#Big Fiddle Market

[rabbitcruiser]

National Violin Day 

Tune up your fiddle and get bowing, sign up to instrument lessons or attend a concert to hear the gorgeous sounds of a string orchestra.

The violin is easily the most well-known bowed string instrument across the world, and it is really not all that surprising to see that the violin does in fact have a day dedicated to its existence! After all, everything from Western and Indian classical music to bluegrass and jazz would be unimaginable today without the violin.

It is quite possibly the most versatile instrument in the world in terms of repertoire–and that must be why there is a special day all its own to celebrate the violin.

History of National Violin Day

The violin itself seems to have evolved from medieval instruments that were like fiddles. It came into its own distinct form by the 15th century, becoming the most popular virtuoso instrument in Europe by the 1660s. Most violins made today are copies after either Stradivarius or Amati, the latter being active as a violin maker in the 16th century.

Today, the violin not only remains an indispensable feature of western classical music, but has found its way into various forms of classical and folk music around the world as well as various other genres. There are a lot of violinists and fiddle players throughout the world today, so it is easy to see why National Violin Day has caught on!

In fact, the violin is present in the most prestigious musical groups in the world, including the Venetian Philharmonic Orchestra. Imagine an instrument with such humble beginnings becoming such an important mainstay of modern classical music.

Now it’s time to celebrate the day revolving around this humble instrument!

How to Celebrate National Violin Day

For those who want to get involved with National Violin Day but are not quite sure where to start, these ideas might help to set the stage for the day:

Play the Violin

Well, for those who happen to play the instrument, then it is a no-brainer to go ahead and play the violin in honor of National Violin Day. Get that violin out of its case, tune it, place some rosin on the bow, and get ready to make some beautiful music in honor of the day! And those who are a little bit out of practice might want to invest in some ear plugs for family members.

Go to a Violin Concert

For those who simply want to appreciate the sound of the violin without actually playing it, then it might be a great idea to go to a concert where the instrument would be played on National Violin Day.

Not sure where to go? Try out one of these important groups that is sure to feature a superb violinist or two:

Boston Symphony Orchestra Playing at Symphony Hall in Boston, Massachusetts, this orchestra also features a Young People’s Concert Series to allow the public to hear up-and-coming new talent.

Itzhak Perlman Undoubtedly one of the most talented violinists alive today, Perlman has achieved almost super star status with his instrument.

Trans-Siberian Orchestra Mixing classical music talent with rock band style, this group plays all round the world and, yes, they feature many songs with a violin. It’s not necessarily “classical”, but a modern ear for music just might love it.

Give a Gift to a Favorite Violinist

For those who happen to know someone interested in learning the violin but who doesn’t have an instrument – today would be the perfect occasion to gift that person a violin. Or gift something to a violinist in your circle, even if it’s just some sheet music, some rosin or just a little card to show appreciation for them and their attempt at mastery of the instrument.

The modern violin family includes not only the violin, but also the viola, the violoncello, and the double bass as well. So for those who know any cellists or violists, today would also be a great day to listen to them play or to get them a gift as well!

Watch a Film About the Violin

Interested in learning more but not ready for a live performance yet? That’s okay! National Violin Day is a great way to feed a mild interest by watching a film about the instrument. Whether fiction or documentary, these movies would be a great way to get started:

Music of the Heart (1999), starring Meryl Streep This biographical drama features the true store of Roberta Guaspari, who was a violin teacher in Harlem in the late 1980s.

Orchestra of Exiles (2012), written by Josh Aronson This documentary tells the true story of a Polish violinist who founded the Israel Philharmonic Orchestra.

Small Wonders (1995), directed by Allan Miller This is the Academy Award nominated documentary upon which Music of the Heart was based. It tells the story of the kids in East Harlem and their violinist teacher who went against the odds to play at Carnegie Hall.

A Late Quartet (2012), starring Christopher Walken This movie tells the story of a group of four struggling musicians who face serious challenges when their cellist is diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.

Start Taking Violin Lessons

For those who have ever had the inclination to learn the violin, or perhaps have one laying around unused, this day is just the perfect time to start taking violin lessons. Start with the basics like brushing up on how to read music and then get to practicing. Don’t forget other important equipment such as a practice mute, extra set of strings, metronome and a comfortable shoulder rest.

Source

[couldeatthatgirlforlunch]

I really loved your scenario of The Justice League AND The Ill reader,Lmao, poor reader they only need a rest.

Anyway, ever since I read the first part I was thinking about the kids, you know, the League Sidekicks, obviously The Reader knows them, due to work (I can really imagine Batman introducing His kids to the Reader to force a bond , And obviously The rest of The League does the same) So I had the headcanon that the reader really likes the children, they talk to them after missions, sometimes they buy them some gifts for their birthdays, they listen to them when they complain about their father figures (Therapist Reader), etc. But at the same time I can imagine The Reader being totally uncomfortable with his parents, so I can't help but think of a scenario in which The Reader is talking to the League kids in a good mood, but the League members walk in. to the room (They obviously saw the Happy Reader, so they want to gain some advantage) And The Reader just turns off, goes into business mode and is curt as always with the league, and when he finishes talking to the league, he goes back to talking to the children and their mood is happy again. Man I would love to see the league's reaction to the obvious reader favoritism

PD:I really love your work, you are amazing

Pd2:If The kids are yandere, ITS UP to you

A Week in Life: Take Your Kid to Work Day

Synopsis: A week in your life where you get a lot of new little friends, even if you know something’s sketchy about it.

Pairing: Yandere!Justice League X Assistant!Gn!Reader; Platonic!Yanderes! Robin (Dick), Superboy (Konner), Miss Martian, Kid Flash (Wally) and Aqualad (Kaldur'ahm)

Tw: A single implication about Hal’s past dub/non con incidente (blink and you miss it); Implied emotional manipulation, I guess? Justice League using kids as a manipulation tactic; A little angst, I think we all hate how Superman treated Conner, so I added that, so technically not a healthy relationship between them here, could be interpreted as Superman manipulating him or Superboy trying too hard to make his bio-dad like him; The kid’s ages are definitely not accurate canon wise, but what is canon anyway? I mixed their personalities and origins from Young Justice (along with their age gap) and for Superboy it was mainly the animated movie Reign of the Supermen; English is not my 1st language.

Word count: 3,3k

Requested? More than once.

Extra notes: Dick is 10, Kaldur'ahm, Conner, Megan and Wally are 13. I wish I knew more about the Wonder Girls to write about one of them, I felt bad for not adding them, but I would’ve felt worse writing for a character I have no idea how to write.

General masterlist | A Day in Life - Series masterlist

— I wasn't aware that there was a Take Your Kid to Work Day on schedule... — You said in a surprised, maybe taken aback, tone, if not a little strangled and sarcastic, even if a little happy. You rubbed your forehead, you knew your hunch was right…

Monday…

You’ve heard the rumors Gotham media was spreading for months now, you even asked Batman if you should prepare the marketing team in case of an emergency, he denied everything.

So why was it that now you were staring at a 10 year old dressed as a traffic light?

— Miss/Mister/Mx (Y/N)... I’m hungry… — Worst of all? The kid was cute.

You smile in a friendly manner.

— Okay, okay. Just give me a second, buddy, I need to talk to your… Dad…?! — You just now realized you didn't know their actual relationship. Batman only told you his name was Robin, that he was his partner, and that he was in the watchtower to observe. You didn't know superheroes accepted 10 year old interns, but whatever. The kid just stared blankly at you, not giving an actual answer to if you got your assumption right.

— Can I go with you? — Robin fiddled with his fingers. So cute. You nodded with a small smile. The kid jumped off his too big chair and ran towards you, surprising you by taking your hand. He had small hands. So cute.

You walked slowly, to accommodate to his height, in the direction of the door to the briefing room, where Batman was talking to John Stewart. This other Green Lantern was a breath of fresh air. The other one (the one who shouldn't be named) was away, working on another district of the universe since that whole… Less-than-consensual situation. You were happy and surprised when the League didn't just brush it off, and even compensated you for it, alongside making him go away. He either agreed to that, or caused the 3rd World War against the Justice League. It was a temporary predicament, but happier nonetheless, since John wasn't obsessed with you, unlike the rest of them, and easy to work with.

You cleared your throat so they would turn to you.

— Does Robin have any restrictions? He said he's hungry so I'm gonna take him to the kitchen. — You said politely. Batman shook his head.

— Just don't give him sugar. He needs to sleep before patrol tonight. — You raised your eyebrows in surprise and nodded your head. Batman looked at the boy. — Behave, chum. — You blinked, Robin nodded solemnly.

As you walked in the direction of the kitchen, the kid showed to be very happy and talkative. You were surprised, considering who his dad was, but it warmed your heart. At least it seemed he wasn't mistreated.

At some point, he let your hand go and started cartwheeling and doing acrobatics all the way there to show off his abilities to you. You gasped and clapped, praising his talent along with other workers from the crew who were passing the hall. You were slightly worried that he would fall and get hurt, but the kid was really confident in what he was doing (but they always are, until they fall).

When you got there, you were impressed that he wasn't even the slightest out of breath.

— Do you have games on your phone? — He asked, sitting down on a table while you rummaged the fridge for some sandwiches or any healthy snack, since you didn't know how his home diet was, but guessing by his build, which was a lot more athletic than kids his age are, he was probably pretty healthy. Son of the Bat.

— Hmm, I have Dress to Impress, Pou and Candy Crush.

— What is Pou? — Your heart panged and you sighed, feeling old.

— When were you born? 2010? — You walked towards him and settled a plate with a sandwich in front of him, before pouring a cup of juice.

— 2014. — Your mouth dropped, speechless. — Wait, so not even Stardew Valley? — You cleared your throat and shook your head, sitting beside him, while he started eating.

— Wait, can I even let you play? Does Batman let you have screen time? — He nodded.

— I have a phone. I just couldn't bring it with me today… He said he would show me around the tower, but he got busy with work… — He deflated a little at the end of the sentence, your heart broke. — Anyway… He told me I could distract myself. I just need your permission. — You bite your lip.

— Okay. How about we go to the recreational room and you can play some videogames while I work from the computer. — Robin nodded eagerly.

— Damn, you can't even play with me? Working sucks. That must be why adults are so boring. — You took a napkin and cleaned some food from his cheek.

— It's not that bad… You can do whatever you want. — He perked up.

— I guess so… — He looked you up and down. You prepared yourself for one of those moments where kids are so blunt that they don't know they could offend someone. — But you're not boring, (Y/N), you're cool. Must be why daddy likes you so much. And he doesn't like no one.

Tuesday…

Wow, what a weird coincidence. Just yesterday Batman brought his kid, and now Martian Manhunter brought his niece.

Miss Martian looked older than Robin, but again, she was a martian, her appearance was shifted to whatever she wanted to look like. All you knew was that she was young and new on Earth.

Right now, she looked very human. She had freckles and auburn hair. The only thing that made her stand out was the green of her skin.

When she presented herself to you, you got startled by her voice in your head, but you and Martian Manhunter softly explained to her that on Earth people didn't communicate through their minds, and it was kinda like an invasion of privacy. Kinda funny hearing him say that, but whatever.

Like Batman the day prior, Martian trusted the girl in your hands. So many coincidences, right?!

— So, honey, how old are you?

— Oh, on my home planet I should be about 39. But converting to Earth years, I’m 13. — She said with a shy but friendly smile, you smiled back.

— You’re pretty young then. How are you settling on Earth? Planning to go to school maybe? — She nodded.

— I just started the school year… I wasn't too sure about that, but my uncle said it would be good to learn human behaviors. — You nodded.

— American school is nice, I recommend you should take part in clubs. And don't feel pressured to make a billion friends. It's better to have one good friend, instead of 10 people you know but can't rely on. — She nodded, biting her lip.

— I already know some of the other sidekicks, I just don't have any civilian friends… I was thinking about joining the cheerleading team. — You gasped, excited.

— Oh, that's really good! I always wanted to join, but was never the sporty type. You’re sweet, I think that already gives you some points. — Her green cheeks got darker.

— You think so?! — Her voice got louder with excitement.

— Of course! Now let me give you some tips about the jocks, honey…

Wednesday…

Today, Flash brought Kid Flash. You haven't met him until now. The sequence of days the older heroes brought in their sidekicks was starting to look weird… But not that weird. Batman said he would give Robin a tour but became unavailable. Manhunter wanted Miss Martian to meet civilian people and have a good role model — you don't know why he decided that that role model should be you, but it made sense, so… —. Flash Said they would spend the day using the lab to experiment some more on Kid Flash’s still recently acquired powers. So. Coincidences, right?

The boy was 13 too, he had messy red hair and green eyes. Flash didn't specify their relationship, but their personalities definitely matched a little. Both a little hyperiperactive and smiley. Although that could be more of a speedster thing, especially the first part.

Like promised, they spent half that day on the lab, occasionally calling you for snack breaks. However, at some point, Flash gave an excuse and left you with the kid.

Huh.

— Sooo, what do you do around here? — Kid Flash asked, spinning around in a chair he found somewhere and rolled to the middle of your office in the blink of an eye. You half-smiled. It was nice not being crowded by those weirdos and being around fresh and youthful people, but it was starting to feel weird.

— I plan schedule appointments, organize team meetings, prepare agendas and itineraries, book meals and travel arrangements, handle record keeping and documentation, and make sure a project stays on budget. — The ginger blinked and stopped spinning.

— Uhh, you went to college for that? — You blinked.

— I did, why? — He chuckled slightly.

— Nothing, it's cool, sounds boring, though. — You nodded.

— What do you want to work with? — He looked to the side, thoughtful for a moment.

— I think I want to be a scientist.

— Oh really?

— Yeah, I like physics, mechanics and a little bit of chemistry. — You smirked.

— Chemistry? Sounds boring. — Kidflash froze for a second, wide-eyed, then relaxed and started laughing loudly. His chuckling prompted you to chuckle alongside him.

He used his feet to push the chair around your table and stopped at your side.

— Hey, can I see how much people get paid here? If I'm gonna be a member of the League one day, might as well optimize time and just work here. — You slapped his hands away when he reached for your computer, he pouted.

— Wouldn't that make it difficult to keep your secret identity hidden?! — Kid Flash stretched his arm, then draped it across your shoulders, you lifted an eyebrow.

— Babe. I'm a superhero. I could change clothes really fast right now and you wouldn't even notice. — You scoffed and lightly pushed him and his chair away.

— A phone booth would be more appropriate for that.

— What's a phone booth?

Thursday…

Superman brought Superboy.

Why the fuck are they doing that, bro?

You didn't even know they were close! Sure, Superboy is Superman and Lex Luthor’s clone, the whole world knew that, and that Superboy took to Superman's side. But they were never seen together, unlike Flash and Kid Flash, or Batman and Robin, for example.

Worst of all? It looked like the mood between them was… Weary. Especially on Superman’s part. Did he not trust Superboy? You could understand that… But look at his puppy sad face!

And not even five minutes later, Superman just flew away, saying something about a hurricane in Texas, AND SUPERBOY STAYED!

The silence was awkward for a few seconds. You thought back to the personality he showed when he was first announced by LexCorp, when Superman was considered dead. He was all over the media (Lex’s marketing team was good) with his charisma and flirty personality. Although he kept the leather jacket, his quietness surprised you.

You cleared your throat.

Superman brought Superboy.

Why the fuck are they doing that, bro?

You didn't even know they were close! Sure, Superboy is Superman and Lex Luthor’s clone, the whole world knew that, and that Superboy took to Superman's side. But they were never seen together, unlike Flash and Kid Flash, or Batman and Robin, for example.

Worst of all? It looked like the mood between them was… Weary. Especially on Superman’s part. Did he not trust Superboy? You could understand that… But look at his puppy sad face!

And not even five minutes later, Superman just flew away, saying something about a hurricane in Texas, AND SUPERBOY STAYED!

The silence was awkward for a few seconds. You thought back to the personality he showed when he was first announced by LexCorp, when Superman was considered dead. He was all over the media (Lex’s marketing team was good) with his charisma and flirty personality. Although he kept the leather jacket, his quietness surprised you.

You cleared your throat.

— So… Are you hungry? Wanna play videogames? — You grimaced slightly. He looked at you again, a little hesitant.

— Uh… I think so? — He blinked. — You guys have videogames here?! — He exclaimed, surprised. You chuckled.

— Oh yeah, for such a serious and stern guy, Batman really invested in the work environment. — You chuckled together, walking towards the recreational area.

You were curious about the earlier weird vibe, but didn't want to prod.

At first, you just let the boy play by himself, just sitting beside him and working while talking, that was until he paused the game between missions and stretched, then looked at you.

— Are you guys involved? — You looked at him with your eyebrows raised.

— You guys…? — He pursed his lips.

— You and Superman. — You grimaced slightly.

— Oh no, he's my boss, and not my type at all. — He nodded, looking pensive.

— He likes you. — You kept a blank expression, waiting for him to continue. — I like you too, so I can imagine why he likes you. — You stared at him, exasperated. He widened his eyes. — Not like that! — He raised his hands to deny. — It's just- I feel comfortable with you. I felt comfortable with some of his friends before, I didn't even know why, but I think it's because half of me is from him. Like I have some things from Lex since I was… Born… — He looked to the ground for a second, pouting lightly. — That's why Superman doesn't like me. — You widened your eyes.

— I'm sure he likes you! — Superboy looked at you like he didn't believe you.

— No, it's okay… He's polite, I guess. And took me in as his family, just not… As his son… More like a brother, or… A cousin… I mean, I can understand, I'm basically a hate baby, created by his biggest enemy to outdo and destroy him… — You shook your head.

You didn't know what to say, since you didn't know how their dynamic was like.

— H-He brought you here to spend time with you, didn't he? He just had an emergency to take care of… — He looked to the ground and then at you again. He didn't have the heart to tell you that's the first time they ever “hung out”, and that his genius brain clocked hours ago that Superman's plan was to create a connection between you both by orchestrating a connection with you and him. He also didn't want to bad mouth Clark. A part of him always would have hope that Superman would want to be closer to him one day.

