#still have a dozen or twenty more to take pictures of

[dailypokemoncrochet]

So productive today! Took so many pokeamidex photos and queued some of them up and it isn't even light outside yet

[yandere-daydreams]

Not-So-Scary Moments With The Yan. Genshin Boys (Sumeru + Fontaine Edition).

Characters: Alhaitham, Neuvillette, Kaveh, Tighnari, Cyno, and Wriothesley.

Word Count: 2.7k.

TW: Borderline Shitposting, Prolonged Imprisonment, Varying Levels of Emotional and Physical Abuse, Codependency, Mentions of Stalking, and Unhealthy Relationships.

Alhaitham

It took Alhaitham about ten minutes to drag himself out of bed, his staggered footsteps audible through the thin walls of his apartment.

It took twenty for him to haul himself through his morning routine – water running somewhere in the distance and porcelain clattering against marble countertops as he washed his face and tried to work some life into himself. Alhaitham usually wasn’t so lethargic, but he’d had a rough week. There’d been a sudden influx of paperwork for the Akademiya’s sole scribe, and every second he didn’t spend buried under new legislation and requests for increased budging was, instead, dedicated to one of his many personal research projects. By the time he’d gotten home last night, it’d been all he could do to make sure you hadn’t starved to death and drag himself to bed.

He usually would’ve kept you waiting for a few more minutes, but an agitated grunt marked an end to his normal patterns. In a moment, he was braced against the doorway to his own study, his eyes narrowed half-hearted towards where you sat in his leather-padded chair, your feet propped on his desk. There was an book open in your lap – one of his, something about metaphysics and ley line abnormalities and how both tied into the Inazuman politics. He eyed it wearily before speaking, his voice still deep with exhaustion. “Where did you put my hearing aids?”

His tone was accusatory, his irritation visible. You put on your sweetest smile. “Where did you put my novellas?” you signed, thinking for a moment before adding, “Bitch?”

“They aren’t ‘novellas’, they’re—” He cut himself off with a scoff. “They’re filth. I don’t want you rotting your brain with smut.”

“The plots are very—”

“The plots are half-baked excuses for paper-thin characters to fondle each other in locations you can tell the author didn’t take the time to properly research and—” His gaze flickered to you, his frown deepening. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“You’ve read them?”

There was a long beat of silence.

Finally, he let out a labored sigh. “The dozen or so I couldn’t be bothered to throw away are in a cabinet underneath the kitchen sink. It’s locked – the code is your birthday. Now, where are my aids?”

“You fell asleep with them on last night,” you said aloud, abandoning his glorified textbook and pushing yourself to your feet. His hand shot to the side of his head, finding the metallic cuff only slightly displaced by having spent the better half of the night on his head. As you passed him, you paused, pressing a kiss into the corner of his scowl and pretending to ignore the muffled groan he let out in response.

Neuvillette

Of all the sights you thought you might see after arriving in your wonderous new nation, the Iudex of Fontaine standing over your drained bathtub with a look of potent remorse written across his expression was not one of them.

You’d imagined yourself strolling through the walls of the Opera Epiclese in vivid detail, been able to picture exactly what you might’ve seen standing below the Tower of Ipsissimus or above the bottomless pit that was the entrance to the Fortress of Meropide, but even after you’d found yourself in the smothering care of Monsieur Neuvillette, you never would’ve been able to conjure this sight. He usually insisted that you bathe together, going so far as to have an in-ground tub that could’ve easily been mistaken for a hot spring installed in his (until recently neglected) personal residence to better indulge the habit. Thankfully, the trial he’d been presiding over had run long today, and you’d been able to save yourself an hour of his calloused hands running over your body, of his eyes burning into your skin with a nearly inhuman focus. You knew he’d be disappointed. Irate, even, depending on how his trial swung.

You hadn’t expected him to be so… sulky about it.

Half-lidded eyes, a slight pout tugging at the corner of his lips as he lingered idly in the doorway between your shared bedroom and the in-suite bathroom. Steam and silence laid heavy in the air – the latter you were eventually forced to break as you fiddled with the hem of your robe. “I’m sorry,” you muttered, hoping more to break the tension than to make him think you were genuinely apologetic. “It was getting late, and I didn’t know when you were coming home. I didn’t think you’d take it so personally.” When he didn’t respond, you braced yourself for the worst. “If you’re angry, please say so. I… I’d rather get this over with now, if it’s all the same to you.”

His expression softened. He let out an airy sigh and, with only a moment of hesitation, closed the space between you. “I’m not angry.” A pair of lean arms wrapped around your waist, his face soon buried in the crook of your neck. You heard him inhale, and did what you could to suppress the shudder that ran up your spine at the thought of him basking in your scent. “I’ve just been… looking forward to it, I suppose. Your taste relaxes me.”

Immediately, you went rigid. “My… taste?”

“Mhm.”

“Neuvillette,” you started, very slowly, giving your own mind time to catch up to the dread slowly building in the pit of your stomach. “Have you been drinking my bathwater?”

He was quiet for a not inconsiderable amount of time.

Finally, he pulled away from you just far enough to speak. “…no?”

For your own sake, you decided to believe him.

Kaveh

“Kaveh.”

“Not now, treasure.”

“Go to bed.”

“I will, in another hour.”

“You need to get some sleep.”

“I’ve already told you – I’m fine.” He narrowed his eyes, expression contorted by concentration. “Knight to B4.”

“Kaveh,” you repeated, leaning across the table. “You were showing me your blueprints.”

“Oh.” He blinked several times, looking over the sheet of blue paper marked with chalk drawings and near indecipherable hand-writing. “Were you impressed?”

Your frown irked, but you swallowed back your exasperation and pushed yourself to your feet. Slowly, you took him by the hand and, when he failed to protest, guided him out of his own seat and towards the room you were usually restrained to, when he wasn’t home. He’d kept himself awake for the past two nights, every moment of the past forty-eight hours devoted to finishing his proposal for a wealthy commissioner’s summer mansion before its upcoming deadline and, now that the coffee had been drained from his system and his adrenaline had been given time to fade, he was practically a shell of a man – all dark circles and hunched posture and disheveled blonde hair.

