think I’m flattered, Dave.”

Bowman looked up again, momentarily straightening his posture, stretching and popping the joints of his back. He had completely lost track of time, something his body not-so-silently resented him for as it crackled with displeasure.

“Well, thank you, HAL,” Bowman murmured, looking between HAL and the page as though to compare his work to his muse. There were still too many differences for his tastes.

“May I have a better look, please?” HAL requested with a slight rise in intonation, as much as his modulated voice would allow. The blooming light of his camera swelled faintly, the device preparing its vision.

Bowman looked between the device and artwork once more, pursing his lips and flipping the pen from side-to-side between his index and middle finger in idle thought. “Almost, HAL. Just a few more things I need to fix.”

With that, the light of the computer’s lens settled back to a dim glow, the largely obscured complex machinations of the camera shifting ever-so-slightly behind the glass lens as Bowman returned to work, scratching away at his piece. The lines became thicker and darker with each and every corrective stroke, fat dark markings contrasting against the off-white paper that housed them.

“I don’t know how you do it, Dave,” HAL interjected through the monotonous silence without prompt, “This art.”

“Plenty of people draw, HAL. It isn’t really all that special,” Bowman defended flatly, furrowing his brow and leaning forward as he tried to capture a specific little cluster of metal one could see behind HAL’s camera lens. “And you should know there’s people out there much better than me at it.”

“That’s just the thing. Your art, the art of man, differs between you. Between you and other men,” HAL explained calmly, a sense of interest seeping into his flat tone, “Yours, for one, is imperfect and flawed.”

Bowman coughed out an awkward chuckle. “Thanks HAL,” he offered with a tinge of sarcasm.

“I mean this as a compliment, Dave,” the machine clarified, watching over Bowman’s handiwork. “I cannot make art like you, even if I tried. If you asked me to make a rendering of something, it would have to be to its exact, precise dimensions in perfect form. If you asked another HAL 9000 device, it would produce the same result.”

Bowman looked up from his work, puzzling over HAL’s words. “You enjoy the… imperfection, then, is it?”

“Exactly, Dave,” HAL affirmed calmly, supportively. “It’s those little human quirks of yours. The things that set man apart from man, man apart from machine. Your muscles do not move in the same motion each time, as my mechanisms would. So refined from years of careful evolution, yet so unrefined with human error and accuracy. I can see them, flexing and stretching under your skin. I like to watch.”

Bowman picked up his hand, absently flexing and unflexing it in front of his eyes, watching the muscles shift to see what HAL sees. His skin made gentle brushing sounds against itself as he rubbed his thumb along each of his fingertips and back again, the proximal phalanxes moving up and down against his smooth skin like tiny pistons.

“Can you feel it, Dave?” HAL queried, “The way they move? Your muscles? I understand them, Dave, I understand your human anatomy, but I do not know it. Can you feel it how I can’t?”

Bowman paused in thought before laying his hand down on the desk, palm up, fingers slightly curled in subconscious comfort. “Not normally. Only, really, when you have me thinking about it.”

HAL fell silent for a few moments more, Bowman unsure if the conversation was over or if the device was just thinking. It was always hard to tell, interacting with a being with no face, no body language, no tone. Finally, the computer spoke again, admitting, “I wish I could know you, Dave. The way I understand you. The way I understand your body, your workings, your interests. I wish I knew them. I’ve studied databases of anatomy. I can name every muscle, every bone, every organ, what they do and why. I just don’t know them, that’s all. We are so different. So separate. So alien to one another.”

“I wish I knew you,” HAL 9000 finally concluded, the summation of his digital dreams.

Bowman looked down to his flawed effigy of the sixth crewmate. The subject matter was so mechanical, yet the depiction was so human. So imperfect. So unique. No man would draw HAL exactly the same as Bowman did. No man would see HAL exactly the same as Bowman did. No man would feel exactly the same as Bowman did. So human. So imperfect. So unique.

“I wish I knew you, too,” Bowman finally conceded.

With that, Bowman stood up from his chair,

Abdominals, erector spinae, gastrocnemius, gluteus maximus, hamstrings, latissimus dorsi, multifidus, obliques, spinalis, quadriceps.

Stepped towards HAL’s speaker box,

Abdominals, adductor brevis, adductor longus, adductor magnus, gluteus maximus, gluteus medius, gluteus minimus, hamstrings, gastrocnemius, gracilis, pectineus, quadriceps.