Superboy looked at the clock and then at you.

— Don't you have a break? I can hear your stomach, I'm hungry too.

Friday…

This madness has to stop now.

— Nice to meet you, Aqualad. — You nodded at the boy with a small smile. You were a little mesmerized by his exotic appearance. He had brown skin, blonde hair in braids (where are his roots?) and blue eyes. His arms were also covered in tattoos that you knew had something to do with his abilities.

— I was showing him around the Watchtower, but now I have a meeting with Wonder Woman, why don't you two hang out for a while? — Aquaman, always the most obnoxious one. Their intentions were 100% clear now.

Aquaman didn't let you say anything else and left the room with said hero. You heard her murmur something about having to find her own apprentice to bring to the watchtower as soon as possible.

You looked at the boy, not knowing what to say.

— Have you ever been to Atlantis? — He surprised you by speaking first, his tone was gentle, if not a little monotonous, but he looked at you with interest.

— Uhhh, no? I’m not that good of a swimmer and I can't breathe underwater. — Aqualad smirked lightly.

— You wouldn't need to worry about breathing, there are multiple ways for humans to do that, from magic to technology. As for swimming… I'm sure we can find some sort of solution for that, also. And I doubt my king would be opposed to the idea of teaching you. — You nodded slowly. So much for subtly.

— … My vitamin D is low enough as it is, I’d rather stay on land, no offense. — The atlantean opened his mouth to speak but you beat him to it. — Aqualad! Do you like the food here? I've always been curious about your culture’s cuisine…

You kept talking for hours, eventually, Aqualad and you ended up in the training room, he offered to show you a little of his control over water bodies, and you, still a little fascinated over the convivence with superheroes, and this being the second time you met someone from Atlantis, accepted eagerly.

— This is just like H2O… — Kauldur’ahm blinked.

— It is water… — The boy confirmed, hesitantly. You laughed.

— No, no, not water. It's a TV show, it's about mermaids. I guess it isn't exactly accurate, but they can control water, just like you! — He nodded, slowly, contemplating. You looked at your watch, noticing your lunch time was due. You looked at him, shyly. — If you're up for it, we could watch it now… — That seemed to make him perk up a little and he nodded quickly.

— I would like to.

Monday…

— I wasn't aware that there was a Take Your Kid to Work Day on schedule... — You said in a surprised, maybe taken aback, tone, if not a little strangled and sarcastic, even if a little happy. You rubbed your forehead, you knew your hunch was right…

There they were, in the meeting room, all seated around the big roundtable, almost double the number of people who usually sit there.

Now, the food order they made, made sense.

You pushed the food cart forward, one for Flash. You came back and pushed another one, this one for Kid Flash, you ruffled his hair. Then, you walked back and pushed the 3rd food cart around the table, delivering each meal for each hero.

— Steak for Green Lantern. One black coffee for Batman. One meat sandwich and chocolate milk for Robin. — You squeezed his cheek. He smiled brightly at you. — Toast for Martian Manhunter and a slice of strawberry cake for Missy Miss Martian. — As you put the plate in front of her, you whispered that you wanted to know how the cheerleading team was going. She nodded happily. — A burger with fries for Aquaman, a smoothie and salad for Aqualad. Oh, did you change your hair? I like it! — You smiled brightly at the boy and his cheeks burned, he nodded. — Ice cream for Wonder Woman. Another burger and fries for Superman and another for Superboy. I see you followed my advice, your style really matches with those piercings. Tell me how you did it later. — You laughed carelessly and went to the door. — Need me for something more? — Your bosses shook their heads, stunned. You left and closed the door.

— Can't believe you guys actually did it… — John shook his head, disappointed at his teammates.

— I knew it would work. — Batman said, sipping from his drink.

— That's why we stole your idea when we knew about it. — Aquaman chuckled.

— I really need to find a sidekick. — Diana huffed.

Batman turned to Robin.

— You did a good job, chum. — Dick chuckled.

— Yeah, I even asked for a sandwich without the crust. Now (Y/N) think I'm the cutest here. — He smirked smugly. Wally scoffed.

— Yeah, right. She totally doesn't think you're an annoying kid. — The duo stared at each other. — I, for example, made them laugh. — The redhead puffed his chest proudly.

— Are you sure it wasn’t a pity laugh?! — Superboy snorted at Robin’s retort.

— Although Robin might be physically more adorable, and Kid Flash, in his words, made them laugh. (Y/N) and I started a TV show together, my king. — Aquaman nodded at his apprentice’s words.

— You did a good job.

— But (Y/N) actually said they wanted to talk to me later! That usually oficializes human’s friendships! — Megan said, softly.

— They said the same to me, the other day. That I could talk to them whenever I wanted… — Superman looked at Superboy, surprised. He felt awkward praising him, so he just nodded his head and looked away. Superboy pouted slightly.

— Because you told them your sob story, now they think you're a loser. — Conner glared at Dick. — Their physical language showed that they loved me, B! I honestly deserve an Oscar after that performance! They're gonna be ours before you suckers know it!

As a screaming match raised inside the room, the adult heroes looked at each other, lost for words, not only had the kids gotten you roped a bazillion times faster then they could ever dream, but also you were so amazing that they were enamored with you too.

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[writeriguess]

Heya! May i have a Mandalorian x fem!reader? She's like his mechanic or something but she's also very attached to Grogu and is very caring towards them both. Maybe they're out somewhere and are attacked and reader gets hurt protecting Grogu and Din realizes how much he cares for her?

author's note: Thank you so much for requesting <3

A Home Among the Stars

The hiss of pressurized air filled the workshop as you carefully adjusted the hydrospanner in your hand. Your fingers danced over the controls, tightening bolts along the Razor Crest’s engine panel. Despite the old ship’s wear and tear, it had a charm that only a mechanic could appreciate—or someone who spent hours trying to keep it in the sky.

And that someone was you.

“Din,” you called out, wiping your grease-covered hands on your pants. You didn’t care about appearances when it came to your work. “When’s the last time you actually replaced the heat shielding? This thing’s held together with spit and hope.”

Din Djarin, the Mandalorian clad in his beskar armor, leaned against the entryway, arms crossed. His helmet tilted slightly, and though you couldn’t see his face, you could almost feel his sheepishness.

“It works,” he said simply, voice smooth and modulated.

You rolled your eyes, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “Yeah, well, it won’t for long if you keep running it into blaster fire and letting Jawas ‘fix’ it with spare parts.”

A soft coo interrupted your lecture, and you glanced to the side to find Grogu perched on a crate, watching you intently. His big eyes sparkled with curiosity as his tiny hands fiddled with a stray bolt you’d left lying around.

“And you,” you said, smiling warmly as you crouched in front of him. “That’s not a toy, little guy.”

Grogu tilted his head, holding the bolt up as if in protest.

“Don’t encourage him,” Din muttered, stepping closer.

Ignoring the bounty hunter, you gently took the bolt from Grogu’s hands, replacing it with a small, smooth rock you kept in your pocket. It was something you’d found on one of your countless scavenging trips—a perfect fit for tiny hands.

“There,” you said softly, brushing your thumb over Grogu’s cheek. “Much better.”

The child made a happy sound, clutching the rock tightly. You couldn’t help but smile at the sight, your chest warming with a tenderness you hadn’t felt in years.

“You spoil him,” Din said, though his tone lacked any real bite.

You straightened, shooting him a look. “And you don’t?”

Din shrugged. “He’s—”

“Special,” you finished for him. “I know. And he deserves to be treated that way.”

For a moment, the two of you stood in silence, the hum of the ship and Grogu’s contented babbling filling the air.

“You’re good with him,” Din said eventually, his voice quieter than usual.

Your heart skipped a beat at the unexpected compliment. “He’s easy to love,” you replied, glancing at Grogu. “Both of you are.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you immediately busied yourself with your tools, pretending you hadn’t just bared your soul in the middle of an engine repair.

Din didn’t respond right away, and the weight of his gaze felt almost tangible. You wondered what thoughts were running through his mind behind that expressionless helmet.

“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You looked up, surprised. His stance had relaxed slightly, and though you couldn’t see his face, you felt the sincerity in his words.

“Anytime,” you said, giving him a small smile.

The planet was quiet, almost too quiet, as you followed Din through the narrow, winding paths of the market. It was the kind of place that seemed like it had more shadows than people, where eyes lingered too long and conversations hushed when strangers passed. Din walked ahead, his hand resting lightly on the blaster at his hip, while Grogu cooed softly from his floating pod beside you.

“Stick close,” Din said, his voice low but firm. He didn’t turn to look at you, but you could tell from the slight tilt of his helmet that he was checking on you regardless.

“I always do,” you replied, scanning the area. The market stalls were packed with all sorts of strange goods: glowing crystals, exotic fruits, scraps of tech you couldn’t identify. Despite the eerie atmosphere, you couldn’t help but feel a flicker of curiosity.

Grogu made a delighted sound as you passed a stall selling shiny trinkets, his little hands reaching out toward the wares.

“No,” Din said immediately, his tone that of a long-suffering parent.

“Oh, come on,” you said, smiling as you reached into your pocket. “It’s just a little shiny thing. Let him have it.”

Din sighed, but he didn’t stop you as you handed over a few credits to the vendor and picked up a small metal orb. You placed it in Grogu’s hands, and his wide eyes sparkled with joy as he turned it over, inspecting it like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

“You’re going to spoil him rotten,” Din muttered.

“That’s the goal,” you shot back, grinning.

The Mandalorian shook his head, but you could see the faintest tilt of his helmet that suggested amusement.

The moment of levity didn’t last long. A sharp noise—a blaster bolt cutting through the air—shattered the peace of the market. Din moved before you even processed what was happening, his blaster drawn and his body positioned protectively in front of you and Grogu.

“Get to cover,” he barked, his voice tense.

You didn’t argue. Scooping Grogu’s pod closer to you, you ducked behind a stack of crates, your heart pounding in your chest.

The attackers came into view a moment later—three figures clad in mismatched armor, their weapons raised. You didn’t recognize them, but their intent was clear.

“Hand over the kid,” one of them growled, his voice distorted by a crude helmet.

“Not happening,” Din replied coldly.

Blaster fire erupted, the sound deafening in the confined space. Din moved with precision, returning fire and taking down one of the attackers in seconds. But the others were quick, flanking him and forcing him to retreat closer to your position.

Your hands trembled as you reached for the small blaster Din had insisted you carry. You weren’t a fighter, not like him, but you weren’t about to sit idly by while he and Grogu were in danger.

Grogu whimpered, clutching the shiny orb you’d given him, and your resolve hardened. You shifted to shield his pod with your body, your eyes scanning for an opening.

One of the attackers broke away, heading straight for you.

“Din!” you shouted, but he was too occupied with the other assailant to intervene.

You didn’t think. You didn’t have time to. As the attacker raised his weapon, you lunged forward, firing your blaster. The shot went wide, but it was enough to throw him off. He snarled, swinging his rifle like a club. The impact caught you in the side, and pain exploded through your ribs as you hit the ground hard.

“Stay away from him!” you gasped, struggling to your feet.

The attacker ignored you, his focus locked on Grogu. Adrenaline surged through you, overriding the pain, and you threw yourself between them just as he raised his rifle again. The butt of the weapon struck your shoulder, sending you sprawling.

“Hey!” Din’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and furious.

Before the attacker could land another blow, Din was there. His blaster fired point-blank, dropping the man instantly.

The last assailant, realizing he was outmatched, fled, leaving the market eerily quiet once more.

Din turned to you, his helmet tilting as he took in your crumpled form.

“You’re hurt,” he said, his voice tight.

“I’m fine,” you lied, wincing as you tried to sit up.

“You’re not fine.” He was already kneeling beside you, his gloved hands hovering uncertainly before settling on your arm. “Why didn’t you stay behind cover?”

You glanced at Grogu, who was peering out of his pod with a worried expression. “I couldn’t let them hurt him,” you said simply.

Din was silent for a moment, his grip on your arm tightening slightly. Then, without a word, he scooped you up, carrying you as if you weighed nothing.

“Din—”

“Quiet,” he interrupted, his voice softer now but still firm. “We’re leaving.”

Grogu’s pod floated along beside him as he carried you back toward the Razor Crest, his stride purposeful.

Back on the ship, Din set you down carefully on the small cot in the corner of the hull. He moved with an efficiency that spoke of experience, pulling out a medkit and sitting beside you.

“Let me see,” he said, gesturing to your side.

“I told you, I’m fine—”

“Let me see,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You sighed, relenting as you pulled up your shirt to reveal the bruises blooming across your ribs. Din’s hands stilled for a moment before he reached out, his touch surprisingly gentle as he examined the injury.

“You’re reckless,” he said quietly, though there was no anger in his voice—only something softer, something you couldn’t quite name.

“You’re one to talk,” you muttered, earning a faint huff of amusement from him.

His gloved fingers lingered on your skin for a moment longer than necessary before he pulled away, reaching for a bacta patch. As he applied it, you noticed how careful he was, as if he was afraid of hurting you.

“Why would you do that?” he asked suddenly, his voice low.

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Do what?”

“Put yourself in danger like that.”

You hesitated, searching for the right words. “Because I care about him. About both of you.”

Din stilled, his helmet tilted down toward you. You couldn’t see his face, but you felt the intensity of his gaze all the same.

“You didn’t have to,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

“I did,” you said softly. “I’d do it again if I had to.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, slowly, Din reached up and rested his gloved hand on top of yours.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice filled with a depth of emotion you hadn’t heard before.

Later, you sat on the cot in the hull, your back pressed against the cool metal wall, a blanket wrapped loosely around your shoulders. The dull ache in your ribs had subsided slightly thanks to the bacta patch Din applied earlier, but the events of the day lingered like a storm cloud in your mind.

Grogu sat beside you on the cot, cooing softly as he fiddled with the shiny orb you'd given him earlier. Every now and then, he glanced up at you, his wide, soulful eyes filled with concern. You stroked the soft fuzz on his head absentmindedly, letting his quiet presence soothe you.

The sound of heavy footsteps broke your reverie. Din emerged from the cockpit, his armor catching the dim light as he made his way toward you. He stopped a few paces away, his helmet tilted slightly downward, as if he were unsure how to approach.

“You should be resting,” he said, his voice quieter than usual.

“I’m fine,” you replied, though you knew the strain in your voice betrayed you.

“You’re not,” he said, taking another step closer. He gestured to the bruises on your side. “That’s going to take time to heal. You should stay off your feet for a while.”

“And what about you?” you countered, raising an eyebrow. “When’s the last time you rested?”

He didn’t answer, his helmet tilting slightly as if to avoid your gaze.

“Exactly,” you said, shaking your head. “Don’t lecture me about rest when you’re just as bad at it.”

Din sighed, the sound soft but unmistakable. He stepped closer, lowering himself onto the bench across from you. For a moment, the two of you sat in silence, the hum of the ship filling the space between you.

“Why did you do it?” he asked suddenly, breaking the quiet. His voice was steady, but there was something beneath it—something raw.

“Do what?” you asked, though you already knew the answer.

“Put yourself in danger for him. For us.”

You glanced down at Grogu, who was now chewing on the edge of the blanket draped over your lap. “Because I care,” you said simply, your voice barely above a whisper.

Din didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His helmet was angled toward the floor, but you could feel the weight of his gaze even if you couldn’t see his eyes.

“I’ve seen people do reckless things for credits, for revenge, for power,” he said slowly. “But you… You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t even think about yourself.”

“I thought about Grogu,” you said, your tone firmer now. “And about you. I couldn’t just sit back and let something happen to either of you.”

His shoulders stiffened slightly, and you wondered if you’d said too much. But then he spoke again, his voice softer this time.

“You could’ve been killed.”

“I know.”

“And you’d do it again.”

It wasn’t a question, but you nodded anyway. “I would.”

Din leaned back against the wall, his gloved hands resting on his thighs. He stayed silent for a long moment, the tension in the air thick enough to cut.

“You shouldn’t have to,” he said finally, his voice barely audible.

You frowned, tilting your head to the side. “What do you mean?”

“It’s my job to protect him,” he said, his tone almost bitter. “And you. I should’ve been faster, better. You shouldn’t have had to step in.”

The guilt in his voice was palpable, and it twisted something in your chest. You leaned forward, reaching out to rest a hand on his arm.

“Din, you can’t be everywhere at once,” you said gently. “You did everything you could. You always do.”

He didn’t pull away from your touch, but his posture remained rigid. “It’s not enough,” he murmured.

“It is,” you insisted. “And even if it wasn’t, we’re a team, aren’t we? You don’t have to do everything on your own.”

He finally turned his helmet toward you, the reflective surface catching the faint light of the hull. “A team,” he repeated, as if testing the word.

“Yes,” you said firmly. “And a team watches out for each other. That’s what I was doing. Watching out for you and Grogu.”

Grogu chose that moment to coo softly, reaching out with his tiny hands to touch Din’s armored knee. The gesture seemed to break through some of the tension, and Din let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head.

“You spoil him,” he said, though his tone lacked any real admonishment.

“Someone has to,” you replied with a grin.

Din fell quiet again, but this time the silence felt different—less heavy, more contemplative. He reached out, gently brushing his gloved fingers over Grogu’s ear, eliciting a delighted squeal from the child.

“He cares about you,” Din said, his voice warm. “More than I’ve seen him care about anyone else.”

You felt a lump form in your throat, and you swallowed hard before answering. “I care about him, too. And you.”

The words hung in the air between you, heavier than you intended. Din’s helmet tilted slightly, as if he were studying you, and your heart raced under his scrutiny.

“I know,” he said finally, his voice quiet but certain.

You blinked, unsure how to respond. Before you could say anything, Din rose to his feet, his movements fluid and deliberate. He reached out, resting a hand on your shoulder—a brief, almost hesitant gesture, but one that sent warmth spreading through you.

“Get some rest,” he said, his voice soft. “I’ll take first watch.”