Sleep deprivation was, by far, the worst thing he could inflict on himself. At least he was happy after he drunk himself into oblivion. This was just depressing; as miserable for him as it was for you.

With a dutifulness you shouldn’t have had to show to your lover-turned-stalker-turned-captor, you brought him to his bed and watched as he collapsed onto it, what little strength he had to hold himself up immediately dissolving. With a sigh, a roll of your eyes, you turned to leave, but a hand lashed out from the crumpled heap and caught you by the wrist. “Stay with me?” His voice was muffled by layers of sheets and blankets, but clear enough. “Please?”

Usually, his bids for affection were met with bitter neutrality or, on your worse days, spiteful condensation. Usually, you would’ve torn yourself out of his hold and made sure he knew that he’d ruined any chance of living out his little domestic fantasy the second he decided his obsession was worth more than your happiness. Usually, you would’ve hated him that much more for daring to ask.

But, he could barely hold his eyes open and when you failed to immediately recoil, the sloppiest, most lovesick smile you’d ever seen plastered itself across his lips. It was his turn to pull you forward, this time; to drag you onto his bed and into his chest. With a satisfied sigh, he slotted his chin against the dip of your shoulder and draped his arms around your waist – an old position. A relic of better times you’d never been strong enough to completely dicard. “When it’s time to draw up the plans for our home,” he mumbled, only half-audible. “I won’t so much as breathe until its perfect.”

You opened your mouth, but didn’t say anything.

He’d already fallen asleep.

Tighnari

He glanced once at the thick packet of ink-marked parchment you’d slammed in front of him before looking back to you, his expression disparaging. “And this is supposed to be…?”

“A custody agreement,” you answered, grinning. “Alhaitham put it together during his last visit.”

“We don’t have any kids.”

“It’s for Collei. If I ever leave you,” and, to be clear, you would be leaving him, as soon as you figured out how to get away from a man who poisoned your tea whenever you so much as suggested entertaining a future that didn’t include him, “I want weekends and summers.”

“She’s nineteen.”

“Which is why we’re letting her pick who she wants to spend holidays with.” You tapped the front page with your knuckles. “Honestly, dear, if you weren’t going to so much as read the documents, we could’ve scheduled this for another day.”

His ears twitched, his tail sweeping across the floor in irritation. “Even if this was legally binding – which, by the way, something assembled by a scribe would not be – I would never give you weekends. That’d be too much travelling for a girl in her condition, and I don’t want her to feel like she comes from a broken home. Moreover, according to Regulation #531 as passed by the Grand Sage last year, you would have to get Collei’s signature before—”

“Check page twenty-seven.”

You watched him scowl as he thumbed through the pages. A second later, his ears flattened against his scalp, and he took to muttering under his breath. “Traitor.”

“If you don’t want your aggression towards the dependent party used against you in court, I’d suggest you sign on page four, seventeen, and thirty-two.”

You left his villa half an hour later with a with a new imprint of his fangs on the side of your throat and a signed document in-hand.

Cyno

“You have kidnapped me.”

“Technically, I was only—”

“You’ve blackmailed me, imprisoned me, and tortured me.”

“You can’t still be hung up on—”

“You’ve branded me with your name, forced me into your bed, and made me play out all your delusional, fucked-up fantasies—” You took a deep breath, pursed your lips. “—but if you show up to a black-tie event wearing that, it will be the worst thing you’ve ever done to me.”

He looked down, as if considering his attire for the first time. He was in his usual uniform – which was to say, shirtless and barefoot, his hair windblown and a fine layer of sand still coating what little he was wearing. You could only be thankful his polearm wasn’t slung across his back, but you knew he’d make it past the door without it. “The way I dress has never been a problem before.”

“There’s a difference between hunting down rouge scholars and going to a banquet being held by a literal god. Archons, Lesser Lord Kusanali herself might be there.” You gasped, dragged your hands over your face. “Everyone who’s ever gone to the Akademiya will absolutely be there.”

For all his many faults, he could never stand to see you in pain. There was a brief delay, a moment of unsure shuffling, then his arms were wrapping around you, his chest slotting against your back has he pulled you against him. “It’ll be alright,” he muttered, speaking into your shoulder. “If anyone so much as attempts to insult you—no, if anyone tries to talk to you at all, I’ll strike them down in the blink of an eyes.”

His comfort was stale, but you forced yourself to relax. At least enough to speak. “You know,” you mumbled, letting your hands drift to your temples. “Dehya was hired by an up-and-coming scholar, a few weeks ago. I’m not sure how long her contract was, but there’s a chance we’ll see her tonight.”

There was a beat of silence, then another.

“Cyno?”

“I’ll change.”

Wriothesley

You could hear him trudging up the metallic stairs to his office; his footsteps heavy enough to drown out the soft music flowing out of his century-old gramophone. His head emerged from the curving staircase, first – his hair somehow more disheveled than its usual state of barely-tamed chaos – then his chest, his tie undone and his collar terribly mangled, as if he’d spent all day indulging the worst of his nervous habits. He was baring his teeth, his pale cheeks flushed with anger and his eyes narrowed into a pointed glare. It wasn’t quite the reaction you’d hoped for (in your wildest dreams, he would’ve managed to sink his beloved fortress before he ever reached you), but it was close enough.

You moved to stand, to greet him with the warm embrace he usually demanded, but he was already in front of you, already pinning you to the back of the lounge you’d been splayed across with a single fist planted less than a hair’s width above your shoulder. “You,” he growled, leaning in close enough for his breath to fan over your skin. “Do you know how many journalistsI had to deal with today? They were everywhere. I couldn’t go a step without tripping over some— over some glorified tabloid.”

“So, your meeting with Monsieur Neuvillette went well?” His scowl deepened, and you let out your most faux innocent laugh – a chiming, bubbling thing he’d never been able to stand. “You shouldn’t scowl like that, love. All those photographers will have to find a new model if you manage to give yourself frown lines.”