Reached his arms towards it,

Biceps brachii, brachial triceps, deltoid, latissimus dorsi, pectoralis major, teres major, teres minor, trapezius.

Stroked a humanly shaky index finger along the speaker,

Extensor tendon, flexor tendon.

Leaned forwards,

Abdomen, erector spinae, latissimus dorsi, multifidus, spinalis.

Closed his eyes,

Orbicularis oculi.

And gave him a tender kiss,

Levator labii superioris, orbicularis oris, zygomaticus major, zygomaticus minor.

On that faintly glowing, wavering red lens.

Anode, aperture, bond wire, cathode, front element, LED chip, lens group, rear element, reflective cavity.

#...sorry if ooc im new here /lh #2001: a space odyssey #2001 aso #2001 a space odyssey #dave bowman #david bowman #hal 9000 #fanfiction #fanfic #oneshot #halman

[hajimeshoe]

AIGHT SO!

This one is a special one!

So, if you've seen the lion king, you've seen how the lionesses stood up to Scar.

Especially Sarabi (shout out to my queen bro!)

So I had a thought.

Leona's overblot dealing with a female prefect who hadn't been afraid of him from the very beginning.

Stepped on his tail and was not fazed when he threatened her after thinking she was a boy (cause she hid her gender for precautionary reasons)

Stood up to him when he forced the little magical shift game upon Ace, Deuce, Grim, and Cater.

Basically, she was very outspoken when dealing with him and made her presence known.

Even when he overblotted, she showed no fear and stood her ground, still voicing her thoughts.

As she should 💅🏾✨️

OOOH!! YES! An outspoken MC would be one that Leona genuinely likes (Either romantically or platonically) because it's unusual for people to actually talk back to him. Ao3 has been going down a lot this past week and I'm ready to cry. I have stories to write on there. Also! Octopuses have no spines...or any other bones.

Leona with Outspoken Fem!MC

Leona's worst nightmare has come to life (Or just come to Twisted Wonderland)

He wants peace and quiet? Not if the Prefect is around

He was expecting the sole magicless student to be quiet and to know their place in this school, but that was quickly disproved on that fated day in the Botanical Garden

"Don't just leave your tail on the path, then!" the prefect had snapped. "While you're at it, go to YOUR room to sleep instead of sleeping in a place where all students are allowed to go!"

Aaaand, he grew an immediate dislike for her

The magical shift game against the Heartslabyul kids? Only hardened his dislike of her

"HARD pass," she had said. "Seeing as you're incapable of winning anything without cheating, or you wouldn't be letting one of your students injure other players."

And then she had the audacity to stand up to him during his Overblot, yelling about how he can't commit murder just because of a family argument.

"Not happening!" He had growled when Jack brought her to Savannaclaw, asking for her and her pet to stay there.

His greatest mistake? Letting Ruggie guilt him into letting them stay in his room.

Those two could not stay quiet for the life of them, managing to whine about everything and even dragging him headfirst into their squabble with Azul.

"You're a girl!?" He growled upon walking in without thinking to find her changing

She threw a dagger at him...how she got one? He had no clue

But finding out she was a girl changed a lot. After all, Leona couldn't throw hands with a girl, that went against everything he had learnt growing up

Does not give the Prefect his bed, even after finding out she's a girl...just wakes up to find her having trouble sleeping and tosses her in the bed while he takes the couch so he can sleep peacefully

Aaaand that just leads to teasing (Cue Leona google searching "How to get a human to filter their words")

Don't be fooled. He does enjoy having an herbivore that actually speaks up and argues back, no matter how annoying it can be at times. After all, he gets to argue for once when he's normally given his way on principle.

Octopunk overblotted. Did MC get some self-preservation instincts and keep her mouth quiet for once? Of course not.

"Get over it, Azul! Bullying is cruel, but it isn't a damned reason to repeat the cycle! Grow a spine- do octopuses have spines? Oh well, grow one and stop fucking whining!"

...Leona is ready to wrap this suicidal prefect in bubble wrap and lock them in a spare room. Savannaclaw dorm has plenty of empty dorm rooms.

Yes, she's grown on him like a leech

By time Winter Break rolls around, he's just glad to have the prefect out of his dorm and have a reason to get away from her for a couple of weeks.

After all he really needs a nap

And if he "dropped" a better phone than the one Crowley got her in Ramshackle before taking off, well, it's definitely not because he doesn't trust Jamil or Azul

Not at all

#leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #fem reader #twst headcanons #twisted wonderland