“Din—”

“Please,” he added, cutting you off.

The word caught you off guard. You nodded slowly, leaning back against the cot as Grogu snuggled closer to your side. Din lingered for a moment longer before turning and walking back toward the cockpit, his steps heavy but purposeful.

As the door hissed shut behind him, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. Grogu made a soft, contented sound, and you stroked his head absently, your thoughts spinning.

Din’s words echoed in your mind, mingling with the unspoken emotions you’d seen in his actions. There was something there—something deeper than duty, something neither of you were ready to name.

For now, you let it be.

Feel free to request <3

[sanguineterrain]

falling behind | spencer reid

Summary: During a movie night with Spencer, he confesses to you that he feels like he's falling behind, having never kissed anyone. You offer to catch him up.

(based on laufey's falling behind)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!bff!reader 

Word count: 2.4k

Warnings/tags: spencer's first kiss, s1/s2 spencer, best friend reader, kissing, mentions of sex, some angst at the end.

the divider

"I think you need another bookshelf, Doc," you say, narrowly dodging a stack of books that comes up to your hip. 

You’ve let yourself in for your traditional movie night that’s become far and few ever since Spencer started at the FBI. His days off are rare, but they’re always spent with you. You hang your coat and scarf over Spencer’s designated hook for you. Spencer’s putting about in the kitchen, cups clinking.

"I've been trying to find one at a flea market," Spencer says from the kitchen.

"Even though flea markets give you the heebie jeebies?" you call back, flipping through a thick hardcover about ancient Rome. Aaaand that's a naked man. You close the book. Spencer’s the mature one out of the two of you. That’s why he’s got books about Rome and you don’t. 

"I'm not crazy about bringing home furniture that was once in someone else's house, though it’s usually very cheap. Still! They could’ve had termites. And that’s a best-case scenario. You won’t believe what some people have in their houses.”

“Oh, I know. Pet dandruff. Mold spores. Your worst nightmare.”

Spencer appears with two mugs of Ovaltine. He's adorably cozy, cocooned in an oversized Caltech sweatshirt and green slacks with the giant cargo pockets he loves. They're so practical!

“There’s no need for sarcasm,” he says, mouth pursed the way it does when you’re being a smartass.

“There’s always a need,” you say cheerfully. 

He's wearing the Doctor Who socks you got him three years ago for his birthday. They're worn a little thin. You've offered to buy him new ones—Spencer insists these are still good.

“So how’s life in our nation’s capital?” you ask. “Besides all the serial killers.”

"Good. I still haven't gotten used to these D.C. winters but I feel a lot less silly making hot Ovaltine when it's not sixty-five degrees outside," he says, bending to set your mug down.

Instinctively, you pull out two coasters and Spencer puts your mug on one and cradles his own. He sits on the overstuffed couch he took from his mother's house. You'd helped him take it. You’d followed him out here, actually, after his second PhD, and you live just outside of D.C. because you’re not a big-shot FBI profiler. You’d split the cost of the U-Haul from California and stayed with him the first night because Spencer can’t sleep in unfamiliar darkness. 

It had been four years since you’d seen each other. You’d shared a bottle of cheap wine to celebrate his new job at the BAU. Later, Spencer cried over Diana and you held him through it. 

"Turning the heat on might help," you say.

"That's simply a luxury the FBI doesn't pay me for. Anyway, thermostats increase the chances of a fire. Especially if the pipes are old."

"We should ask your friend Penelope to hack a bank so you can buy a mansion," you say.

Spencer shakes his head and brings the mug to his lips. "Please don't give her any ideas. Are we starting the movies?"

"Yes! Home Alone?”

“Don’t we always start with your favorite?” he asks, smiling.

“We do. You indulge me, Spencestar.”

You get up to fiddle with Spencer’s ancient TV and DVD player. It takes a couple of strategic smacks to get it running, but you do and you put the DVD in. It’s a tradition, your holiday movie marathons with Spencer. 

You get up and unfurl the giant fluffy gray blanket that Spencer keeps neatly folded on the sofa. You sit next to him and pull the blanket over the both of you, then take your Ovaltine into your hands. 

“You know, you could always invite your new friends at the FBI for movie nights,” you say. “I’d be okay with that. As long as they understand that I'm your oldest and bestest friend and therefore take precedence.”

"As if I need you telling them embarrassing stories about me,” Spencer says, looking at you flatly. “I know your motivations. It’s bad enough that Derek calls me the baby bird of the bullpen."

“Derek is the one that set you up on a date?” 

“Ugh.” Spencer covers his face. “Please don’t remind me.”

It had only been a month ago, Spencer’s date with the sister of one of Derek’s friends. She’d been nice enough, according to Spencer, but you’d sensed more had happened he didn’t want to dive into. There was likely an underlying judgment that Spencer’s encountered too many times to not be sensitive to. 

But Spencer always got nervous about these things too. He had a habit of psyching himself out. For a long time, the only woman he’d ever had a full conversation with was you. 

The TV screen freezes. You groan and get up, putting your mug down. 

“Try moving the antenna,” he says.

“Yeah. The FBI should give flat-screen TVs for Christmas bonuses.”

You play around with the antennas. When that doesn’t work, you turn off the TV. It’s not an exact science—whether the TV wants to play or not is up to forces out of your control. Spencer thinks you have the magic touch, though. 

“That date was pretty bad, wasn’t it?” you ask, checking the wires behind the TV. You wiggle them around and try plugging and unplugging stuff. 

“No,” Spencer says lightly, in that mild, polite tone that might work on a stranger but hasn’t worked on you since fifth grade.

“Spencer…”

“It wasn’t!” he says. “Honestly, it wasn’t even her, it was… I don’t know. I felt so silly doing it. Like I was a kid trying to do adult things.”

“You are an adult. Is it playing?”

“No. Yeah, I know I am, but I also feel so behind. Like everybody learned stuff I didn’t and now I can’t do a simple thing like go on a date with a woman.”

“You’re not behind—ouch!” The TV shocks you and you snatch your hand back, grimacing.

Spencer stands up. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. Where was I? Right. You’re not behind, Spence, you’re the smartest person I know. You’re the smartest person most people know.”

It’s quiet for a moment. Then Spencer suddenly appears, kneeling next to you. You grin.

“Hi,” you say.

“Hi. You don’t have to get shocked so we can watch a movie. I can pull it up on my laptop.”

“No, I’m gonna make this work. Here, hold this.”

You hand Spencer a wire. He obediently holds it while you fiddle with the back of the TV.

“She tried to kiss me,” Spencer says quietly. 

You pause and look at him. “Who did?”

“The woman Derek set me up with.”

“Oh.” You put down the wire—you’re starting to get the feeling that this is the kind of conversation that can’t be had while you’re trying to fix a TV. “You didn’t tell me that. Did you?”

“No.” Spencer scowls. “I chickened out. I just… Derek would’ve told me to just kiss her because she was pretty and she wanted me. But I didn’t want to. And that’s so stupid, ‘cause I should’ve, right?”

“Spencer, there’s no rule for when you should and shouldn’t kiss someone as long as both parties want to kiss,” you say.

“Yeah, but I’ve never kissed anybody. I’m twenty-five and I’ve never kissed anyone. How pathetic is that?”

You frown and turn to face Spencer fully. “Hey. C’mon, where’s this coming from? You know I don’t think any less of you for never kissing or dating or any of that stuff. You do it when you wanna. And I’d tell anyone that. I’m not just telling you ‘cause you’re my best friend.”

“I know, but…” Spencer shakes his head and it hurts to see him so defeated. “I told that woman that I hadn’t kissed anyone and that’s why I didn’t kiss her. And the look she gave me was so… I-I’ve gotten that look before, but… and I could just tell she was thinking freak, freak!”

“Spencer,” you say, voice cracked like an egg, and his name is the soft yolk spilling out. “Oh, Spence. You’re not a freak. I told you that when we were fourteen and I still mean it. Nothing is wrong with you for never kissing anyone. And someone who thinks there is isn’t a person you want to be intimate with anyway.”

He sighs. “I just feel like I’m falling behind.”

You press your lips together. Then you make a decision and stand. 

“Come on,” you say, offering your hand.

Spencer takes your hand and lets you pull him up. “Where’re we going?”

“To the couch,” you say, more casual than you feel. 

Spencer follows you to the couch and you sit. You take a deep breath.

“Who would you want to have your first kiss with?” you ask.

He shrugs. “No one comes to mind.”

You bite your lip. “What about me?”

Spencer blinks. “I—what?”

Suddenly, you’re overwhelmed with all of Spencer’s attention on you. It doesn’t normally overwhelm you but considering the circumstances… 

“Well, um. It would be low-pressure, right? I mean, we’ve known each other for so long.”

Spencer licks his lips. You track the movement, then look away, embarrassed.

“I guess so,” he says. “But won’t it be weird? Kissing each other?”

Yeah, probably. “No, I don’t think so. Well, a little, but it’s just so you don’t feel out of sorts when you go on a date. It’s, like, practice.” That last point feels a little weak.

“Practice,” Spencer repeats.

“Yeah.”

It’s still and silent for several painful moments, and that’s when you contemplate bolting and changing your address. But then Spencer speaks.

“Okay,” he says. “If you’re definitely sure about it.”

“I am,” you say. 

He nods. You take that as an invitation to scoot closer so you’re facing each other. Spencer brings one knee up so you can be within kissing distance.

“So, um.” You clear your throat. “So when you kiss someone, it’s important to find a place for your hands. They can be on their face or their waist or arms.”

Spencer nods. “Got it. Like this?”

He puts his hands on your waist. You stutter on your next breath. You hope Spencer doesn’t notice.

Look, you’re not blind, okay? Spencer’s tall and cute and smart and a sweetheart and your roommate in college once commented on how he’s got hands made to finger a woman, which you’ve never been able to forget, much as you’ve tried. 

So yeah. You know your best friend’s good looking. You know he’s a catch. 

Does that mean you can be absolutely emotionless while kissing him? Not so much. 

But you love Spencer. You’d do anything for him. 

“Yeah, good.” You drape your hands loosely around his neck, his curls tickling your fingers. “Okay?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then you make eye contact but not too much. Don’t scare them.”

Spencer smiles with half of his mouth. “Don’t scare them. Noted.”

You roll your eyes. “Smartass. Alright, then you, um…”

“Kiss?” he asks.

You nod. “Y-yeah. Then you lean in and kiss.”

You press your lips to Spencer’s lightly. His mouth is soft but he’s stiff, which means he’s going to kiss stiffly.

“Relax, Spencestar,” you say against his mouth. “‘S okay. Part your lips a little.”

“Like this?” he asks, his mouth losing some tension.

“Exactly. Fit your lips to mine.”

Spencer’s warm, his breath tickling your mouth. Your heart feels like it’s going to beat right up your throat and into Spencer. 

“I read about kissing,” he says. “For research.”

That makes you smile, a short laugh slipping out. You rest your forehead on his mouth by accident. 

“What?” he asks against your skin, smile clear in his voice. The sensation gives you shivers.

“Nothing. You’re sweet, Spence,” you say. 

You lift your head and close your eyes. And then you kiss him. 

Spencer kisses gently, which you never thought about in-depth, but experiencing it now, it makes sense that he does. He’s so gentle in everything else, from the way he opens doors to letting you have the last bite of pasta. Of course Spencer kisses the way he lives in the world: kindly. 

Your hands slip to his jaw to guide him. Your kisses are short first, to warm him up. You feel Spencer’s pulse in his neck under your palm, feel his easy hold on your hips, the way he twists a loose thread on your shirt.

“You can be a little more firm. Move your hands around,” you say, and Spencer nods.

He kisses you with a little more pressure, ever the quick learner. His hands travel up your spine and down, like he’s soothing you. It makes an unexpected sob work up your throat and you quickly swallow it down. 

You thread your hand through his hair, your senses completely surrounded by him. Spencer’s more confident now, pulling you into him slightly, curving your back with his palms. 

And before you do something really stupid, like kiss his neck or tell him you love him, you pull back. Spencer’s eyes fly open when yours do. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he asks.

“No, no. You were good. That was good, Spencer. I just, uh… we’ve been kissing for a while, so I figured…”

“Oh.” His face turns pink. “Right, yeah.”

“Yeah.” You scratch your neck. “But that was good. It just takes practice.”

Spencer nods a lot. “Yes, of course. Like any skill.”

“Exactly.”

You drink your Ovaltine, needing to put your attention on anything but Spencer’s kiss-swollen lips. The Ovaltine is cold. You make a face.

“I’ll reheat it,” Spencer says, practically leaping from the couch. “Be right back.”

“I’ll try to get the movie started,” you say, making a beeline for the TV.

You turn it on, trying to calm your fluttering heart. This time, the movie plays with no issues. Of course when you want it to have issues so you don’t have to be curled up next to Spencer on the couch, it doesn’t. Figures. 

Hesitantly, you return to the couch. Spencer comes out a few minutes later with your reheated mugs. He gives you yours and sits on the far end of the couch.

“Want the blanket?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “I’m okay. I warmed up.”

The movie continues from where it froze. You and Spencer watch that one, then Home Alone 2, then the Muppets Christmas Carol. 

And it’s fine, it’s normal. It’s normal, except you’ve just kissed your best friend. And Spencer doesn’t curl up next to you under the blanket for the rest of the night. You get this sinking feeling, wondering if catching your best friend up comes at a bigger cost than you thought. 

[woso-dreamzzz]

Icy: Christmas

Mapi León x Ingrid Engen x Teen!Reader

Summary: Christmas with Tontos

You stare at yourself in the mirror, fiddling with the cuff of your stupid Christmas jumper.

Mapi got it for you to match her and Ingrid's own stupid ones.

She'd called it a family set.

A family set.

You look down at it in the mirror, watching the googly eyes of the baby Brussel sprout shake a little in time with your breathing.

Mapi had bestowed Ingrid with the Mummy Sprout while she took the Daddy Sprout even as she ranted and raved about it being so straight and so annoying.

But you stare at yourself in the mirror now, in your ugly Christmas jumper from Mapi and an old pair of Ingrid's pyjama bottoms after your own started getting holes in them.

A family set.

You don't think you've ever been given a family set of anything before, let alone ever actually worn it.

Your parents usually summoned you to their side for Christmas, to attend whatever Christmas parties they had planned so you could smile and talk to whoever they deemed were on the up and up at the time, hoping to get in with them before they were unapproachable again.

Your parents had fingers in every major market they could get into, worming their ways to whoever was powerful and rich and had enough influence to help them in ways you never quite understood.

You're part of that plan. You've always been part of that plan.

But not this year.

Either they've decided not to go about their usual plan (doubtful) or whatever meetings they've got planned excludes under-eighteens (more likely).

But this has never happened before.

You've always been part of their plans, unwilling as you've always been but now you feel adrift without your familiar routine.

Staring at yourself in the mirror in Ingrid's pyjama bottoms and the stupid jumper Mapi bought and thought of you.

A knock on your doorframe startles you and you nearly jump out of your skin, making eye contact with Ingrid through your reflections in the mirror.

"You doing okay? Mapi's yelled for you twice now."

Your face heats up and you tear your eyes from the mirror so you can't see the red colour you're slowly turning. You look at Ingrid properly now, facing her as she wears her Mummy Sprout jumper.

"Sorry...I...er, I was just thinking."

"Good thoughts?"

"Just...thoughts."

Ingrid smiles at you fondly. "Well, can you take a moment away from those thoughts? Because Mapi wants to open a present."

"It's Christmas Eve," You say, allowing Ingrid to guide you into the living room where Mapi was inspecting the pile of presents under the tree," Aren't you meant to wait until Christmas Day to open presents?"

"We can do things our own way," Ingrid says dismissively," Make up our own family traditions."

There's that word again.

Family.

You have a family back home, kind of. You think. You have a family in the traditional sense. You had a mother and a father and they kept you fed and watered and made sure you always had a roof over your head.

You were a family in the traditional sense. Sure, they never came to your matches and were rarely around the house but they did the important things like making sure you didn't go hungry and always had no clothes when you needed them.

That had to count for something.

That had to show you were a family in some way.

But you had a family with Mapi and Ingrid too.

They made you dinner after a long day at training and made sure you had all of your schoolwork ready to be handed in. They got you a pet lizard, your handsome boy Toast who was your favourite boy in the world. They gave you soft pats and high fives and big hugs at any moment of the day.

All you needed to do was ask and sometimes when you didn't ask.

But always when you needed it.

Like now as Ingrid pulls you into her side on the sofa while Mapi plucks a present from the pile.

"It's from us," She says with one of the big grins she always gets when she's excited," Open it! Open it!"

It's clearly been wrapped by Mapi, a little messy but with so much love.

"Go on," Ingrid says," Don't keep us waiting."

You don't know why your hands are shaking as your tear open the wrapping paper. You don't know why you feel so choked up about everything. You don't know why your heart beats with some strange emotion as you glance at Mapi and Ingrid's smiling faces.

"It was difficult to find something to get you," Mapi starts talking, like she always does, and it settles your nerves, like it always does," Because you can easily buy yourself what you want, whenever you want."

"Oh..." You say, looking down at the gift in your hand," I'm sorry I made it difficult."

"It's not your fault," Ingrid says, gently rubbing your arm and allowing you to relax into her steady body next to you," But we think we managed to get you something better than anything we could buy you."

It feels like a book as you unwrap the paper.

You guess, in a sense, it is.

But, if you were to be specific, it was a photo album.

Your hands are still shaking as you open it, throat bobbing as you slip the pages.

"And that's us at the water park we took you to during the summer! And that's us when we went to that cat café! And this is the day we brought Toast home! And...You're crying. Oh...We've made you cry. Ingrid, we made her cry."

"Good tears, Mapi," Ingrid says, tucking you into her shoulder so you can keep at least a shred of your dignity," Happy tears. She's happy."

"Very happy," You choke out," So happy. Thank you."

"There's space at the back as well," Ingrid says to you," For next year and all the things we do then."