He jolted, but forced himself to shut his eyes, to let out a long, ragged breath. When he did face you again, he’d regained a degree of his composure – just enough to meet your smile with his own tight-lipped grin, more teeth than anything. “I’ll let you off easy if you tell me how you did it now. Before I decide it’d be faster to strangle an explanation out of you.”

“I didn’t break any rules, if that’s what you’re worried about.” You paused, folded your hands over your lap. “It was all thanks to our great and benevolent duke. Contacting people outside of the fortress has gotten so much more efficient ever since you decided prisoners should be able to send letters without administrative vetting.”

He buckled visibly, his shoulders falling as he lean towards you, his face soon buried in the dip of your shoulder. “You’re gonna be the death of me, sweetheart.” There was a raspy chuckle, a hand on your thigh, squeezing just hard enough for his anger to shine through the playfulness of the gesture. “I think I’ve earned the rest of the day off, and I think you’ve earned—”

The door to his office swung open before he could finish, a masculine voice calling up from the voice below only a moment later. “Your grace, t-there’s a reporter here to see you! She says she’s been told not to leave until she speaks to your partner!”

“That’ll be Charlotte,” you half-sung. “She seemed like such a nice girl in her letters. It’d be a shame to keep her waiting.”

When he failed to answer, you brought up both hands and cupped his face, cooing as you used your thumbs to quirk the corners of his mouth upward.

“Just remember to smile for the camera this time, alright?”

[iamred-iamyellow]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Don’t Prove I’m Right - [Part 4]

♥ prev

♥ series masterlist | main masterlist

♥ pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

♥ series synopsis: you didn't think twice about the dj you hooked up with until you found out you were pregnant. turns out the man wasn't just some dj but a famous formula 1 driver.

♥ chapter synopsis: after his reckless decisions, lando attempts to make it up to you. it took some convincing from oscar but you eventually gave in and had a conversation with him.

♥ smau + written - fc: girls on pinterest - none of the pictures are mine

♥ warnings: swearing !!!

♥ a/n: its been MONTHS since the last chapter I am so sorry lovelies!

liked by logansargeant, lilyzneimer, lilymhe, and 120,538 more

yourusername ever since @/logansargeant and @/oscarpiastri got camila these plushies she’s been obsessed with them

view comments

yourbestfriend please don’t tell me the deer is being replaced 😔

yourusername camila would never

lilyzneimer shes just too cute to not spoil

user1 haven’t seen lando in any of her posts recently 😕

user3 they did JUST get back to Monaco so I wouldn't be worried

user6 they're not dating either so I don't see why he would be

user4 we need a godfather reveal

logansargeant it’s me

oscarpiastri its me

carlossainz55 … it’s probably not me 😕

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

It had been a couple of days since your last conversation with Lando and a knock on your door drew your attention away from your phone.

A giant box was sitting on the doorstep alone with no sender information. You hesitantly brought it into the living room and grabbed a pocket knife to cut through the clear strip of tape. The box quickly burst open from the pressure of the deeply packed objects—about a dozen jellycats and an apology note placed on top. 

It was clear to you that this package was from Lando, and it was a very sweet gesture. He’d clearly seen the post you made the previous day and was trying his best to make up for his mistakes. You sighed and folded the note up, setting it on your couch. You pulled out a soft pink bunny from the box causing Camila to squeal and hold her arms open. 

You still hadn’t checked your texts from Lando, but Oscar was right. You couldn’t ignore him forever. Lily offered to take you out for the night in order to clear your head. You were extremely grateful for Lily’s support and generosity ever since you met her. She had truly become one of your best friends throughout this experience.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by lilymhe, carmenmundt,, and 102,843 more 102,473 more

yourusername girls night

tagged; @/lilyzneimer

view comments

lilyzneimer <3

user1 we love a self care queen

user2 she’s so pretty

alexandrasaintmleux we should all hang out together <3

francisca.cgomes i second that

yourusername i’m so there

user7 i love that the wags include her 🥹

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

You sat next to Lily with a glass of white wine in your hand, conflicted. Of course you were. Like Oscar said, you had to confront him at some point, but it was going to take a lot for you to trust Lando again. You pulled your phone out of your purse.

You got the response pretty much immediately.

You sighed and turned to Lily, "I'm gonna go talk to Lando."

"Good luck," she said with a smile, and took another sip of her drink.

You picked Camila up off the couch and bundled her up in a small yellow blanket.

-

You were at his apartment in about twenty minutes. You knocked hesitantly, tapping your nails on the case of your phone and jangling your keys in attempt to reduce your anxiety. Lando opened the door in silence, letting you into the room. He sat back down on his couch and you followed, cradling your daughter in your arms and choosing to stand up as you spoke.

“Listen Y/n, I know what I did was-“

"I'm not going to take your child away from you,” you stated, cutting him off. “You said you want to be in her life, but you have to keep that promise."

He nodded and ran his hands across his face. You wanted to get straight to the point with no excuses. You had heard all of his apologies already.

"Lily talked to Kmag and found her a babysitter, so we're good on that end. But, you still have to earn back my trust to be alone with her and if anything like this happens again I won't be nice."

He looked back up at you, “It won’t ever happen again, I swear. It shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

”I agree.”

There was some awkward silence as you gently sat on the arm rest of the couch.

You looked down at your daughter, “She may not fully get it yet, but you’re her dad and she loves you,” you locked eyes with Lando again. “You chose to raise her with me, so you need to take responsibility.”

He nodded, “I understand.”

"Good," you responded, standing back up and stepping towards the front door. You paused without turning your head back towards him, "Good luck in Imola.”