"Yeah," You say, wiping your tears," Thank you."

"You don't need to keep saying thank you," Mapi says," We're all family here."

[starmapz]

❝ in which ryomen sukuna surprises you on your birthday ❞ ❦ cw ; gn!reader. fluff. ❦ words ; 478

masterlist

The King of Curses doesn’t make himself easy to love, but it comes easily to you.

Although he makes it clear he loves you in his own somewhat twisted way, you don’t expect from him what you would from a more traditional partner. You don’t expect him to handle chores around the estate (though he’s begrudging that you do any to begin with), you don’t expect him to tell you about his day and make small talk before bed.

You certainly don’t expect him to celebrate human traditions like birthdays, especially when he doesn’t celebrate his own. He won’t even tell you when it is.

So when he requests your presence in his chambers, what you don’t expect is for the big bad king to be holding a small plate with a pastry in one hand and a long velvet box in the other.

Blinking in surprise, you approach him slowly, eyeing him curiously. “What’s this for?”

“It is your birthday, dove.”

You could laugh at just how uncharacteristically soft this all is for him, but what does make you laugh is the way he practically shoves the gifts towards you. Sukuna’s gifted things to you before, but they’re generally robes or practical items for around the estate.

Setting the plate aside momentarily, you gingerly open the velvet box, eyes widening at the sight of a necklace you’d eyed several months ago while perusing a market. Sukuna had ushered you along, seemingly too busy to pay mind to the necklace you had your eyes on, but it seemed that wasn’t the case.

“You went back for it?” You gasp in disbelief. He doesn’t say a word, four crimson eyes trained on you with a neutral expression as he observes your reaction. “Thank you, Kuna, it’s beautiful. I didn’t know you saw me looking at this.”

“I am always paying attention to you.”

You smile up at him, reaching forward to wrap your arms around the column of his neck as you press a cheerful kiss to his lips. Four strong arms wrap around your torso on instinct as you approach him, the tips of his fingers gripping you tightly.

You may not expect from Sukuna what you would from a traditional partner, but as he fiddles with the tiny clasp of the necklace with a frustrated grunt, you know that he cares. He shows his love through the little things, like not breaking the clasp in his frustration to open it as you giggle at the King.

When it finally sits around your neck, Sukuna huffs, but a rare tender adoration swirls in his sharp eyes as he admires you, adorned with a gift he got you for your birthday. His lips twitch up into a smirk as you grin, one more sign that although he may not say it aloud, Sukuna is hopelessly in love with you.

masterlist

❦ a/n ; a lil gift to myself for my birthday :) enjoy!

[fhrlclln]

I. haunting you, haunting me | qimir

SUMMARY -> lies, deceptions & betrayals all beneath an innocent persona but does love still hold strong?

qimir x fem! reader

masterlist | part II

GENRE -> angst, fluff & semi-nsfw

WC -> 3.93k

a/n: pogiiiii 😫😝😗

likes, comments and reposts are greatly appreciated !! <3

enjoy !!

you met him in one bustling day in the market in olega.

it was like any other day for you there but all changed when he had arrived. you had been doing your weekly shopping in the market, casually checking the fresh produce among the stalls. the crowd here was tight so you had squeeze in a bit to get out of the market once you had finished finding the items you needed for supper later. you sigh, trying to dodge as many people as possible but it became overwhelming when they came walking in from all sides.

“excuse- oof!” you bumped into a someone cutting off your words. you were about to apologize as you whip your head to the person you bumped into.

your eyes met instantly and the apology escaping your lips doesn’t come out.

“sorry.” the man in front of you beats you to it. he has this awkward smile on his face even though his black greasy locks concealed most of it. and the first thought that pops in your head is that… he’s cute. and the second thought coming right after immediately is does he bathe often?

your cheeks heat up realizing how long you were staring at his smile and his hair as you composed yourself. “it’s alright. i wasn’t looking, sorry. have a nice day.” you awkwardly averted your gaze from him as you made your way pass him. you could still feel his gaze at you as you walked away. you didn't know what compelled you to look back but you did, seeing that he was already gone. huh.

you thought about the stranger since that day yet you knew you wouldn’t see him again. people come and go, even the cute ones, you think to yourself. the city was big here in olega and it was a common planet for travelers, merchants or all kinds of people to land in and go.

yet you were absolutely wrong about that.

the second time you went to the market, he was there, shopping as well- or it seemed like he was browsing than shopping. it made you chuckle when a street vendor had scolded him for looking at the produce for too long. your chuckle may have went to his ears as he looked towards you, offering a small smile and a wave in which you reciprocated by smiling back at him, continuing on with your day. the anticipation lingering in the air. you thought he might be a merchant or some kind but that curiosity in you flew away as you remembered he was just a stranger here. a cute one, yes.

the third time you met him was out of coincidence really. the local apothecary that you go to despite its reputation for offering the illegal assets... they supplied you with medicinal herbs that you often use in your home cooking and personal use. and that's when you had finally got to know who this stranger is.

going in, you expected the owner greet you as usual yet you were met with the familiar greasy black locks of a man standing behind the counter. he’s wearing those loose clothing of his. he was fiddling with something in his hands, seeming to be in deep concentration until you stood in front of the counter. peering over to see what he’s toying with until he flinched when he saw you, clumsily dropping the thing he was fiddling with as he met your gaze and small your smile of amusement.

"sorry!" he places the object on the counter, still managing to topple it over as he quickly catches it and places it upright at last. he coughs, embarrassment etched across his face. "w-what can i do for you?"

"did the previous owner sell this place to you?" you asked, curiosity in your tone. the shop doesn't look new, it still looked the same as the last time you've been here. "you're new." you point out, tilting your head to the side a bit as you looked at him, as if to observe him.

"yeah, yeah- he did. i own the shop now." he lies, well in truth he does own it now. there's a nervousness in his tone but he offers that awkward smile with it. "i'm qimir. is... there anything i can do for you, valued customer?" he stretches his hand out for a friendly handshake in which you reciprocated, saying your name as well.

"i'm a valued customer already?" you laugh as he chuckles at that.

"well, if you were a valued customer before then you are still now." he shrugs as you nod at that in amusement.

"thank you then." you say as you again met his dark orbs. there's this look in his eyes you cannot decipher but yet it makes your heart soar from the way he looks at you.

"just some few medicinal herbs please." you finally requested as qimir nods, reaching under his counter as he pulls out a pouch. you pulled out some credits as qimir places the pouch down on the counter with a glint in his eyes.

"it's on the house." he pushes the credits back to you. you were about to refuse yet he shakes his head. "on the house, for a valued customer. please." his pitch lowers as he leans forward with the pouch of herbs in his hands, gesturing for you to take it. you stare at him, an overwhelming feeling surges in the air of how close he is now to you.

"that's very kind of you." you match his pitch as he smiles. "thank you, qimir."

“no problem.” he says. an impulsive thought crosses your mind, not wanting to leave it like this as you unconsciously blurt it out.

“do you like stew?”

qimir blinks, suddenly confused yet he answers “i do… yes.”

your cheeks heat up, suddenly embarrassed how random that was. “g-good. if you like, you could… you know-“ the words struggle to come past your lips of how embarrassed you are to ask him to join you for supper.

“are you asking me to join you for dinner?” qimir smiles at that.

“yes… if you’d like. my home’s not far away from here and i was hoping to make something out of these herbs.” you turn away shyly as qimir chuckles.

“no, no, no- i love to! it’s just that…” he scratches his head, shrugging. “am i not a stranger?”

you hum. “i know your name, right?”

“yeah.”

“then you’re not a stranger to me.” you said casually. he is stunned for a moment at that, how willing you are to invite him in your home. the nervousness in you arose as you ready yourself for him to say no.

“okay then.”

and maybe that’s when things started to drastically change in your mundane life here in olega. qimir, the stranger from the market, had quickly grown a budding friendship with the moment you had invited him in your home. you got know him a little bit despite the secrecy he was harboring from times. you didn’t press any further from that, you just enjoyed his company he gave you.

and maybe it did change for him as well.

you were something… beautiful yes. curious and all the ways so innocent in his eyes. you were like a shining stone in midst of all the people in this planet. he momentarily thought that this was a bad idea… accepting your invitation. he had a mission and he wasn’t risking any distractions as of now. but yet, he could not resist the stirring desire just like he didn’t resist when the darkness came to him. you were somewhat like that. something he can’t resist.

amidst his mission on this planet. you had made his lonely way come to life. he cherished how you’d offer him now to dine with you or converse with him in conversation in his apothecary. the friendship you offered him was one he enjoys now. even his pupil had seem to catch on the lingering gaze of his towards you.

“you like that woman.” mae points out, you were in the apothecary moments ago with qimir until mae had interrupted.

“what’s it to you?” he defends himself, making the poison she’s requesting to kill one of the jedis in her mission here.

“i don’t think the master would approve of that.” mae says as he scrunches the bunda leaves she provided into the serum he made.

“i’m sure he won’t mind.”

“so… you do like her-“

“shut up.” qimir rolled his eyes. yes, he likes you. dangerously so. the gnawing desire inside him grew so rapidly that the thought of mae’s mission ending soured him. the thought of leaving you in this planet. he thinks about that, wondering if you’d say yes if he asked you to leave with him. you did mention that you wanted more than your mundane life here in olega.

“i should become a collector, don’t you think?” you say randomly one time. you were in his apothecary, sitting behind the counter while he fiddled with his merchandise.

“a collector, huh?” he looks at you, wondering why.

you stand up, walking towards him to his side. “i’d get to explore planets, maybe i can sell the relics i find for credits and i won’t be bound to one place.” you hummed thoughtfully. “i think that’ll make my life exciting.”

“why not a smuggler then? or a trader?” he asks as you chuckled.

“i said exciting, qimir.” you roll your eyes at him as he smiled.

“hey, my life was exciting when i was still dealing with the hutts.” he defends.

“yes, dangerously.” you point out. “but yes, exciting.”

you were a plague in his mind. a plague that he could not handle. your smiles were so innocent, like you were the first pure thing to come across him in his whole life. something not tainted but pure in all ways that made his heart soar loudly. and he felt like he fell in deeper with you and it ached him that the time he had in this planet was ticking.

and so it did. the jedis had found out about mae and eventually him, after they interrogated him in the apothecary and he ratted his pupil out. and of course, they needed to leave the city immediately and on to the next mission.

“i’ll come back. i promise.” he clasps your hands to his one night when he visited you in your home out of the blue as he was about to flee olega with mae. “i just need to lay low for a while.”

“there’s something more to this, is there?” you ask, your brows scrunched up in confusion while your eyes didn’t hide the sadness of him leaving. you knew about mae and you knew about the whole thing with her mission and him being involved with that. yet you did not know there was something more.

“yes.” he admits, taking in your features. his chest tightening as he rubs his thumb against your skin. “i’m sorry. i promise i’ll explain when i come back from khofar.”

you stare at him, conflicted, and he doesn’t waste time to kiss your forehead, concealing the promise.

“okay.” you say sadly as you watch him leave in the dead of night.

qimir couldn’t shake that image in his head once him and mae arrived in khofar. the forests were overwhelming and his thoughts go straight to you. he ponders now, wondering if he should stop lying to you that he wasn’t just some former smuggler or apothecary owner- that he was something more and he wonders if you’d accept him, the real him.

and that thought circulates him as he’s slicing every jedi dead here from getting in his way.

his mask is broken as the padawan he stabs falls to the ground. his two red sabers gleaming in the darkness. blood is spilled everywhere. he feels alive and eager- so eager to come back to you once he’s done here. master sol’s face contorts into anguish seeing jecki had fallen. it continues with him throwing his cloak out to the jedi as he uses the force to bring mae to him as he strangles her with one hand.

“you really didn’t know it was me…” he tightens his grip as mae struggles. “not even deep down?”

a disturbance in the force causes him to light his saber up as he felt someone creeping from his side. he feels a strong pulse of the force causing mae to be thrown back away him. he sneers, seeing if it was sol yet a slash of a saber causes him to defend himself as he registers the offender in front of him.

“you…” his eyes widened as his grip on his saber tightens as you pushed yours strongly. the hue of your blue saber in contrast with his causes him to momentarily let his guard down.

you stare at him, the heat of both sabers touching your cheeks. sweats beads against your forehead as you looked him with the same look of curiosity yet mixed with determination to kill him. qimir’s eyes showed a lot of emotions yet you could distinguish one in particular…

betrayed.

“a jedi? all this time?” he huffs, pushing forward as your sabers made a sound. you don’t answer as you suddenly pushed him back with your force, causing him to hit a tree. he groans as you held your lightsaber more loosely now as you stared back at him.

“not a jedi.” you say as a flicker of emotion crosses his face. he stands up, his nostrils flaring, a mix of emotions flooding his mind. his gaze is focused on you but all the attention was now dismissed as yord tries to land a blow on him. he’ll deal with you later.

the fight ends quickly. a number of jedi had already fallen under qimir’s blade except for master sol and the twins. you’re here now, with the sun up as you kneeled before an unconscious osha as you healed her wounds with a wave of your hands, channeling the force to seal up her battered skin. mae must have escaped.

“you deceived me.” qimir says from behind.

you look back to him as you continued to mend the young girl’s small wounds. “we both did.” you merely say.

“yet you were not surprised it was me.”

“i had my thoughts.” you shrug, standing up as you drape your cloak over osha. “from the moment you started to open to me.” you turn around now to face him.

here he was, arms glistening with sweat and battered with dirt. his locks were still covering his face. his black robe suits him and you take a moment to admire him before staring back at his distrustful gaze. he steps forward, you remain in place, he takes another step and the distance between you inches closer. his eyes were searching for something in yours despite this hardened aura he gives.

in truth, you didn’t really know that he was mae’s master for the first few times you were with him. he was good at concealing it, though the longer he started to spend time with you and opened his heart slightly, you already knew- in someway. meeting with master sol and the other jedis were merely a coincidence, they had also sought you out after interrogating qimir. and when you knew they all were heading to khofar, you had to as well.

“i should kill you-“

“you can but you won’t.” you say and gently raise your hand to sweep his dark locks off his face. to really see him clearly now. qimir tenses at your actions yet relaxes as you cup his cheek with your hand. “what’s stopping you?”

“you.” he whispers, reeling in to the warmness of your palm. even though he was conflicted with the idea of you being force-sensitive and trained, he thought for a moment that you were entirely different after revealing the real you but the longer he stares at your eyes, he just finds that same innocent orbs staring back at him.

“you tried to kill me.” he points out as your hand falls down to your side.

“you were trying to kill mae and her.” you sighed as you look down to osha.

“we should get out of here. the order would want to find their fallen.” you look pass him to see the bodies of jedis you had gently draped their cloaks over them. placing their sabers on top of them. qimir looks back at it, seeing that you honored them. he doesn’t question or argue further as he nods at your advice.

・゜゜・．

the sound of waves crashing is a soothing sound that makes you relax for a bit in this unknown planet that qimir had brought you and osha on. you clutch your cloak around you, the sea breeze is cold but comforting outside the cave in which you presumed this must be his real home.

"i'm going to wash up." qimir silently says behind you as you nod at him, seeing that he has his satchel and fresh robes in his hands.

"don't go too long." you say quietly as he nods. you could still feel the uncertainty in him towards you and by the looks of his eyes, the sadness is still there. he walks away, heading towards the rocky shores. you go back in the cave, wanting to look over the unconscious osha but by the looks of it, she's stirring awake as she sits up on the bed.

"how are you feeling?" you ask gently as you pick up the water qimir provided.

"i'm fine." osha says as she accepts the cup you are offering to her as she drinks from it. by the way she looks at you, she's also uncertain if she should trust you.

"i mean no harm." you say as osha quietly nods.

"why are you with him? why am i here?" she asks, a hurt in her voice. "he killed... he killed them all and you... you defended us. why?"

"i have my reasons." you answer her. "and as for coming with him... i-" you pause, this time you don't have a really solid answer. "i don't know."

but you do know, deep inside you, you knew you couldn't resist the man.

"where is he?" osha stands up quickly. a rage in her crackles as you don't stop her from walking towards the exit.

"by the shores, washing up." you tell her as she nods. you watch her go, knowing why qimir had brought her here. and it pains you to see the young girl so conflicted with her path... just like you had before. the desire of freedom.

you leave osha and qimir to discuss themselves in their matters as you went ahead to the lagoon where qimir had bathed, needing a bath for yourself. placing your saber, well your master's lightsaber on your discarded robes, you dip in the cool sea water. you shiver, the rocks beneath your feet made your steps in the water a bit wobbly but as you dunk your whole body in, the relief washes over your tired body.

"it's rude to stare." you call out, turning around to see qimir by the shores. you smile at him as he chuckles. he was dressed in a cream loose tunic, with his hair still damp. his eyes roam over your figure in the water and you feel like you're more bare with the way his eyes are on you.

"you're beautiful." he says silently, not bothering to tear away his gaze from your body.

"thank you." you hum. "you're not so bad yourself." you tease.

"osha wonders what or who you are..." he begins, sitting by the big rock near your robes. "and i find myself asking the same."

"i'm not a jedi..." you begin with the obvious. "my master was but he longed departed with the order. i was trained in olega in secrecy until my master passed." you say sadly as he nods in understanding.

"why didn't you tell me?"

"and why didn't you tell me you're a sith?" you countered as he hums at that. "if you asked, i would've answered." you answer his question.

"i was going to tell you... i promised you an explanation." he says as you nodded.

"why osha?" you ask now, curious with his answer.

"i need a pupil. an acolyte." he answers, a desperation in his tone.

"the rule of two was it?" his head shoots up to that. "my master didn't hinder his teachings about the other path, qimir."

"yes." he nods. "the power of two."

"you know this isn't osha's path. i do not wish to interfere but-"

"that is jedi of you to say. what do you know of osha's path? her anger, her fear, her pain, she'll embrace it once she's accepted for who she really is." he strongly says as you sighed, walking towards the shore as qimir's gaze follows your every move.