With that you were gone.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

end notes: this was short, I am aware! there was originally supposed to be more to this chapter but I decided to turn it into its own whole part lol :) I've already started working on it so stay tuned!

taglist; @hc-dutch, @papaya-twinks, @2pagenumb, @formulaal, @erin-odonnell04, @drunkinthemiddleoftheday, | @kissesandmartinis, @ironmaiden1313, @six-call, @wolflover384, @tremendousstarlighttragedy, | @ilivbullyingjeongin, @celestialend, @silentreader128, @wolflover384, @ellesssssxzxz | @clowngirlsstuff, @ln4smiamitrophy, @whoneedsgeorge, @chezmardybum, @warlike-morning, | @gigicisneros, @hard4ndsoft, @eveninggstar, @jolixtreesunn, @acesofspadess,| @formulaonebuff, @notpeachybby, @shesmugirl, @mxdi0, @ririyulife, | @kravitzwhore, @bellinghambby22, @helaenatargaryensfavoritebug, @maplesyrupsainz, @harrysdimple05, | @pippyth3hippy, @noneofyourfbusinessworld, @littlegrapejuice, | @majx00, | @si1ver06 | @weekendlusting | @landossainz,

@jxnellat, @minkyungseokie, @evie-119, @mxryxmfooty @tvdtw4ever, @ivegotparticulartaste, @taylawillson23,

@mountvesuvu, @arteme, @plotpal, @landorris, @mbioooo0000,

@heavy-vettel, @loganmay19, @formula1-motogpfan, @herexpertcollector, @teti-menchon0604,

@ysabay, @cleopatrick-123, @nichmeddar, @glai1023-blog, @sltwins,

@harrysdimple05, @toriiez, @theonottsbxtch, @fastfactory

[ylangelegy]

montage of love ꩜ seungmin x reader.

── .✦ 💌 reader uses she/her pronouns. includes: idol!ksm, feelings realization, [childhood] friends to lovers, freeform, time skips, fluff, light angst.

── .✦ 🚏 self-indulgent and prose-heavy with a reference to Twenty-Five Twenty-One! originally posted on ao3.

── .✦ 📟 wc: 1,600+

Seungmin’s poorly concealed indifference towards her is probably the biggest tell of his affections.

She’s known him for so long, after all, growing up in the same Gangnam neighborhood. Their mothers stayed in touch, too, so Seungmin knows all about the course she’s taking up at university and the sporting competitions she’s winning first place in. 

Had things been any different, Seungmin is sure he would have been urged to pursue her. As a teenager, the thought would have repulsed him. Now that he’s a bit older, he’d be lying if he said the thought didn’t cross his mind at least once.

Maybe a couple of times. 

Maybe every single time he got to go home, really, because there she always was. A few houses down, their basement converted into a flower shop.

He wishes sometimes that it wasn’t flowers, because he sees flowers everywhere, which means she haunts him even when he’s miles and miles away. 

They don’t keep in touch online. They only ever see each other when his mother sends him out to buy a fresh bouquet for the living room vase.

Never mind that Seungmin comes home hours late, his face flushed and his answers curt. She always gives him the prettiest arrangements to make up for their rendezvouses.

(And, secretly, their mothers are still hopeful.)

But there was no romance in their meetings. Not the first dozen, anyway.

She would close up shop for an hour or two so they could visit a nearby convenience store or some obscure cafe. And when the group’s popularity began to pick up, Seungmin didn’t have to say anything. Their walks began to veer into quieter neighborhoods, more secluded spots. 

He doesn’t want to love her. He doesn’t have time for any of that, anyway.

But when she mentions offhandedly that a classmate flirted with her, Seungmin flexes his hand unconsciously. He feels the sudden urge to swing a bat at something.

And when she says it didn’t work out, Seungmin is embarrassingly relieved. 

She notices, laughs, reaches out for his hand. He doesn’t move away.

So Seungmin cares for her. He lets himself admit that much.

None of the boys know for the longest time, but he lets slip in front of Minho and Felix and Jeongin one day that he’s going back to Samseong-dong for the night because it’s his 여자친구’s birthday. 

Girlfriend. They all balk, even Seungmin. His what? 

Seungmin doesn’t bother to correct himself. He leaves his roommates in a general state of confusion and spends the night with her in her flower shop, eating take-out on the floor and talking about his latest trip overseas.

He contemplates, then, asking her what they are. But Seungmin has never been the type to rock the boat. Not when something is still good. 

They spend most of their time together in her shop. Rarely anyone who knows him stops by. It’s always an old man, an apologetic husband, a clueless boyfriend.

He asks her, one night, which flower she likes the most, and she simply says, “All of them.”

So he watches a couple of YouTube videos and arranges a bouquet with a little bit of everything. She tells him to stop wasting her resources but keeps the arrangement in the back room until they wilt. 

Though the boys ask, Seungmin never dignifies their questions with a response. They stop prying when they realize he’s not about to crack. They follow the breadcrumb trail instead, the traces of her that are difficult to avoid. 

Passport photos that Seungmin keeps at the bedside table of every hotel. Pictures he never posts but sends to someone, not the fan Bubble or the like.

And when they’re back home, he’s always hitting the ground running. The typically put together, restrained Kim Seungmin has started rushing, speed walking “home” after extended trips abroad. 

One day, his roommates look out their window and spot who he’s running towards.

Seungmin is in love with her, he eventually concedes. Big deal, he thinks.

He doesn’t really realize just how much it matters until he tells her offhand I think I might be in love with you and she freezes. Then laughs. She laughs and laughs and laughs, and he leaves the shop that night with the tips of his ears red.

They don’t talk for a week. Chan even pulls him aside at one point, concerned because all his recordings are too sad, too angry. 

She meets Seungmin at his dorm one evening and apologizes about her reaction. She was trying to act cool, she admits. And then she says, I think I might be in love with you, too.

Seungmin wants to laugh coldly, wants to get back at her, but there’s something so earnest in her confession that he knows she means it. 

Their first day as a couple goes by without much fanfare. Slowly but surely, she becomes more known to him. When he introduces her, formally and finally, to the boys, they are all shocked at the Kim Seungmin he becomes without him even noticing. 

He keeps an envious, watchful eye on all the members. There is always some form of connection between them; their knees touching, his arm around her shoulders, his fingers twisting a strand of her hair.

When she speaks, he nods in all the right places. “Call me when you get home,” he tells her as she leaves, and she rolls her eyes like it’s something he’s said a thousand times before. 

Seungmin dismisses the boys’ jokes about it. He has no idea, it seems, just how unfathomable his love is to others. And is that not the best kind? His affection is almost intrinsic, instinctual.

To him, loving her was as practical as breathing. 

“Did you ever really love me?” she asks bitingly during a particularly nasty row. The details are hazy, now, about what had them bringing out their claws and spewing venom.

It could have been Seungmin’s jealousy. It could have been her aloofness.

Nothing justified her question.

Seungmin recoils like she’d hit him. He stares at her, hard and angry. “Watch what you say,” he hisses, his voice impossibly tight and his eyes deceptively dry.

She has her lips pursed and her arms crossed. She’s poised and raring to fight, and waiting for the right answer. But Seungmin is stubborn, and tired, and what kind of question was that? 

There’s no way she could have known, or even seen, the way that Seungmin looked at her. The devotion in his expression. Oh, he practically worshiped the ground she walked on.

And here she was, questioning that. How dare she, Seungmin thought. 

What do I have to do? he wanted to ask. Do you want me to yell your name off rooftops? Give everything in my life up to prove it? Say the word. Say the word and I’ll show you just how much I love you. 

He says none of that. Instead, he does what he does best: He watches her leave. He watches her retreating back, watches the light blink out from the window of her room, watches their KakaoTalk conversation receive no updates for yet another grueling week.

He doesn’t even find out that she’s fallen ill from her. It’s his mother who tells him in a conspiring whisper. 

He shoulders into her room despite her protests and treats her until he’s coughing and sneezing, too. They switch roles.

“Is this enough proof?” he asks one night, delirious and drugged. Then, for the first time, with his whole chest, he says: “I love you.” 

She strokes his forehead with a damp handkerchief. Her eyes are dry but they shine, twinkle, and quietly, dozens of times over, she says it back. 

They’re able to keep it a secret for four years. Even the most harsh of critics begrudgingly have to hand it to them. What phenomenal discipline! What utmost consideration! Why did she never demand, never ask to have a bigger share of his life?

The short answer: She was happy. She didn’t need the whole world to know that she was the idol’s muse. She was content to watch his stages and know that he would be coming home to her for the weekend. 

Right before he enters military service, he releases a SKZ-Player. 사랑의 몽타주. Montage of love. And its hers, wholly hers, referencing their relationship, promising a safe return.

Fans think its about them. She knows who it’s really for. 

And when the 21 months of service is over, Seungmin is a bit of a changed man. Enough to stand before the higher-ups of JYP Entertainment, and then his adoring fans, to tell them all that he is in love. He has been for quite some time now. And there’s nothing he wants to do more than to keep making music, and be in love with that one person, if they’d all still have him. He asks, too, for his privacy to be respected. 

People do, for the most part, but she’s still found out.

Her flower shop booms in popularity. Old classmates from uni blow up her inbox. She waits for Seungmin to come home to her after his surprise pronouncement and can’t decide if she’s going to hug or slap him.

He gives her the long answer: He’s tired of hiding. He doesn’t care what might happen to his career. And the boys, he ran it through them, and they all think the same. 

If you love someone, why hide it? If you love someone, let it be known.

Seungmin takes her hand. “Let’s go out,” he urges.

It’s late in afternoon. Most of their dates have been snatched up moments; evenings in parking lots, backstage in dressing rooms. 

But the day is warm and promising, and the flowers are in full bloom. And Seungmin is looking at her, expectant and hopeful, his hand trembling ever so slightly.

And she can’t say no.

She squeezes his hand. “Let’s go out,” she repeats. 

He smiles, then. Indifference be damned.

They walk out of the store and the flowers lean towards them like they're somehow brighter than the noonday sun. 

[agentmarvel]

center image by @/ave661

PART I

hitman!ghost x fat!reader (afab, fem) w/ arranged marriage

mdni - 18+; minors and ageless blogs will be blocked

rating: explicit

word count: 2,992

read on ao3

summary: in which contract killer simon "ghost" riley has to marry by a deadline, and of all the women to pick from, he chose you - without your knowledge, against your own stubborn will, and without much hesitation. your entire life, what you thought you knew, is flipped on its head while you try to navigate your new worldview and the complications therein.

cw: toxic parenting

♡

Simon stares at the photos before him, eyes flittering across the array wordlessly as he contemplates the question at hand. As migrant as his gaze has been, he keeps circling back to the same photo in his grid. Something about it draws him in, calling to him like a siren song. There’s no inclination that this path could lead him to his death, leave his bloated corpse floating just below the surface like seaweed, equally as limp and lifeless, nor can he be bothered to mind the possibility of rocky shores ahead, nearly certain to run his ship aground if he’s not exercising the utmost caution. His sails have never flown higher, and this? This feels like the right rigging for his needs.

It’s not that Simon wants a wife. Truthfully, he wants for nothing - he fucks when he feels like it, does as he pleases, and has hired hands to handle his household; anything he desires is placed at his feet with the snap of his fingers. He’s earned the life he has now, paid for it in blood, sweat, and tears - the likes of which belonging both to him and the piles of bodies he prefers to think of as stepping stones rather than people. But Simon Riley is nothing if not a man of his word, and the bill has come due.

Twenty years, he promised. Twenty years, and not a day more. It seems like an eternity to an eager, naïve teenager.

John Price, the master of hired guns, trained Simon. He put years of his life into molding Simon into the perfect weapon while instilling a moral compass impossible to sway. It did not come without cost, though. When he agreed to teach a driven, persistent, gifted fifteen year old Simon the ins and outs of the business, they made a deal. In exchange for John’s knowledge, Simon would be given time to build his empire before being required to take a wife.

“A mountain can’t rest upon a single pebble,” Price had told him. “Strength is in numbers, my boy. Earn loyalty where you can and buy it where you can’t.”

He’s been on his own for just over a decade, John becoming his equal, and he still takes those words to heart; hence the spread of pictures. Word travels fast, and when it gets out that the Simon Riley is seeking a bride, every magnate - respectable or otherwise - with a daughter to spare is throwing their hat into the ring. Conceited, perhaps, but having connections with Simon gives a man the kind of power they’d be foolish to reject.

His right-hand, Johnny, has already weeded out those with seedier dealings - those who cater to terrorism or are even suspected of having connections to human trafficking. While Simon is merciless in his kills, he does not kill without compunction. He’s swift and silent and doesn’t believe in leaving them to suffer. Death itself is punishment enough. There’s no purpose in his life for those who inflict undue dolor for their own gain, and he will not be associated with the uncouth.