"i do not know her path, yes, neither do you. she will only know it herself." you say strongly. "but that doesn't mean you have to sway her with your influence. your familiarity with what she's dealt with."

qimir stands up quickly from where he sat as he comes near you. "i've learned to accept my darkness. i see potential in her than her sister. i thought mae wanted the same as i did. revenge. but osha... osha knows."

"you thought so." you mirrored his words as you feel his breath tingle on your cheeks of how close he is. "give the girl time to understand. if she wishes to become your pupil, then so be it."

"what of you?" he asks now as you raise a brow.

"what do you want from me?" he asks again, the confusion in him of why you chose to stick around has made him feel in daze.

"qimir..." you're about to part from him but he grips your bare hips, holding you close. "i don't know." you whisper as you gaze into his eyes. water drips down your back as you hold yourself steady by placing your hands on his chiseled chest.

"you don't know?" he whispers back as his gaze flicks from your eyes to your open lips.

"i don't..." you huff, the swimming desire in you igniting as he smirks.

"maybe i don't need an acolyte..." he says thoughtfully as he presses against making you shiver. his hand roam to your hips up to your waist. "an equal, perhaps?"

the tension breaks as he locks your lips with yours with such fervor and desperation, it makes your head dizzy as you reciprocated back with much eagerness. you moan into his mouth as you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him in for more. your body feels like molten lava from the way he's holding you. the subtle arousal in you peaks as you feel his press hard against your stomach. it ignites you. the answer you refuse to tell is as evident as your desire for him. you break away for a moment as an emotion crosses qimir's face. underneath the lies, deceptions and betrayals... was it desire and... love?

"from the moment i met you in that market, i just knew..." you confessed. "i just knew i wanted you."

his heart soars, beating loudly as he presses his forehead against yours as he whispers back with much devotion.

"and i you."

・゜゜・．

part two for the real boinking? ;)

[pedrospookie]

Hi pookie 🎀

I always think about what Jack Daniels would be like on a first date with reader after his wife’s death, maybe years have passed and he’s ready to start dating again. I could just imagine how sweet he would be when he flirts with you, trying his best to get you to like him 😭 fluffy fluff please 🩷

Hi friend!

Thank you so much for your patience while I wrote this fic— life got the best of me going into the holidays and I had some unexpected international travel on top of it all. I was determined like hell to get this finished for you today. I hope you like it!

Your Song

Jack Daniels x f!reader

a/n: not canon, jack will never be dead in my world, sorry not sorry! it’s also severely unbeta’d and completed while maxed out on mucinex so please forgive me for any plot holes or spelling mistakes. I also fear I went a lil rogue and made it a lil more sexy than sweet (I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry pls don’t hate me)

tw: mentions Jack’s dead wife & child, otherwise it’s just fluff!

As far as first dates go, this one was special. This was the first date Jack had been on since the passing of his wife and unborn son.

Sure, in his time as a Statesman he spent the night in the company of lovely women, wining and dining, gaining intel, passing the time. But Jack was a lover at heart. Beneath this rugged, suave, confident cowboy exterior was a soft, sensitive man who missed coming home to his wife at the end of a long day. His career exhausted him over time, proving to him that he could no longer run from this empty hole growing inside his chest. What was the point in fighting and risking his life if there was no one worth fighting for anymore?

After many years of service and one faked death later, Agent Whiskey hung up his hat and retired from the service. He was ready to start his life over.

And today was one of the many new firsts in this new chapter of his life. Today he was getting back on the horse and going on a date. You had caught his eye awhile back, both reaching for the last heirloom tomato at the farmer’s market. Through a small, yet friendly exchange, in which Jack let you have the last tomato, you realized that there was something there. The twinkle in his chocolate coloured eyes lit a flame in you. It took Jack a moment to accept his growing interest in you, praying that his angel in heaven would forgive him for moving on, let alone help him find the courage to ask you out. After 45 minutes of chatting in the produce section of the tiny wooden booth, and a short mosey to the cash, Jack finally found the courage to ask you on a proper date. The cool, confident cowboy was now replaced with a sweet, simple boy who wanted to get it right. You found his nervousness endearing, the way he fiddled with his moustache while trying to spit out the words to invite you out. How could you say no to those big brown puppy dog eyes? It was decided. The following Friday, Jack would swing by your place to pick you up for your first date: drinks at the local watering hole. If he was lucky, maybe you’d even let him have a dance by the ol’ jukebox.

At the respectable time of 7pm— sharp —Jack arrived with a gentle knock at your door. The anticipation was slowly knotting in his stomach, him frantically trying to untangle each worry and nerve until his attention turned with the sight of you standing in front of him. Jack could have caught flies with the way his mouth was hanging open, basking in your beauty. The silhouette of your dress flowing ever so gently among the evening breeze, causing his heart to race in his chest and pulse to quicken. The gentle flowers on the fabric trickled down just above where the hem of your skirt kissed your knee. Jack could feel his cheeks redden as he tried to look away, but simply couldn’t.

“Darlin’, you are gorgeous.” He breathes, clasping a firm hand to his chest as he tries to catch his breath, shooting you a look that makes butterflies soar in your tummy and knees buckle softly beneath you. His big brown eyes pooling into you, trying to take you in under the glow of the setting sun and dull porch light.

The hazy bar was filled with the regular crowd. The hum of people murmuring about their day filled the space, loud enough to drown out the music playing the background, but quiet enough to enjoy a conversation with the person in front of you. Jack had grabbed you both a drink, smirking as he asked you to pick your poison and shooting you a cheeky wink from the bar. After a couple of rounds, small talk and a shared bowl of peanuts, influenced by the liquor you’d consumed, you felt brave.

“How ‘bout a lil wager, cowboy?” You chirp, chewing softly on the straw of your drink, eyes focused on Jack’s as his fingers slowly twine themselves in yours, resting on the sticky wooden table top.

He smirks, his moustache following the coiling trail of his lips. Jack had never been one to back down from a bet, he wondered if it was too soon to show his competitive side, this was the first date after all.

You raise a single eyebrow, eagerly awaiting his reply. Jack tilts his head with a crooked smile, intrigued by your proposition and encouraging you to share what plagued your mind.

“If you can figure out how to take these coins off of this bill,” you muse, making the cotton bill taught, “only using only one hand, then the twenty is yours.” You smile, placing the twenty dollar bill on top of Jack’s empty beer bottle and stacking the spare change from the counter on top.

“And if I don’t?” He asks, seduction curling around his tone, like smoke off of a rich cigar. Jack’s dark eyes fall on you, his gazing piercing yours with a focus so intense that it sends a warmth through your belly.

You could feel your mouth go dry, suddenly very aware of your tongue and the words you are trying to choke out. Jack had taken your breath away with this sharp turn, from southern sweetheart to cowboy Casanova. In need of moisture, you clear your throat, averting your gaze from his to try and gain composure over yourself.

“Then the next round is on you.” You murmur, bringing your eyes up to meet Jack’s again, feeling yourself wanting to back away and draw first in this unspoken showdown.

“Hm…I think I could raise those stakes.” he smirks, leaning back on his bar stool. “If I don’t figure out your little party trick, then the next round is on me, darlin’.” Jack says confidently, bringing your free hand up to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to the delicate skin. “But if I do, then you can keep your twenty.” He adds, shrugging as if it were a matter of fact.

“Keep my twenty? You don’t want twenty dollars?” You scoff, playfully pulling your hand away from his as you reach for another sip of your drink, using this opportunity to ground yourself during this intense kinetic exchange.

“Nah, you keep it sugar.” Jack’s sly smile creeps up his face as he leans in, resting his chin on his hand, supported by his elbow which was now glued on the sticky table.

“Come on there’s gotta be something you want, something to wager?” You instigate, trying to rev that fire growing in your belly, eyes narrowing as you try to intimidate the cowboy. Proving to him that you aren’t going to back away from him now.

He thinks for a second, pretending to come up with this idea on the spot, snapping his fingers to indicate his little eurika! moment. Little did you know, this is what Jack had wanted from the very moment you made this little bet.

“There is.” His dark, raspy tone murmurs, further coaxing your curiosity. Jack slowly leans closer, his scent swirling off of him; notes of amber, leather, musk and cinnamon, a delicious combination that makes your head feel light and knees weak.

“More valuable than twenty dollars? Cause that’s all I’ve got.” You whisper, the facade fading as you feel yourself slowly submitting to Jack and his dark gaze.

“Darlin’, it’s much more valuable.” He says softly, grazing your ear with his moustache. His calloused finger brushing a piece of fallen hair behind your ear.

“And what would that be?” You breathe, the words barely coming out louder than a whisper.

“A dance with you.” He nods towards the jukebox towards the back of the bar.

This was the one moment in a long time where Jack was thankful for his training. Without breaking eye contact, he playfully tugged on the dollar bill, pretending to pull it out from the side. For a moment, you thought you had Jack fooled— another man falling for your cute bar trick. The feeling of the last few rounds was already making its way up your body, a warm, cozy feeling wrapping itself around you. There was certainly no need for another round, and who were you kidding? Jack had already paid for every round until this point and you had a sneaking suspicion that regardless of outcome, he would insist on paying for another.

Faking a deep sigh, Jack licks his finger and swipes down on the dollar bill, freeing it from the mismatched metal weighing it down. With a smirk and the tip of his hat, he hands you back your twenty dollar bill, trying to repress a chuckle. The look on your face was priceless and all he needed in return for foiling your trick.

“Pick a song, darlin’.” He says, handing you a handful of quarters, leaning up against the fluorescent machine. You press the cool metal in as you try to think of the perfect song, nothing too cheesy or outdated, but just right.

The melodious sound of a piano playing a familiar tune starts to flow out of the jukebox. Jack’s eyes grow wide with pride as he starts to recognize the song. A flushed feeling floods your cheeks, as he reaches his large, calloused hand out, offering yours a spot in his palm.

It’s a little bit funny, this feeling inside,

I’m not one of those who can easily hide

You slowly find your rhythm with Jack’s guidance, his firm yet gentle grip guiding you around the jukebox, building your confidence and chuckling softly anytime you would mutter a sheepish apology after stepping on his foot.

“I didn’t know you knew how to dance.” You breathe out softly, finally making eye contact with him.

A soft chuckle leaves his lips as he leans in closer to you, your body pressing tighter into his chest. “Then there’s a lot you don’t know about me, darlin’.”

You could feel his smirk against your ear, eyes locking as he pulled away from your close embrace.

And you can tell everybody

This is your song

It may be quite simple but,

Now that it’s done

His gaze was magnetic, dark yet sweet, delicious like molasses with an affinity to coax you in. His thick, rugged hands held yours with a featherlight touch and the gentlest pressure on your lower back as he guided you around the floor. This moment was trance-like, as if you were the only two people in the bar. There was something enchanting about Jack Daniels, his ability to make you feel like the only girl in the world was dizzying. With the faintest touch, or twinkle of his eye, he had you hook, line and sinker.

It was refreshing to be out with a man like Jack — an actual man, one who wasn’t afraid of sharing his feelings with you, a man who was respectful and appreciative of you, a man who found the balance of southern chivalry and the ability to roll with the new age. With every twang of his southern drawl, your heart crept closer and closer to his. You couldn’t take your eyes off of him and those deep brown eyes, the ones that were gazing at you longingly, studying the precious features of your face.

Unbeknownst to you, Jack was drinking you in.

You had kindled something in him, something long repressed from his past and aching to explode to the forefront. The way you smiled at him made him tongue tied, he knew you were beautiful from the moment he met you, but getting to experience your beauty up close was astonishing. He tried to stifle the growing flames in his belly, employing his fear to extinguish these feelings but it only stoked the fire more, sending those flames burning. God, he wanted to kiss you so badly. He had from the moment you opened that door.

You notice a cheeky look across the cowboy’s eyes, his guiding hand slowly pushing you back from your resting place on his chest. Suddenly, the entire bar was spinning around you, once, then twice, and then you were back home in your place on Jack’s firm chest. His eyes asking for forgiveness in a childish, playful way.

I hope you don’t mind

I hope you don’t mind

That I put into words

How wonderful life is while

You’re in the world

Completely enraptured by one another until the sound of a wild guitar solo brought you back down to earth, the song you shared long gone and replaced by the sounds of an 80’s hair band.

A smooth Casanova through and through, Jack slowly presses his hand to your back and he slowly lowers you into a dip, your arm gripping tighter onto the back of his neck, using his taught chest as an anchor. Jack’s lips are now inches from yours, his moustache ghosting over your bottom lip, as if he were testing the waters faintly before bringing you back up to your feet.

You couldn’t decipher the soft look in his eyes, the warm brown tone being taken over by the dark pools of his irises as his thumb traces the contour of your full lips. His hot breath skimming the surface of your face, his mouth desperate and hungry for something.

A slow smile grows on your face, grateful for the liquid courage, slowly pulling his face closer to yours, lips inches from yours.

“You know, Jack…this is the part where you’re supposed to kiss me.” You whisper softly, granting the old fashioned man permission, subconsciously knowing what his eyes had been asking. Within milliseconds, his plush lips crashed onto yours, wrapping you into a passionate embrace. The taste of mint, whiskey and something inherently Jack on his lips. You couldn’t get enough of it.

Jack slowly breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead gently to yours as he catches his breath. His stomach filled with butterflies, dragonflies and ladybugs, anything lovely and sweet that reminds him of you, going absolutely wild from the simple touch of your lips. You were magic, like a drug Jack had so deeply yearned for all of these years, and he couldn’t get enough of you. He said a silent prayer of gratitude, in complete and utter disbelief to have this second chance at love in this life. He wasn’t going to take you for granted.

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[arkhammaid]

— ˚₊‧⁺˖ THE LIGHTNING ON TRACK | THE STRATEGY CALL

fandom. formula one & mcu

about. in which the stark racing f1 team talks about the 2025 strategy and beyond

content warnings. written in 3rd person

word count. 1.4k words

notes. with this chapter i wanted to involve a bit of politics and 'realistically' explain why stark racing won't immediately win a wdc (because with the whole set up, it would be possible). f1 are politics and no matter how many drivers say cash is king, connections have sometimes more worth

"welcome, everyone. thank you for tuning in", greets tony with a big smile on his face, spreading his arms as if going in for a hug.

"as you can see, i'm not currently with any departement, i'm doing the finishing touches in my own lab back in new york... since i don't want to drag anyone here to the US for meetings, we will proceed like this until january next year."

"now, i know it will be annoying with dragging your equipement with you and it's also unsafe, since you know... data secrets bla bla- so, in the next few days, each stark racing employee will receive the so called 'tactical intelligence glasses', which you can see me wearing. it's voice activated and can only be used by the one who sets it up, which will be you!" while speaking, tony fiddles with a pencil in his hand and starts walking around in his lab, showcasting it to every viewer.

"to cut things short, you'll receive a tutorial on how to use these glasses and set them up once you receive them. if you ever lose them, don't worry, we can track them. destroying them is pretty hard, but please don't try to make it a challange... our plan is to use them not only during meetings but also during the race, to keep our data from the cameras. with netflix, paparazzi and other cameras from the news, it's easy to steal data that shouldn't be accessible."

"alright then", he ends his ramblings with a clap, "we're going over the interesting part now. let's talk strategy..."

y/n let's her father's voice wash over her, her own glasses perched on her nose and feeding her constant information. in front of her are two holograms, projected by the hologram table in the meeting room she's currently in. the standing figure of her father and the presentation he's currently rattling off, all of it in a glowing blue.

next to her sits kevin, her future teammate, exhausted from the long 24 season but still paying attention. the rest of the room is filled with their team, the race engineers and trainers- each of them having their own glasses on.

to outsiders it looks like they're clowns, but it's a common sight in stark industries. decades ahead of the general public, stark stands for the future. of course they're trying to push it to the outer world, selling hologrammic equipement to both the industry but also private customers, but it's a slow progress.

the marketing team of SI hopes with their public use of the glasses and other devices they'll attract more customers, leaving the age of apple and samsung behind and instead welcoming the age of holograms. powered by starkanium, the production of phones, tablets, computers- anything really, is much cheaper and enviroment friendly than what's currently dominating the market.

shaking her head, y/n focuses on the presentation again. of course she knows it by heart already, she helped writing it, brooding over the strategy with the team ever since the team got announced.

"... the plan is to finish between 5th-3rd on the construction championship. not higher, not lower. we don't want to place higher, because this is our testing season. we will be practically sandbagging from the beginning, not revealing our true power for 2026."

yes... the construction championship. it will bring in money, not that they would need it, but it will justify the expenses they're going to make during the season to prepare for their second one. y/n is under no illusion, if they want, they could go all out and snag at least p2, if not p1. maybe she would even get her world championship- only then for everyone to say she won because she's driving a stark machine and not because of her own skill.

it sounds arrogant, she knows. but y/n believes, no, she doesn't only believe, she knows, she is one of the best in the whole world. if she can go against her father in an iron man suit, who can be only piloted by less than ten people in the world... winning in an f1 car is nothing.

but they've already made enemies for not waiting until 2026 like audi, 'enemies', who have much more pull within the motorsport world than them, simply because they're already established. christian horner is one, followed by toto wolff, the iconic red racing team not far behind.

with they're entry, they didn't make friends on the paddock, so for their first season... they can't be too good. or else their future seasons will be ruined.

it's stupid, to think like this, to think so far ahead, to think of others, in a sport where winning is everything. but it's not. cash and connections influence everything you do, how far you succeed. they have plenty of money, but are practically poor in connections. heck, even haas is better established than them.

they won't be, not after they're done after their first season. they will show the world, what stark racing is truly made of. and y/n will prove, that a woman can win.

"-bought data packs from previous seasons, dating back a whole decade, from mercedes and aston martin. cost a pretty penny, but data is everything. not to mention, after the big leak that happend in the middle of the season, we managed to grab enough data on all teams to calculate 3523 outcomes to this season. points, standings, anything." kevin wheezes at the number, which is followed by several data sheets. he gapes at the calculations, which predict another world championship for max 2064 times. all from the data they managed to collect.