The process limits his options, though not by nearly enough. Still, nigh on two dozen remained. He culled the field down to a mere nine by adding stricter constraints: age, employment history, education, and the like. He has no interest in the barely legal, the spoiled socialites, the vapid, shallow, or vain. As hollow as this state of matrimony may ring under the circumstances, he’d prefer not to be one of those men who feels disdain for his partner.

That’s the thought that keeps him circling back to one specific photo - a grayscale surveillance-style photo. The subject is undoubtedly stunning, appears to be precisely his preference in every physical aspect, but the devil is in the details. A delicate necklace that appears to be well-worn but treasured enough to stay polished, a purse that bears no distinguishable designer but shows no sign of detrition, neat, complimentary nails, but he can see a thin sliver of dried glue at the cuticle of the thumb; all signs of frugality without sacrificing sophistication...

Even the tiniest observations sing a haunting, operatic tune that keeps Simon hypnotized with little regard for what could lie within the treacherous depths below. Instinct drives interest, and if there’s anything Simon’s learned in his line of work, it’s to trust his instincts.

Not another beat passes before his fingertips finally close around the edge of the picture. He hands it to Johnny.

“Dig up everything you can on this one, yeah?”

♡

Fascination seems to be the weakest word to describe the rabbit hole Simon finds himself in when Johnny slides a file across his desk. He thumbs the manila tab that peeks out beneath the slew of staggered papers, taking caution to remember the name printed neatly across it - your name. It tastes sweet when he says it out loud. Pretty name for a pretty girl, he muses with a nearly imperceptible smirk.

The surname strikes him with a notch of recognition. Your father, if memory serves correct, is one of the largest arms dealers in the world. A pleasant man by reputation, though Simon has never met him directly. Sans the obvious, he keeps his nose clean. Nothing iniquitous or unscrupulous. There aren’t many American families that Simon has ties to, and forging a bond of this sort with a weapons tycoon would certainly be beneficial.

He digs into the contents of the folder, the pages feeling almost like silk between his heavily calloused fingers. A vague eagerness settles into his bones. Simon feigns disinterest outwardly, expression masked in stoicism, but he can’t lie to himself - he’s undoubtedly curious.

Each barely-cooled sheet turned only draws him further into a spiral. Your basic documents - driver’s license, birth certificate, passport - fill in a few blanks. The additional knowledge of your height, weight, and eye color offer insights not clear from the photo. He knows your middle name, birth date, that you’re an organ donor. You’re not living off your father’s money, as evidenced by the consistent bi-weekly paycheck deposits in your bank records. Educated, obviously, as your student loan payments are automatically drafted monthly.

On paper, it’s almost as if you were made for him, and what a thought that is. Optimism isn't in his nature; a heavy dose of skepticism hangs like a dark cloud, brewing a storm of adversarial rationale. But the pinch of hope that hovers like the sun in the back of his mind tells him to digest before coming back for seconds, and he concedes.

In the days that follow, Simon notices himself spending every spare moment revisiting your file. He placates Johnny’s lingering nosiness with the assurance that he’s merely trying to make a prudent choice under the circumstances, but that’s not quite honest. Truth be told, you’ve become a bit of an obsession of his over the last week. He often notes that his mind is wandering to the things he didn’t learn from the dossier - how you take your tea, what perfume you use, where you’ve always wanted to go but have never been. It’s a dangerous admission, one best kept to himself.

He toys with the notion of conducting the same research on a couple of the other candidates, just to be sure, but his decision is made final when Kyle sends over the links to your social media accounts. None of them are private - an issue Simon will have to address quite thoroughly at a later date - so he has no trouble combing through the last several years of your life.

Admittedly, it leaves an adequate mark. You’re witty and smart while remaining a bit sardonic. Thoughtful and warm, but not without your sharp edges. You’re ambitious and driven, a bit of a firecracker. Color him impressed; he quite likes that.

Demeanor aside, he also finds that you really, genuinely are an absolute beauty. The few photos from your file don’t hold a candle to the selfies you’ve posted. Something about seeing you when you feel most confident, when you’re exuding that effervescent glow of aplomb, it sparks a sensation in Simon’s stomach that he can’t quite describe.

That all but seals the deal.

He snaps up his phone and sends a text to Johnny before placing it face-down and turning back to his laptop.

>>> Set up the meeting

♡

As his jet touches down in Bogotá, Simon is reminded of what a nasty beast jetlag can be. It’s an animal he’s not had to contend with since his younger years, a fact for which he’s grateful. Call it a perk of his constant travel over the years and the more… unconventional hours he entertains on jobs. They’re approaching hour fourteen of their flight, though, so he supposes he can’t fault his men for falling asleep.

(He did, however, take a picture of them sleeping on each other before the turbulence awoke them; you know, for the sake of posterity and potential future blackmail.)

Simon’s mind had been far too occupied to allow him the opulence of rest. Upon his lap sits a dossier on his next target, a relatively high profile subversive at that, and all he can think about is the pretty little thing that’s been haunting his subconscious for the last two weeks.

By all accounts, it’s baffling. He understands that this sudden onset of infatuation is irrational, illogical, and quite frankly, irresponsible. It distracts him from things he ought not be distracted from, and that irritates him to no end.

The whirring of the engines slows to a dull hum, and Simon, with a grunt of discontentment, stuffs the file into his briefcase. He’ll accomplish nothing as long as he’s preoccupied. Hopefully, focus will be far less elusive on the flight back.

A loud thunk from the cockpit draws him from his spiral of ire, and Nikolai emerges. He greets Simon only with a curt nod before disengaging the door and deploying the stairs. Once they’ve kissed the asphalt, he ventures back a step, creating room for the men to disembark.

“Welcome to Colombia, gentlemen,” he announces. “We leave in six hours; gives me time to refuel the bird and grab some fuel myself. Enjoy your time, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, okay?” He tacks on a wink for good measure, which draws a bark of laughter from Kyle. Nik’s been with them long enough for them to know that’s a very short list, a fact Johnny is very quick to point out.