"insane, right?", y/n whispers to kevin, who turns his head to her. his wide eyes make her snicker.

"welcome to stark racing, mate. just you wait until JARVIS and FRIDAY start feeding in new numbers and information." a muttered 'holy shit' is the only answer she gets and y/n has to snicker again. toto wolff once said something about formula one being war planning... well, he should know that stark industries and it's most brilliant minds know everything about war. be it on the market, by income or an actual alien invasion.

"we want to achieve at least one win, be it in a proper race or sprint, three podiums per driver and at least two fastest laps. and it will be possible", her father continues, pointing at a hologram of their car. it spins lazily in a circle, showing off it's aeorodynamic curves.

"this car is faster than the rb19, goes on par with the rb20. we don't know the upgrades from red bull, but another year and we can pretty much predict their stats for 2026. newey is predictable, all his upgrades point towards the perfection of the car, he focuses on what to make better and not invent something completely new. and if he does, he takes ages to prove it's better than what they had before. newey is brilliant, but he's no stark." there it is again, the facts of their rivals, taken apart and put back together to summerize their data in a few simple words.

"so, our motto for this season is testing, collecting data and improving for the next season. we're sandbagging, we're restricting ourselves. so if we ever do bad... we all know we could do much better. the engineering team will send first comparisons between the SR-1 and SR-2 out next week, y/n has already tested both cars in the sim, so we will have some data to read off."

"so, with that, we're pretty much done. thank you everyone for listening, i know for some it's very early right now, so if you have to read over the spark notes- JARVIS has put a summary of the most important information together, you'll receive the mail right after this converence. thank you again and welcome to stark racing, everyone!" claps fill the room and y/n takes off her glasses. it's exhausting to play mindgames like this, to calculate the desired outcome, but it will all come together.

hopefully, with her as a world champion, with the bold stark name on her back.

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ARKHAM MAID 2024

[yung-notorious]

It’s been a while….so….sneak peak of chapter nine of nlm…..come get y’all juice….

The walk to his car isn’t any more than a block, but it’s just enough cardio to remind you that you’re still hungry. When his car finally comes into view, there’s no need for him to point it out. In the daylight, it looks a whole lot nicer than you remember from the last two times he picked you up under the streetlights. It’s a smooth deep black, so spotless it looks like he drove it right off the lot, and the rims are polished so clean they catch the sun like a mirror. It’s the kind of car that doesn’t belong here, being parked alongside the starter cars of college students and the modest minivans of the families who actually live in this neighborhood. 

You’ve seen your fair share of niceness around here— cars, homes, the little consigment shops that line Market Street. Your school sits in one of the wealthiest zip codes in the county, so spotting an Audi or any luxury car of the same price tag isn’t exactly shocking. But one driven by someone his age, and in undergrad? That’s hell of a lot less common. And as for you, who grew up around a different kind of nice, riding around with him? Now that’s something your folks back home would have to see to believe. 

But see, that’s the thing about him though— he has this way of making everything feel like it’s exactly how it should be. Like how he can hand you a hundred dollar bill and treat it like just because money, or let’s you keep a Burberry hoodie that costs damn near as much as your rent, and not because you asked, but simply because he wants you to. It’s the kind of shit like that he does for you that has you asking yourself, if it’s you that’s tripping? Or is he moving how he does by anybody close to him.

“Watch that puddle before you get in.” He says low, almost like an afterthought, as the two of you approach his car. With a quick beep, he unlocks it, his arm slipping from your shoulders as he steps ahead to open the passenger door for you.

“Where—” You almost step forward, and sure enough there’s a murky pool of brown water stretching underneath the door, right at the edge of your toes. Thank god you wore socks with your crocs…

“Oh shit, I see it.” You step over it carefully, sliding into the seat just as he rounds the front of the car. Dropping your keys and wallet into the cup holder, you shift to get comfortable— only to immediately sense the seat been pushed back. Like, way back. Like somebody double your height and built like an NBA draft pick was riding around with him. Ready to fuss at him for it,  you glance through the windshield searching for him, catching him looking behind his car with a confused look etched on his face.

Slipping a hand down to fiddle with the seat adjuster, you feel the full extent of the leather’s warmth, the afternoon sun having soaked into it all day. And then it hits you all at once— the muted, familiar mix of his cologne and the Black Ice car freshener dangling from the rearview mirror. It’s a scent only someone who’s been around him enough would recognize, so distinctly him that, for a split second, it almost tricks you into thinking you missed being here.

But then that Instagram story from the other night flashes through your mind. And just like that, you’re mentally cringing so hard it’s got to be showing on your face.

Note to self: Don’t wear any kind of jewelry around the crazy ones. 

“Yo— what big ass person did you have in your car?” You laugh, half teasing, half serious, as he slides into the driver’s seat. The solid slam of his door follows and you hear him mumble something under his breath, but you barely glance his way, too busy fumbling with the seat controls. And like the smarty pants you are, you figure out how to bring it back upright in seconds.

“Who’d you have in here— what?” You pause mid-question, catching his annoyed sigh. He’s been talking this whole time. When you finally look over, his brows are pinched, eyes scanning over what’s very clearly a parking ticket. Always…always something right?

“Said I just got a ticket…” He flips it over, then back again, like he’s hoping it’ll magically turn out to be fake.

“For what? How’d you get a ticket? Lemme see—” Your question comes out more like an accusation because, for real, how the hell do you get a ticket on this block? And on a weekend? Before he can even respond, you snatch it out his hand. Not like it takes a genius to read. Your eyes skim down the slip, and sure enough, in bold black print—

“For parking in front of a hydrant—” He draws out. 

“Seventy-five dollars!?” You shoot him a look. “Oh, you’re dumb.” Flipping it over, you check if it’s actually legit. The back is completely blank except for a single dirt stain, but there’s an officer’s name and badge number printed on the front along with a bunch of other codes. So yeah, it’s real. 

“What time did they even give you this?” You turn it back around. “Seven thirty in the morning!? They ain’t give you a chance, damn.” You bark out a laugh. “They were on it!”

“You looking at it like you tryna pay it for me…” He reaches out, and when you pass it back, you don’t miss the little attitude behind how he snatches it.  

“Tuh! You funny.” You watch as he shoves it into the center console, right on top of the rest of his junk. And when he goes to close it, you sneak a peek— catching a glimpse of a couple small mylar bags, a Bluntville pack, a  few stray Wawa napkins and receipts. 

“I should go down and dispute this shit. I’m not even in front of it— it’s behind my back wheel.” He mutters, shutting the console. You quickly bring your eyes back up, not trying to seem nosey, only to catch the curious look he’s shooting back at you. 

“How you ain’t see it when you parked?” You ask, coming out a little too chipper, trying to steer the conversation away from how obvious it was you were looking all in his shit. Sorry, can’t help being nosey when he never tells you shit.

“It was dark out. Y’all don’t even have a streetlight on this block. The fuck…” He says it matter-of-factly. Now, that might actually be true, but who’s y’all? You don’t own these blocks. But you’ll let that comment slide.

Rolling down his window, he leans out to take one last look, and you do the same— because you need to see if he actually has a case or if he’s full of shit. Your shoulders bump slightly as you both peer out. His body close enough that you can smell your conditioner and body wash he used, and when you glance sideways, you catch him mid-concentration— plump lips slightly parted as he studies the distance between the hydrant and the tail end of his car, but god, fuck all that right now, they look so soft you’d kiss him right if you could…

“That shit is not in front of my car— sit back.” He huffs, leaning back so quickly, nearly knocking you into your seat.

It is, but for the sake of his ego you stop yourself from outright saying it, instead letting out a half-laugh, amused by how pressed he is over what’s got to be a minor ding in his wallet for him. But judging by his reaction, you’re starting to wonder if he’s good for collecting tickets. 

“It’s a Sunday. They shouldn’t even be out here working…” He grumbles, pulling another laugh from you, and you know what, hearing him fuss over shit that isn’t related to you for once, is actually quite fucking funny. Poor Satoru, inconvenienced by the laws of the parking authority. Aren’t you special! 

“....need to be in church or at home with their families. Since when do they even be out this early?” 

“Didn’t I tell you you should’ve left.” You mumble under your breath, half joking. But of course, not low enough, earning you a side eye as he starts the car.

“Like you were really gonna let me leave.” He snorts, gripping the wheel as he pulls off.

And see— now that, you can’t argue with. Because if he weren’t speaking the truth, you’d have said something slick right back. But given how you acted when he pulled that stunt the other night, you both know exactly how that would’ve played out.

“Check if I got glasses in there.”  He points towards the glove compartment in front of you, and without a secound thought, you reach over and pop it open. The latch clicks, and the door swings down to reveal a mess of papers and a black case tucked underneath.

“These?” You pull out the case, flipping it open to find tinted silver frames you don’t recognize— well, actually, you might have seen these before. He probably has a picture up somewhere on Instagram wearing them. They’re rimless rectangles, just as tinted as his other pair,  and by the look of them alone you can tell they’re fucking expensive. The metal arms are so delicate you’re careful pitching them between your fingertips, turning them over to check the brand— 

“Cartier!?” Your head snaps towards him as you pass him the frames, too stunned to keep holding them. God damn, fucking Cartier!? Knowing you, you’d mess around and drop  them. “How much were these?” 

“Like ten— twelve…” He plucks them from your fingers with one hand, the other steady on the wheel. Tilting his head just enough to slide the glasses on, the frames settle into place as he keeps his eyes on the road.

“Twelve thousand!?” 

“Hundred.” He side-eyes you with a look like be serious, like he’d be a fool to ever spend that kind of bread on some glasses. But what do you know? The only thing you recognize from Cartier is their LOVE bracelets from way back when Kylie Jenner used to rock them, and even those go for a couple racks each. Clearly there’s a difference between having money, and being made of it. 

“They’re from Neimans,” He adds. “I didn’t think they were going to be in there.”

“What, you thought you lost ‘em?” You let out a small scuff, because seriously, how do you misplace something this nice like they’re a box of tissues to just toss and keep in your car. 

“Something like that.” He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “I tore my dorm up looking for them, but didn’t think to check in there till now. Now I can’t find my other pair, guess I’ma be looking for those next.”

“They gotta be in your room then, because you for sure didn’t have them on when you came over last night. And I didn’t see you pull anything else out of your pockets.” 

Keys. Wallet. Phone. He had his stuff sitting on your night stand, you remember. Plus, you would have seen them when you were tidying up. 

“Gotta be. I’m careless with my shit...” He sighs, slumping back against the seat as the car rolls to a stop at a red light. His fingers tap absentmindedly against the wheel, but his eyes still find a way to drift over to you, you can’t see much of anything behind the dark tint of his lenses, but judging by his silence alone you can tell he’s somewhere between annoyed and pissed at himself. 

“It’ll turn up…” You say softly, reaching for your phone in the cup holder as if you're expecting a text. It’s not that you don’t care— you do. Misplacing something you wear every day can easily ruin someone’s whole day. You know that feeling all too well, been there enough times looking for your AirPods case— and misplacing that, especially when you’re on the way out the door, is enough to drive you up a fucking wall. 

You don’t really know what else to say that could help, so you settle on the easiest, flattery. “I like this pair on you though. They’re nice.” You glance over again, letting your eyes trail over him— the frames don’t match the casualness of his sweats at all, but somehow, he makes it work. Because of course he can. 

“Yeah…” He drags, nodding like he already knows. “Connect your phone, put something on.” 

You open the music app with a sigh, scrolling through your recently added looking for something good. “It’s too early, I don’t know what to play…” 

He glances at the dash double-checking the time, the both of you knowing good and well it’s anything but early. “Early? It’s damn near two o’clock.” He laughs. “Put on some Thug or something.”

“I’m not playing Young Thug on my good Sunday.” You shoot back, giving him a side-eye. You’re not hating on Thug by any means. You rinsed Slime Season 3 enough times to rap that album top to bottom, but you’re not exactly in the mood to hear gangsta music right now. And for damn sure if he’s gonna be rapping along to it. Good lord, spare you the headache!

He looks over, eyebrows raised. “What’s wrong with Thug?” 

“I’m not putting on Thug.”

“Bro—” He sucks his teeth, like he’s about to say something smart next, but the look you give in return shuts it all the way down. You know, that look that says try me if you want too, reminding him you’re not the one. “Alright, alright, I’m playing, chill— I’ll pick something. Lemme see your phone.”

“Why you need my phone? Just tell me what to play.” 

“Because whatever I say, you’re gonna be like nooo not that— just gimme your phone. I’m not gonna go through it, I promise.” He shoots you a look like he’s asking you not to make this difficult for him. You hesitate for half a second before passing it over to not seem suspicious, mentally praying no out-of-pocket texts or DMs come through while he’s holding it. 

He scrolls for a second, pausing with a little squint. “Somebody just texted you too, by the way.” He flashes the screen your way before passing it back. 

You take it, glancing down— only to see it’s just a classmate, asking “Do you think he’ll care if I skip tomorrow?”. You snort and shoot back a quick “girl who cares skip lol”, before locking your phone. 

He’s already got the music queued, tapping at the CarPlay screen when you look up. “You listen to Rod Wave?” He asks, goofy as ever. Nostalgia album art popping up on the screen as he cranks up the volume. 

You blink. “Rod Wave? What you know about some Rod Wave.” You laugh, side-eyeing him like he just said something wild. You’re genuinely surprised by his pick— and it’s not a bad one either. Rod Wave, huh? Yeah, can’t say you didn’t see that one coming.

He smirks, “Yeah Rod Wave. Why you say it like that? 21 on this track too.” 

“I listen to Rod Wave, I'm just surprised you do.” You shoot back, settling into your seat like you’re gearing up for a little banter on whose music knowledge is greater. He leans back in his seat too, hand on the wheel like he’s already won. “Scht, whattttt—- everybody listens to Rod Wave!”

And honestly? He’s not wrong. You can’t even argue, not when the opening piano chords of Turks and Caicos come through the speakers and the whole car fills up with the bass of Rod’s voice. “I said I’m surprised you listen to Rod Wa—” 

“Hold on—hold on, listen—” He cuts you off mid-sentence, tapping your shoulder like something important is about to happen, then points towards the screen.

“What—” You start, and then—

“She’s a real deal diva, more than an Instagram model. Bad bitches love resposado, drinkin’ out the bottle—”

“Oh my god!” You groan, face in your hands immediately. Full-body fucking cringe. You already know he’s about to act a fool. And sure enough, he does, rapping along word for word, like he’s been waiting all week to perform this exact verse. Man, what the hell! 

“I don’t usually try and shoot no shots, but I couldn’t pass on her! Told ‘em stop the car and let me out, I seen that ass on her.” He reaches over mid-verse to peel your hands away from your face, and you give in only to keep him from swerving.

“Playing mean, but she really sweet, my heart skipped a beat.” His thumb drags under your chin like he’s some kind of Casanova, and you’re caught between laughing and trying to wriggle away, half-pleading for him to let up. “Moveeee!”

“In the club where I hardly could be, so I bring the party to me! Top floor, presidential suite and we fifty deep— hold on, T, could you stop the beat? Let’s get something to eat!” 

“Okay!” You whine, dissolving into a fit of laughter, as he tickles your side, poking and prodding until you’re squirming. He only stops when he’s too breathless to keep going, easing up just as the car rolls to a red light.

If she tryna set a trap, then it’s gonna work

I love you and all your baddie friends, boo, let’s go to Turks

The song keeps playing as he turns to you with this smug little grin, lip-syncing like he’s got something to prove.

I don’t want your Insta or your Snapchat

Add me on your finsta where you be bad at. 

His goofy smile softens as he mouths the next line, “She don’t want no more love and I don’t mind, she’s here for a good time, not a long time.” And despite knowing it’s just a song, the way you can't decipher his expression behind those tinted shades, makes your stomach flip just a little.

I told her after we can get done, we can island hop.

He hits the last line with a grin, “Her friend told me, shut up, it's shot o’clock!”, dropping the volume as the light turns green and he eases into the turn lane.

But wait.

“Um…I thought we were going to Chipotle?” You ask, raising a brow when he takes a left instead of the usual right towards the shopping plaza nearby. 

“We are, we’re going to the one on up the Pike. Choso used to work at that other one, he said that place dirty.” 

“I never had a problem with my food there…”

“‘Cause you’re not the one in the back cooking it. A restaurant's food can be good and the place still be dirty.” He says, like that’s the final word. Alright well, if they’re both claiming that Chiptole is dirty then you’re not about to fight that battle. That’s never been your hill to die on, and it won’t be today either.  

“Sit back, I got this.” He adds, right as he presses the gas to merge onto the highway. He didn’t say it in any type of way, but the fact a man is teling you to kick back— even gently, is enough to make you catch a little attitude.

“I was just making sure you knew where you were going.” You mutter, arms crossing and eye rolling.

“What?” He shoots back, not snapping, but there’s a slight edge in his voice. You can’t tell if he didn’t hear you or if he’s baiting you to say it again.

“Nothing…” You say, a lot friendlier too, reaching over to turn the volume up before he can get another word in. The bass kicks up immediately, easily drowning out whatever slick shit he might say next. You mentally check out after that, relaxing into the seat and letting your gaze wander to the blur of trees outside the window. But the quietness coming from his end pulls you back in.

You glance over at him— just a quick peek to make sure he’s not really mad— only to catch him mouthing the lyrics to 500lbs like he’s dead serious about them. Word for fucking word. No skips. Not a care in the world with his locked on the road, and you can tell his foot is itching to push the gas to 100. You have to bite your lip to stop a smile from creeping up, because of course he knows Lil Tecca, and you can’t blame him either. He’s got that hot shit playing, talk to ‘em Gojo!

more to come soon 💕

[rabbitcruiser]

National Lobster Day

Whether you’re a long-time lobster aficionado or someone who’s still hesitant about seafood, now’s the time to give this classic marine delicacy a try.

Sure, it’s true that not everybody loves seafood, but it is also true that this is an untapped culinary treasure trove that you need to explore. There are so many excellent types of seafood you can try, but  there is no question that top of the pile is most definitely lobster. If  you have ever been to a top seafood restaurant and ordered the lobster,  you’ll know what an event this is, and how it is something that you  need to make sure you experience as much as possible.

A bit of a seafood aficionado? Then you’re probably someone who loves  a bit of lobster – one of the most decadent and delicious seafood items  that money can buy. Indeed, one of the most delectable dishes in modern  cuisine. Often served up with lemon and butter, the lobster may not  look very pretty when it’s crawling around on the sea floor – but as the  saying goes, never judge a book by its cover; and with those spindly  legs and little eyes, there’s certainly no doubt that the humble lobster  tastes a whole lot better than it looks! It is a delicacy for so many  of us, and it is right that this crustacean should have his special day!  

National Lobster Day is a great day to celebrate the delicious goodness of our favorite creepy crustacean, learn more about its life and honor the fishermen who help to bring the creature to our dinner plates. Not many creatures or foods have a specific day dedicated to them, and this is something you are going to need to focus on as much as  possible. Let’s take a look at what National Lobster Day entails, and  explore a bit about the history of this day and how you can make the  most of it right now.

History of National Lobster Day

Lobsters can last an awfully long time in the wild – longer than you might think! – if they aren’t scooped up to be made into something tasty. It’s estimated that they can live up to a massive 50 years, although aging them correctly is a little tough. Of course, this is something of a moot point when it comes to eating them, as your interest  is purely in the way they taste. Lobsters are a big coup for fisherman,  and they have specific nets dedicated to trying to capture these  creatures.

They are omnivores, which means they are quite happy to tuck into plants and other ocean-dwellers alike. They also tend to munch on their  own skin after they molt – waste not, want not! The lobster is a creature revered and respected, and it seems fitting that this creepy looking critter should be celebrated for its gorgeous taste, and the  role it plays in fine dining.

Today, lobster is considered a luxury food – served up in soup,  rolls, or simply with lashings of warm butter. However, it wasn’t always  like this; once upon a time, lobster was far from a pricey and  sought-after foodstuff. It seems hard to believe it, but there was once a  time when lobster was not viewed in the way it is now. In fact, quite  the opposite, it was actually seen as something eaten by lower classes; let’s find out more.

Prior to the mid 19th century, lobster was usually only eaten by servants or those considered to be from within the lower echelons of society. It was even served up in prisons quite frequently – allegedly, much to the complaints of the prisoners – and in some places, it was even considered to be best used for fish bait or as fertilizer. How times have changed!

How to celebrate National Lobster Day

When you are faced with the prospect of a day like National Lobster Day it pays to prepare and make a plan for this moving forward. There  are so many things that you are going to need to consider if you want to  make the most of this, and this is something to consider. Think about  some of the best ways you can enjoy and make the most of National  Lobster Day. You could choose to visit your favorite seafood restaurant,  head for an expensive lobster dinner, or even grab some lobster for a  luxury family feast at home.

If this is something that interests you then there are quite a few  epic lobster recipes you can find online that you will be able to work  on. Lobster bisque is one of the most common and popular choices, but you should also think about something like Lobster Newburg and Lobster  Thermidor as well. Conjuring up an unforgettable lobster dish is  something that will really put the icing on the cake in terms of celebrating National Lobster Day as much as possible.

Alternatively, you might like to have a lobster fancy dress party, or even take a trip to Maine, considered the lobster capital of the United  States, and home to Maine Lobster Museum!

These days, you don’t have to go too far to find a restaurant that  will serve up lobster for you to try. Whether that be in a lobster roll, lobster soup or – if you’re feeling really decadent – the whole lobster itself! If you go buy a lobster yourself to rustle up something tasty, there’s plenty of simple recipes to give a go. Served up with some vegetables and some warm crusty bread, you can’t go far wrong! Be sure  to treat yourself today, just watch out for those great big claws!

Source

[ririmusprime]

bruce wayne x gn!reader fluffies !!

i'm a huge fan of the idea that bruce is socially anxious, not really a big fan of interacting with people - but he does it because his job as bruce wayne requires it. even as batman, the most he'll do is make badass remarks before beating the crap out of the bad guys.

but with you? it's different. it's not that his social anxiety just melts away, but his stocism is non - existent with you. he loves treating you like a princess, doing everything he physically can to make you feel spoiled and loved. he would easily spend every last penny on you if you wanted.

you fiddle around, playing with your own fingers, scratching at your nail beds. you sit on the couch, exhausted for no reason. you were just tired.

you force yourself up and walk over to the kitchen, looking through the pantry to find your favorite snack, but it's nowhere to be seen. you sigh, returning to the couch with a frown.

you checked your phone - and the nearest supermarkets had all stopped selling the snack. but really, nothing else would have cheered you up as much as eating said snack while watching tv.

luckily for you, your boyfriend is an excellent detective. well - not so much this time around.

whenever bruce wasn't busy saving gotham from whatever stupid criminals terrorized it, he was by your side, clinging to you as you clinged to him - and never - and i mean never anywhere else.

he notices how whenever there's groceries on the counter, you search through the plastic bags, only to have your shoulders deflate after not being able to find something you were looking for.

he approaches you from behind, his arms encircling your waist.

"is there something wrong, my dearest?" he asks, his voice gentle, soothing you. you shake your head in response, putting your hands on his momentarily before turning to nuzzle into him - and he wraps his arms around you.

but this behavior of you searching the groceries and becoming upset continues, and everytime there's groceries, the more sad you look not being able to find what you want.

he feels stupid that he didn't realize it earlier. it's the one thing that had changed ever since this had begun.

he uses his connections and is able to find a market that still sells it, and he buys it in fairly large quantity for you, and the next time you search the groceries - you still don't find it, frowning deeply.

"dearest, would you check the pantry?" he smiles, proud of himself as he leans against the counter to watch as you open the pantry and absolutely beam at the sight of seeing the snack there. you grab a pack and jump around giddily, running up to him to give him a massive hug.

he absolutely melts, holding you tightly.

he loves making you feel loved.

[wandonthecouch]

farmers market jegulus au - snippet <3

another snippet for you all! for context, james, effie, and baby harry have a tent where they sell their farm's produce, and regulus and sirius have their text (next door ofc) where they sell their art - regulus with his wood carving/sculptures and sirius with his paintings. oh and remus is an Australian cowboy at @venear-tmblr 's insistence and I love it so here you go!

---

“Morning, Mr. Black!”

Regulus smiled at the small ten-year-old, one that he rarely showed in public. 

“Harry, you can call me Regulus, you know,” he leaned over the foldable table separating the two, peering over into the tent next to his, taking in the array of fresh vegetables, fruits, and jams. “Has your nan got any of that goat cheese yet?”

Harry frowned, running a finger over the duckling carved out of mahogany, and then the giraffe made of oak. “I don’t think so. Da says Jenny is being real stubborn lately.” 

Regulus let out a light chuckle. “Oh, Da says that, huh?” He began rummaging through his tote bag slung over his foldable chair, making a noise of triumph when he found the pouch with the small carved giraffe. “I made you something.”

Harry’s eyes lit up, a big toothless grin on full display (he’d lost one of his front teeth last week) that Regulus couldn’t help but mirror. “Really?”

Regulus nodded, holding out the pouch. Any other kid would have snatched the present out of his hands in seconds, but not Harry – he didn’t have a greedy bone in his body. It’s one of the reasons that Regulus actually tolerated the child, instead of being blatantly disgusted like he was others. 

Harry gently accepted the gift, turning the giraffe around in his hands. 

“Thank you, thank you! This is so cool,” Harry gushed, looking up at him over his glasses. Then, in almost a whisper, “You remembered.”

Regulus, to his surprise, found himself holding his breath in anticipation. Who the fuck was he? He had clients booked for his art years in advance, he’d made thousands off of his wood carving alone. Why did he care about what some glass-wearing, crooked-smiled child at a farmer’s market thought of anything he’d made?

“Harry, love, can you give me a hand—”

Oh. That’s why. 

James appeared from behind his family’s tent, carrying a wooden crate full of turnips. Fucking turnips. The man was carrying turnips and Regulus was trying not to drool at the sight. 

Disgusting. 

“Oh, hey, Reg,” James stopped, eyes softening, mouth turning up in a way that made Regulus think his heart was swelling, almost too big for his chest. “How’s your morning been?”

It wasn’t until Harry looked at him, brow quirked, that Regulus realized he needed to actually respond. 

“Good, not too busy,” he stumbled over his words. James adjusted the crate in his arms so he could hold it with one arm (oh god), and reached down to pick the giraffe out of Harry’s hand. 

“Oh, this is cool! I bet it’ll sell right away.”

Harry furrowed his brows and made grabby hands at his father, who promptly returned the figurine. “It’s mine, Da. Mr. Black–Reg made it for me.”

James’ eyes resembled warm honey, their color especially bright in the early morning sun. “Really?”

Regulus shrugged nonchalantly, looking between the two and fiddling with his rings. “Well, yeah. We spent all last Sunday talking about how he wanted to see the giraffes at the zoo in town, and how they were his favorite animal, so…”

James’ smile was blinding. He ruffled Harry’s hair, who grumbled under his breath but leaned into the touch. “Did you say thank you to Regulus?”

Harry, huffed, seemingly done with the conversation. “Yes, Da. Moony says being polite is sexy.”

Regulus coughed out a laugh, while James sighed and shook his head at Harry’s retreating figure. 

“I swear, he’s such a bad influence sometimes,” James muttered, turning to set the crate down on the ground by their tent, giving Regulus a full view of… everything in his athletic shorts. Regulus sucked in a breath, willing his cheeks to not turn pink. He couldn’t even blame it on the heat– the air this morning was anything but humid. Perfect for a day at the market. Not perfect, Regulus deduced, for being around James Potter all day.

--

thanks for reading, lmk what you think!

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

My Fair Lady's Maid (Regency!Aemond x Lady's Maid!Reader)

Part 3: With a Little Bit of Luck

Frustrated with his grandsire's tedious and thorough process of choosing him a "suitable" bride, Aemond makes a declaration that a lady's maid could be indistinguishable from a true noblewoman so long as she was sufficiently dressed and educated in embroidery, conversation, and the like. Otto takes this as a challenge, and gives Aemond four months to turn one of Helaena's lady's maids into a noblewoman.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x fem!reader (third person, no use of Y/N)

Warnings: none

Point of View: Limited third person omniscient

Author's Note: Finally had a burst of inspiration for this last night, and here we are!

With a Little Bit of Luck

Miss Doolittle stood at the base of the stairs in her little basement apartment. It wasn’t really an apartment, even if she’d lived there for nearly three years. In truth, it was a cellar. The owner of the house above had graciously put a small bed in it when she first rented it, but he also continued to keep his winter stores and several chests of assorted junk there, taking up nearly half the space.

Still, it wasn’t so bad. Back then, when she hadn’t wanted to go out, see anyone, or do anything, those chests of junk had entertained her. And she loved the smell of the dried apples. Even if it was small, it was cozy. There was enough room for everything she owned in the world, which, admittedly, wasn’t much.

All of it was now stuffed into her rucksack; still, the bag wasn’t full. It likely would have been if she’d been able to buy that clock at the market yesterday, but she didn’t want to think about that now. She was already too sad.

It didn’t make sense, her sadness. She was leaving this cave to go and live in a manor house. She would never be woken by rats again, and she would have enough money to buy a hundred clocks. But this had been her home for the past three years.

She squared her chin and adjusted the strap of her rucksack. She’d started over before. It was how she ended up here. And this time… this time would be easier, she knew it.

So, she walked up the stairs and out of that little basement, hoping she had enough time to run one last errand before the cart from Kingswood came to take her to her new home.

The village green, like her apartment, could not truly be called its name. Not since the village council decided to put gravel paths all over it and plant all kinds of trees, bushes, and flowers in most of the blank spaces between the paths, while others were left empty for vendors to set up for market day. It was pretty, but it made crossing the green and finding the person she was looking for even harder.

Luckily, he seemed to be in a good mood today. All she had to do to find him was follow the sound of his fiddle.

“Egg?” she called when she came to a patch of trees and bushes that were now big enough to obstruct her view. She knew he was somewhere in there, but she couldn’t see him.

His bow scratched against his fiddle before falling silent. “Is that you, Little Girl?”

She wanted to protest the nickname but didn’t. He’d been calling her that since she was a little girl, and he was a vagabond teenage boy who played the prettiest music she’d ever heard. “It’s me.”

The bushes rattled, and a moment later, the man Miss Doolittle knew as ‘Egg’ burst into the open and hugged her so hard she nearly fell over.

“God, am I happy to see you!” He started spinning her back and forth, and several trinkets spilled out of her bag. “I thought I’d missed my chance to say goodbye!”

She finally gave up resisting and smiled as she hugged him back. “Not yet. They aren’t picking me up ‘til noon.” Which left them a little under a quarter-hour to catch up before she had to meet the Kingswood coachman in front of the church.

Egg finally set her down, running a hand over his shaved head. She’d never actually asked if he shaved it, but he was too young to be bald, and she’d seen several nicks on the back of his head that looked like they came from a razor. He immediately bent down to pick up the knick-knacks he’d accidentally forced her to spill. “If I’d known you were leaving Rosby, I would have come back sooner. Why didn’t you send a letter?”

“Where would I send it? You only stay in the same place for a week at most.” Besides, she didn’t have much spare money to spend on sending a letter. “You leave as soon as your bar tab gets too high.”

“True,” Egg admitted. He finally finished tucking her trinkets away, then strapped his fiddle to his back and offered his arm. “And it seems I’ll have to add Kingsgrave to the rotation if I ever want to see my Little Girl again, even though it’s quite far.”

She looked over at him, confused. “I’m not goin’ to Kingsgrave. I’m goin’ to Kingswood.”

He stopped suddenly, tugging on her arm hard to get her to face him. He wasn’t smiling anymore. She didn’t know if she’d ever seen Egg not smiling before. It unsettled her.

“You’re going to work at Kingswood?”

She nodded.

“What position?”

“I’ll be a lady’s maid.”

“To Lady Helaena?”

“Yes.”

He bit his lips. He wasn’t just not smiling. He was angry. His eyes had grown dark, and his brow furrowed.

“Is that bad? Have you heard bad things about Lady Helaena? I know they say she’s odd, but I haven’t heard anyth – ”

“I have no quarrel with Helaena, no. I just…”  He again ran a hand over his head, his fingers digging into the skin in a way Miss Doolittle was sure was painful. He tucked his chin in for a moment and took a deep breath before looking back up. He was smiling again, but it was strained. “I’m just worrying about my Little Girl. Ignore me. Helaena is very kind.”

She sighed in relief, slumping into his side as they began walking again. “That’s good. I’ve been lookin’ forward to this for so long, I’d hate if it ended up a nightmare.”

Egg looked at her with a brow raised. “You’ve been looking forward to this?”

“Well, yeah.” His tone sounded doubtful. Did he not think she could do the job? “I know I’ve never had an actual job before, but I do now. I’ll work real hard, I swear it. I’ll be a proper lady in no time, you’ll see.”

“I’ve no doubt you can be a proper lady,” Egg said while ruffling her hair. “I just don’t know if I want you to be. I like you very well, just as you are, I’ll have you know.”

She liked herself too, mostly. Sometimes she wished she was taller or had prettier hair. Every once in a while she took a dislike to the color of her eyes, but it usually faded. Whenever she had to decide whether to pay rent or buy a nice warm meal at the pub, she wished she was someone else entirely.

But if she were taller, it would have been hard to climb down the small staircase to her cellar. If her hair was different, Harry wouldn’t have told her how much he liked it almost every time she saw him. And if her eyes were a different color, she wouldn’t be reminded of her mother every time she caught her reflection.

“I’m not going to become a whole new person,” she declared. Egg looked dubious as he led her to sit on a stone bench across the road from the church. “Just… more refined. Now stop griping at me and talk about something else!”

Egg threw his head back in a great, wide smile as he laughed. “Only since it’s your last day in Rosby, Little Girl. What do you want to talk about?”

The first topic that came to mind was the two men from yesterday, the kind one and the brute. But that was too maddening. “You know about Lady Helaena, right?” He nodded. “Then tell me about the rest of them?”

He hesitated for a long while before he bit his cheek and began. “They’re the same as all the others. The lord of the house has a stick shoved so far up his ass he can’t bend over. The grandfather is a desperate social climber. The th.. second son is something of a rake, but good-hearted. Helaena though, she’s a good girl. Strange, but good. She’s very kind, like you. I think you’ll get along. … How do you feel about insects?”

Miss Doolittle laughed. “I’ve lived in a dirty basement for three years. Why?”

“Just wondering,” Egg said with a secretive smile.

God, she was going to miss him. His humor, his music, that smile. It had been very easy to fall in love with him when she was a girl, though she’d since grown out of it. He was one of her dearest friends, but far too… Egg for her to ever truly love or marry him. Still, she was envious of how happy he always was, even with no money in his pockets.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” She dug through her knapsack to find the little coin purse she’d made from a beautiful curtain Mrs. Cunningham discarded when it was torn. She extracted the two crowns and one half-crown she had left over from what that horrible man had thrown at her the day before. “These are for you.”

Egg’s blue eyes went wide. “Where the hell did you get that?”

She thought for a moment how much to tell him before deciding on simply, “A customer.”

His surprise melted into mischief. “What kind of customer?”

“What, exactly, are you implying?”

“Nothing! Just wondering if you’d decided to sell something other than flowers, and if so, how much you charge? Because I’ll give these right back if…”

“You’re disgusting!” she shrieked as she hit him with her bag over and over until he finally held his hands up in concession.

“You have my sincere apology.” He righted his mussed clothes, then looked at her. “But really, Little Girl, why are you giving me these?”