Simon claps a hand on Nikolai’s shoulder and hands him an envelope before stepping out - a hefty cash sum for his time and efforts. He may have also snuck in a sizable bonus as an anniversary present, but that will stay between the two of them.

“Get some rest, too, yeah? You’ve earned it.”

The air outside is crisp and pleasant. Underneath the standard airfield smells, Simon detects a pinch of coffee and cocoa. He wouldn’t be surprised; there’s a manufacturing plant not too terribly far from here, and if the wind blows just so, it may carry on the current. It’s refreshing, especially after being trapped for hours in an aluminum tube with three men who, today in particular, seem to be having a war over who can wear the strongest cologne.

Kyle and Johnny flank him on either side as they stroll off the tarmac. They’re both covertly armed to the teeth as a general precaution, but he trusts there will be no sinister intent behind a simple lunch. Surely, his appointment won’t mind. He likely won’t be attending alone either.

At the far end of the strip, a hired car is waiting. It’s relatively inconspicuous for the part of the city housing the restaurant, according to Simon’s research - a sleek, black SUV with windows tinted dark enough to hide any passengers, but passable enough to not draw attention.

Once in the city, it’s inherently obvious that there’s plenty of time to kill before the agreed upon hour. Place and time re-confirmed, the boys are turned loose to occupy themselves however they see fit, and Simon delves into the rows of local shops.

He finds things here and there; a pair of stunning leather boots, a box of cigars for Price, trinkets and treats he can share with his staff or gifts he can bring to gatherings so that he never greets his gracious hosts empty-handed. Even a little something for you, should all go according to plan. He smiles inwardly as he tucks the velvet box into the pocket of his slacks. It won’t replace the necklace you clearly adore, but he hopes you’ll wear it regardless.

After a quick trip back to their driver to leave their finds, the trio makes their way to the restaurant. Johnny and Kyle lag behind, keeping a respectable distance from Simon, whose eyes are immediately combing the patio for your father.

He spots him closer to the corner, sitting with his back to the wall. Two tables over, a pair of rather conspicuous men sit, cliché aviators perched in place while positioned to have a clear view of the upcoming interactions. Simon makes a mental note to wait until closer to the wedding to offer suggestions for higher quality detail. Assassinations are easier when you can gauge your obstacles so easily; trust him, he’d know.

In his periphery, he sees his companions select an empty table four over from the rent-a-cops. Kyle sits with his back to the table, glasses off. Johnny sits across from him, keeping his on to supply a reflective overview. Simon can’t help but crack the tiniest grin. He’s taught them well. They move as a singular unit when needed and rely on instinct over protocol. It’s the perfect display of how safe you’ll be with him. If he seems a little arrogant about it, that’s because he is.

Your father looks up from his phone and meets Simon’s eyes with an unspoken question. Simon tips his chin just once before the man stands, greeting him with a gracious smile.

“Ah, Mr. Riley… Pleasure to finally meet you.” He’s sincere in tone and offers his hand. Simon takes it without hesitation, giving it a firm shake while he shares the sentiment.

“You as well, sir.”

His smile widens a bit at that, and he gestures to the open chair, saying, “Please, sit.”

Simon takes the invitation, settling into the seat and the subsequent relatively meaningless small talk. They cycle through the basics before ordering their food and get a pinch more personal while they wait, discussing their respective hometowns and places their work has taken them. It isn’t until they’re digging into their plates that your father finally broaches the subject they’re both most anxious to discuss.

“As much as I’m enjoying getting to know you,” he begins, gaze not rising from his fork as it prods a pile of coconut rice. “I’m sure you didn’t fly halfway across the world just for that.”

“No, sir,” Simon responds. “I’m here to talk about your daughter.”

That draws the man’s attention, eyes finally meeting Simon’s with a subtle grin. It’s almost somewhat unsettling, like a cat finally catching that damn canary, though he’s unsure whether it’s him or you that owns the role of prey.

“But you already knew that, didn't you?”

“That I did,” he confirms, dabbing the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Tell me, Simon, what exactly is it about my daughter that calls to the infamous Ghost?”

Simon pauses a moment, unsure of quite how to approach the response. He'd rather not tip his hand until he determines what sinisterity lies behind that predatory gaze. The mask your father is wearing at the moment is approaching uncanny, and a faint alarm bell sounds in the back of Simon’s mind.

“I only ask because, well, I never would’ve expected that a man of your stature would choose someone so… plain, shall we say? Don’t get me wrong, she’s a good girl, but she’s certainly not without her flaws. Stubborn, opinionated, talks too much, certainly far from the ideal housewife. And don’t get me started on how she takes care of herself. Really makes me wonder, Mr. Riley, what ulterior motives might you be hiding?”

“None, sir. Nothin’ I need from you that I can’t get myself.” Simon’s voice is flat as he tamps down the anger crawling beneath his skin. How does a real man speak ill of his own daughter so flagrantly? Does he really have no regard for you? He has half a mind to remove your father’s tongue after the wedding, if only for your sake.

“Pray tell, then.”

Simon scrubs a hand over his jaw before he answers, “Pretty girl. Smart from the sound of it. Doesn’t rely on attention from the public or ‘er daddy’s money. Ain’t lookin’ for a sweet little housewife; I like it when they bite back.”

“And you understand that she’s… How do I put this delicately?” He pauses. “She’s a bit bigger than what you'd consider a trophy wife."

Simon scoffs, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, he's aware of that. That's part of what drew him to you.

“Quite like a fuller figure. Don’t want a woman who’ll fuss over calories when I cook for ‘er.”

Your father mulls it over, chewing thoughtfully as he considers the words before him. Simon watches as the muscles in his jaw flex and reflex, and he swears he can hear the scales tipping back and forth as they try to find some balance.

Finally, he wipes his face with his napkin. His expression cracks into something adjacent to genuine, and that alarm gets just a little bit louder.

“I suppose this little meeting has reached its end.” He snaps his fingers twice as the waiter, gesturing for the check. Rude, in Simon’s opinion, but he bites his tongue.

“Sir?”

“I’ve got business to attend to back in the States, and by the sounds of it, a wedding to start planning.”