Because just looking at them makes me want to vomit. She sighed. “Because I don’t need it – I’ll be making my own money soon. You need it, though.”

Egg’s eyes turned thoughtful and soft. It was the kind of look she would once have swooned over. “You’re too kind. I worry you’ll lose that at Kingswood. That place and those people will wring it out of you if you let them. Promise me you won’t?”

“I promise,” she whispered, dropping the coins into his outstretched hand. She wrapped her hand around his, closing his fingers around the money. “If you promise me you’ll take care of yourself.”

He laughed, shaking their joined hands. “I’ll do my best. But with a little bit of luck, I’ll always have people like you around to help me out.”

She started to chide him, to warn him that he’d eventually need to learn to rely on himself, even if she knew he’d only laugh it off. But a sharp whistle and the crack of a whip sounded from the end of the street, and both their heads turned to find its source.

A two-horse cart had turned onto the main road. Not an unusual sight in itself, especially for a market town. But it wasn’t market day. And it was no ordinary cart, but one she’d only ever seen in illustrations in books. The cart of daring gentlemen and rakes. Its back wheels were twice the size of those in the front and carried seats made of green-painted wood and black leather that gleamed in the sunlight.

“Of course, they sent the fucking phaeton,” Egg murmured, giving a name to the vehicle. He stood quickly, pulling her up with him, and embraced her tightly. “Good luck, Little Girl. I’ll miss you.”

Then, he left. Releasing her from his grasp so swiftly she stumbled back a step. By the time she’d caught her breath, he was gone, without even the music of his fiddle to hint at where he’d gone.

“I’ll miss you too,” she whispered to the wind, hoping it would carry her words to him.

Only a few hours later, she was stepping out of the cart and onto the gravel drive of the Kingswood Estate.

The estate itself sprawled across half the woods, according to the coachman, Arryk, who had informed her when they officially crossed onto the property miles ago. The house, a term which seemed to Miss Doolittle to be a massive understatement, was near the center of it, within a smaller, but still enormous, gated park.

It was beautiful, with pale stone walls coated with ivy, gleaming glass windows framed with iron, and surrounded by flowers of every shape and color. And it was to be her new home.

Well, she was to be one of its servants. But still. Servants could call it home, too.

But what servants could not do was enter through the main doors. Instead, Arryk led her around the side of the house and through a smaller, much dirtier door into a stiflingly hot kitchen.

A woman who appeared to be around two hundred years old – the cook, presumably – barked orders at several kitchen maids with such ferocity it was a wonder that fire spewed only from the oven and not her mouth. As young men in fine suits filed into the room and began picking up silver trays laden with steaming food, the woman took a deep breath and started yelling at them instead.

Arryk leaned closer to Miss Doolittle. “Don’t do anything to get on Cook’s bad side,” he whispered, what sounded like genuine fear wavering in his voice. “She’ll roast you alive.”

As if she had heard him, the cook whirled around on him, her warm brown eyes blazing like hot coals. “What are you standing around for, Mr. Cargyll?” she bellowed. “And who’s this little waif?”

“Lady Helaena’s new maid.” His voice cracked like a boy’s.

The old woman huffed as those burning eyes examined her intently. “Put her in Mrs. Rivers’ sitting room and get out. I’ll not have you tracking horse shit in my kitchen.”

Arryk nodded hastily, the movement like that of a soldier accepting a command from his general. He took two steps forward, indicating Miss Doolittle should follow when he and everyone in the kitchen froze where they were.

Miss Doolittle followed their stunned gazes to the base of a narrow staircase and the two people who had just descended.

The first was a woman, neither old nor young, with deep black hair that flowed down her back in a long, silky sheet. Though she wore the dress of a servant, the keyring hanging from her waist indicating that she was likely the housekeeper, there was a certain power in her green gaze that made Miss Doolittle think the woman had been a queen in some other life.

But the thought did not last long, for her eyes drifted to the man standing just behind the housekeeper.

Shit.

The finest man she’d ever seen. With silver hair, one eye of crushing blue, one a milky white, and an angry red scar running across his face.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

She hadn’t even met Lady Helaena, and she was about to be sacked.

Or, judging by the wicked delight in the man’s eyes and his crooked smile, perhaps she was about to be eaten alive.

The housekeeper turned to face the man, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Lord Aemond, do you know this girl?”

Lord Aemond.

Forget being sacked or eaten. He could simply have her executed. It may even be a mercy, to spare her the humiliation that burned within her like a thousand raging bonfires.

He turned to the housekeeper, the movement too graceful and smooth. “I’m afraid I do.” He looked back at Miss Doolittle. No, he looked past her. “Mr. Cargyll, I will not be needing you to take me to Rosby tomorrow, after all.”

Then, he did look at her, and the cold in his eyes felt like an icicle shoved through her heart. She wanted to run. To scream. To shrink into nothing just to escape him. She wanted to run all the way back to Rosby, find Egg, and beg him to take her far, far away from here.

But she remained where she was, under the hateful gaze of her new employer, unable to so much as blink as he smiled a ruthless, joyless smile. “I’ve been hoping to see you again, flower girl. I have a proposition for you.”

Egg’s joyous, carefree voice echoed in her mind.

With a little bit of luck.

He’d never specified whether it was good luck or bad luck.

[f-imaginings]

I took a break from writing billford to colour in my billford comic that was just sitting in my drafts lmao. The grind never stops.

This is based on the gender swapped college au that has been rotating in my head for years. Here's the last comic I did for it, so folks can see the vibe I was going for.

Basically if we did a gender swap to achieve peak toxic yuri, I can't see older woman Stanford falling for Bill's tricks but if she were younger and more insecure, say at college, it could be an excellent setting for manipulation, since Ford might still crave social acceptance while acting like she doesn't need it. Major 'I'm not like other girls' vibes from young girl Ford.

Then if you throw in cultish sorority nonsense it would shape up to be a pretty interesting AU. Think Mona Awad's Bunny meets Gravity Falls.

Other fun facts about this au (that I may have a few pages of a fanfic already started in my drafts for haha) are as follows:

Bill is a second year transfer student who somehow within the span of days rose to power as Tri-Delta's sorority leader!

They introduce themselves to everyone as Bill Cipher, but because its the 70s and they're a girl all the other pledges call her Billie to feminize it a bit.

Bill offers to be Ford's first friend, but Ford rejects her on principle as she finds sororities to be vapid popularity contests and assumes Billie is no better. Ford's actual first friend is Viola McGucket who was named after the fancy word for her Pa's fiddle.

Occult phenomena has begun increasing ever since Billie usurped Tri-Delta's old leader and pledging rituals have involved dark magic, summonings and mysteries galore (a bit like the campus in Carmilla) which Stanford is keen to investigate.

Stanford has to prove to her father that she can be successful as a woman in STEM and is looking for something that will put her on the map as a scientist and change the world. Her idol switches from Tesla to Marie Curie.

She seeks comfort in the occult and thinks that her weird features and her intellect make her better than other girls (residual internal misogyny from Filbrick) but she learns solidarity when she has to save the sorority pledges and the rest of the world from Bill's machinations when she realises what the portal is for.

She is very gay, but acts like all women in STEM have to embody more masculine qualities, which is how she denies how gay her thoughts are all the time lmao.

She only starts stalking/obsessing over Billie after peeking at her essays to see that Billie is scoring higher than she is and is a certified genius.

She falls in love with Billie though once she realises that she's not human, and desperately seeks the acceptance in the occult she always envisioned. Bill makes her feel special too, often confirming Ford's biases against the pledges bc Bill thinks the sorority girls are braindead pawns.

Stanley didn't get kicked out, however she left home to make it big on her own while Stanford went to college. Right now she is dabbling in multi-level marketing schemes like Avon and tupperware parties, wanting to prove to her dad on the other side of the spectrum that a woman can make it big in business.

bonus Billie for the folks who read this long haha.

[mclalan]

Corp Zomphis, 2020s Design Speculation

I want to talk about Corp Memphis again— that corporate style of gangly, dead-eyed characters trapped in a neoliberal purgatory, posed between pot plants and spreadsheets.

I don't need to go too far into describing it. Heaven knows there are already so many takes on it that you're probably sick of hearing about it. However, I think a succinct description of it can be found at the end of that Wired magazine article from a few years back:

Wired: Corporate Memphis: The Tech Industry’s Favourite New Art Style

"But, despite all this, it may not be worth lamenting the immense reach of Corporate Memphis or the design possibilities we’ve been deprived of because of it. The style is, after all, simply a reflection of big tech, and how it has constructed a world with users on one side and executives on the other.

A more interesting and visually rich digital space would mean more than coming up with a new illustration style—it would require a change in how the tech economy is run. Until then, Corporate Memphis is likely to stick around, bendy arms and all."

This touches on why Corporate Memphis looks the way it does: it's a reflection of the material reality it's made in and the economic conditions it serves.

To work in a design job today often involves being a "multi-practitioner"— corp speak for a jack of all trades. You might have multiple platforms to manage, need to create a mix of media (motion graphics, branding, illustrations, etc.), and produce multiple pieces of content, all for some pointless product consumed by placated consumers.

And that’s all in a day's work, to be repeated the next. It's gruelling, unforgiving, mind-numbing work—especially if you take pride in what you do. Life doesn't become easier, but it does become bearable if the medium you're working in isn't fighting against you. A style that can work across platforms, can be easy enough for anyone in the department to use, but versatile enough to allow effort when there's time and money. It's homogeneous to the point where the messy, qualitative complications of art direction don't come into play. You can download a vector stock or make it in-house with relative ease and speed, and it looks good enough. The consumer, despite being fatigued by it all, seems to find it good enough. And that's what marks the style really: it's "good enough." It's a style linked to speed and practicality in the face of intense demand and pressure, low industry wages, accessible skills for entry levels, and high corporate barriers as everything's locked within Adobe's infrastructure.

But its strength as this homogeneous vector glob style, with its lack of any real individual identity, is also its biggest weakness. Although I'm sure some designers might enjoy working in this style, it's not really a style designed for creative individual expression. It's called "corporate" for a reason. If you want something different, you might be tempted to try freelancing...

Outside the corporate design department, you might think you're finally free to create in your own style, no longer having to work in that dreaded Corporate Memphis one anymore. But it’s hard enough to work in your own individual style under the best of circumstances. That's because the whole economy is based on the same structures of endless content production for algorithmically optimised consumption that allowed Corp Memphis to thrive, so you're still facing familiar obstacles—creating vast amounts of content, quickly, for wide and insatiable consumer audiences. So, in a way, we have this algorithm-enforced market of content, favouring those who have optimised their style to be better seen by it. It's no wonder Corporate Memphis has endured past its welcome.

However, despite all that, illustrators and artists still plod on. They end up making stuff, somehow navigating these systems— either playing them like a fiddle, outright rejecting them, or going accelerationist about it, like with something such as Corecore. Self-expression can take many forms, and that potential untapped capital value is tantalisingly mouthwatering to corporate capitalists.

Corp Memphis is optimised to a fault. It's too polished, too automated, and fits too well with the well-oiled design apparatus. Thus, it's developed a semiotics to reflect this—it's cheap and it's perceived as cheap. That's why an art director (typically) won’t just stick some Corp Memphis imagine on an album cover or use it to illustrate a particular lifestyle magazine. It wouldn't suit it, it's signalling the wrong stuff. Culture, art, ideas, aesthetics are reflected in work created by practitioners with an artistic vision, or that taps into what's going on in the present. And this is reflected in their art style, something Corp Memphis can't easily do, if at all.

That's why there's still a kind of fringe freelance industry with a speciality in design identity, otherwise known in the industry as "creatives", albeit small and closely gatekept by the likes of legacy institutions such as Goldsmiths and corporate industry leaders like The HudsonBec Group. If a corporation needs design to be spiced up with some kind of creative identity, it'll turn to these agencies or freelancers from this background rather than use Corp Memphis.

But the sad thing is how a corporation doesn't have total control over the process and thus can't control the value and pricing since they have to deal with hiring these pesky freelancers. But how does a corporation even know who to hire? With moodboards, of course! It’s easier to hire someone in-house with "good taste," who can simply curate hot practitioners to hire, like a dragon collecting .png gems. Although a corporation will try to get the best deal it can, these pesky freelancers can potentially negotiate a price for themselves, especially if they’re some big shot who holds a lot of cultural capital.

But another benefit of a moodboard is that it can be converted into a design guide. Simply share the sorts of designers and illustrators that a corporation dreams of hiring but with a cheaper designer, and ask if they can copy the desired style for less. Failing that, they can just outright steal the style anyway. If the creator is small enough, who cares?

But the value and cultural capital that corporations must seek outside their infrastructure, the very thing Corp Memphis cannot do, comes at the price of what Corp Memphis can do. Freelancers are annoying to corporations. They’re inconsistent, outside their remit, and expensive—since any level of lost capital is an expense. And worse of all, they don’t own them. Work made in-house in a corporation is completely theirs to be used forever, however they see fit. A freelance gig is limited to the contract, and typically you have to keep paying for different uses, or pay a lot if it’s expected to be used for something big.

How dare these skilled workers... sorry, freelancers, leverage themselves. If only we, the corporation, could control and treat the work of freelanced art direction like we do Corporate Memphis. Well, maybe we can—with AI.

AI is a whole can of worms of its own. But I will outline how AI shares a lot with Corp Memphis in terms of mechanics, but it's not "good enough" like Corp Memphis is in terms of its aesthetics.

Let's put it like this, if Corp Memphis is above a stock image, which is above clip art, which is above a farting Elsa asset-flip mobile game, then AI-generated images are below that, sharing the same disdainful semiotics of a YouTube thumbnail. AI renders are synonymous with trash, with viewers combing over images seeking out any sniff of AI to decry it. This is, of course, unfortunate for corporations, because AI is wonderfully cheap and efficient to produce. The problem with even "the best" AI is that it still reeks of AI, because it's trained on relatively limited data sets that are the wrong semiotics that corporations typically use and that their consumers are typically familiar with. It's not consistent with typical standards and trends. But even the AI art styles synonymous with AI are really that of unfortunate ArtStation artists whose work has been stolen, scraped, and trained into these models. But none of it is directed, follows trends, or should I say, reflects trends favoured by brands.

Design industry standard work is also bolstered by their industry standing. Their "credibility" sets them apart from, as Mark Zuckerberg puts it, the worthless creators and publishers who ‘overestimate their value’. Sure Zuckerberg might say design is worthless, but let's not forget that Facebook Alegria, the design language developed for Facebook by the mega studio Buck Design in 2017, pretty much started Corp Memphis! I don't know how much that would have cost Zuck, but given how huge Buck is, I don't know, close to $1 million if I had to speculate. So what Zuck is actually saying is you are worthless, without your titles and industry standing, and are ripe for the scrapping.

I still think it would appear crass to the wider public if someone as tactless as Zuck were to steal wholesale from something like It’s Nice That's list of featured artists, due to the "prestigious" tutelage and culture capital of such trendy practitioners. Good luck if you're on your own though.

There's also the issue of copyright. I've no idea how litigious David Rudnick is, maybe he wouldn't even mind, but perhaps it would be legally safer to just hire a copycat of him rather than train an AI on his work. There's no shortage of copycats of him after all, and they'd probably do a better job than AI anyway.

No, a corporation if it wants to avoid all this mess will instead use AI this way:

Step One: Moodboardism

Directed by their little Pinterest moodboards and Instagram saves, a corporation will find the next latest and strongest trend that they want to utilise, be it Y2K or whatever's current on the human ant colony-as-algorithm site, Carri Institute's aesthetics.

Step Two: The Sellout

Hire an on trend freelancer with a large sack of money marked with a dollar sign to do a year's worth of graphic content in a particular on trend style. This is all then fed into their in-house AI database model.

Step Three: Rise and Grind

It's then handed over to the in-house sweatshop graphic designers as the latest toolset that they have to use. They're now tasked with grinding out prompts in this trendy style with the consistency, efficiency, and speed once only achievable with Corp Memphis.

So congratulations, now we have AI that isn't generic Facebook shrimp Jesus trash; it'll be its own unique trash. And sure, perhaps some AI artefacts might come through, but that's what the in-house graphic designers are for— to Photoshop those fingers. The corp no longer needs to put up with some meddlesome expensive freelance art director, as the AI model is consistent enough that someone in-house can direct it, just like Corporate Memphis. And even then, if it still comes across as AI-ish, the hope is that for the general public, it's "good enough", just like Corp... You get the idea.

And this is possible because a freelancers' perceived autonomous strength as corporate mercenaries is also their biggest weakness. They think they can dance with the devil and win, making essentially veneers for capitalists, never once thinking the corporations will one day come to extract capital from them too. Corporate Memphis is never going to die; it's going to mutate into a corporate zombie... Corp Zomphis?

Why bother hiring individual skilled freelancers to do a job in a specific style when you have a year's worth of art, seeded by one of them, to prompt out your own "unique" designs in their style. It's more efficient and cheaper to approach design as a egragore hungry for its next feed, rather than pay for a single illustration. But you'll just have to trust me when I say that I'm not making this up; annual hires to train their own ai is genuinely what big corporation are doing.

But what about the industry, are they just gonna let it happen? I don't know. But I think freelancers don't typically see themselves as a working class, but instead as individualistic, competitive even, little businesses. This is why I think corps will be able to steamroll over freelance designers and illustrators with AI driven Corp Zomphis, because there's no solidarity amongst designers and illustrators, unlike US animators with their union and perception of themsleves as workers. If one freelancer rejects that devil deal to make the annual quantity of prompt feed for a corp, then the next hire will. I remember even hearing the AoI stressing how it wasn't a union, as if union was a dirty word. Instead its existence is to help one interface with their corporate client overlord. Well, soon enough that interfacing will be about betraying your industry freelance brethren to a corporate egragore, basically turning everything into a potential Corporate Memphis reskin. If Corporate Memphis is the design logic of the economy of the 2010s, then I wouldn't be surprised to see people nostalgic for it in the future, if the speculative 2020s model I've described turns out to be true.