♡

part ii

[large-lit]

We were about the same size when we met. I was a little heavier thanks to my efforts to fatten up alone, but you promised to change that.

After the first twenty pounds, people started assuming I was the one paying for our dates more often. I must have looked a little more mature and imposing with my bulk, I suppose. Or maybe they correctly assumed that I was the one eating most of the food ordered.

Fifty pounds, and people started giving you sympathetic looks once they recognized us in public. 'It must be so hard,' they must have thought, 'having a boyfriend who so completely failed to take care of himself. How could he have let himself go so badly?' If only they knew the sort of garbage you fed me behind closed doors, how badly you whined for me to get on top or crush you against a wall.

At the one hundred pound mark, I could no longer keep up with you as easily during our walks. You managed to maintain your slim, athletic physique while I had blown up into a genuine porker, and with every restaurant you dragged me to, every appetizer you had two bites of before pushing the rest onto me, the difference only grew more pronounced. Having replaced my entire wardrobe at this point, I joked that you had only blown me up so big to steal my clothes. You silenced me with another funnel full of gainer shake.

After one hundred and fifty pounds, my weight nearly doubled from when we met, you unceremoniously cancelled my gym membership. A fair decision, honestly, since I hadn't gone in months and that was perfectly good money that could go towards food. I was a little worried about my future mobility, not having enough muscle mass beneath the several dozen layers of padding, but you assured me that it was fine and stuffed another cinnamon roll into my mouth. You'd been getting more dominant the fatter I got for a while now, but here is where it really kicked into high gear. I couldn't have been more turned on by it.

At two hundred extra pounds, I was closing in on some seriously massive sizes. Not only that, but with how much facial and body hair was starting to come in on me, you decided it was time for some help in blowing me up. Now that I was undeniably in bear territory, you put me on the appropriate dating apps and advertised me as someone who needed help staying fed. With plenty of pictures of my smaller sizes to prove that I was a blubber bomb, you had no trouble enticing new feeders to your cause, and the weight continued piling on.

After two hundred and fifty pounds gained, I got called into a meeting at work. My size and drastically changed appearance was starting to affect my performance in the office, and it had gotten to a point where they could no longer ignore it. I was offered a work from home position, and you were over the moon when I told you, already scheming up ways to more effectively fatten me now that you'd have me home all the time. No office hours meant we could stop spending money on work clothes, but I pointed out that I would still need to be on video calls at times, and I'd need shirts for that. The idea of me popping even more buttons seemed to lift your spirits from the idea that I would not in fact have all my wobbling blubber on display at all hours.

The next milestone, three hundred pounds gained, came more quickly than either of us were expecting. Between working from home and having multiple extra feeders working on me over the course of the day, those next fifty pounds came on fast. Not a free moment went by when I wasn't either being hand/funnel fed, getting my belly rubbed, or both. We both laughed pretty hard when my office chair finally gave up the ghost while I was on a video call, sending me toppling to the floor and giving my coworkers a full view of just how wide and low my gut had gotten since leaving the office as I got back up. You insisted on a full sheet cake "reward" before we ordered a new chair.

After a whopping three hundred and fifty pounds gained, my weight triple what it had been when we'd met, I realized that it was now completely impossible for me to reach around my gut and between my thighs to get to my dick. You took obvious pride in this accomplishment, and celebrated with a double helping of gainer shake, funneled into me as you fucked my enormous ass. With all my numerous heavy rolls and folds of fat wobbling and jiggling, and me living in a near-constant state of arousal from how intensely you'd been feeding me, it didn't take long for me to have my first hands-free orgasm, filled from both ends and hearing you go on about how huge, fat, sexy, massive, etc I was getting. When I told you I was still hungry after we both finished, you looked ready to go for another round.

Another fifty pounds later, a package arrived in the mail addressed to me. Seeing as my main activities were either work, food, or sex, I didn't really have much time for online shopping. When I walked into the kitchen with the package, you grinned and sat me down in my chair, eager to see me open it. Inside was an enormous pair of sweatpants that looked like they would've drowned you, and a photo of us when we'd just met. Back when we'd been younger, and I much thinner, we'd joked about getting a pair of sweats just like these, ones that you could fit your entire body into one leg of, while I'd overflow the whole thing. After you did a quick test of your part, you helped me pull them up around my blubbery waist, having me hold up my gut as best I could so you could wedge the waistband between the two heavy, blubbery folds. When it came time to pull the rest up behind my rear, they only barely cleared my shelf of an ass.

In an uncharacteristic move of dominance that I could tell both surprised and aroused you, I whirled on you, pressing you to the wall with my belly. I grabbed your wrists to keep you against me as I waddled the two of us over to the couch. While you still reeled over having your whale of a boyfriend manhandle you so, I brought my immense belly down to rest on you, sandwiching you between my weight and the furniture.

"Any thoughts for dinner?" I mused idly as I looked out the window, spying one of our feeder friends pulling up to our driveway. "I think someone's bringing pizza today. Might call them to double the order, eh?"

From beneath me, I could feel you groaning and groping me, your arms barely able to reach halfway around me. I wasn't even close to done growing...

[tf-animated-out-of-context]

One last round of trivia:

"The Stunti-Con Job" exists as both a comic and a BotCon script reading; the plots are the same, but the script reading added a subplot featuring Minerva, a medibot determined to meet Ratchet at all costs, who's somehow dragged Warpath along on her quest. (She does also appear in the comic version - see below.)

The script reading also featured a musical interlude - a duet sung by G1 and Animated Grimlocks. I don't think it went according to plan.

Like the story's title, the comic's original cover pays homage to the classic British comedy film "The Italian Job". (As do the picture captions on the relevant TFWiki page.)

Sideswipe and Breakdown share a body-type (first seen on Rodimus Prime) - possibly a callback to the G1 episode "Masquerade", in which that iteration of Sideswipe was disguised as Breakdown. (The same applies to Jazz and Dead End, and, more or less, to Optimus and the Motor Master.) In-universe, all the Stunticons underwent spark transplants into Autobot frames - except Toxitron, who's a clone of Optimus. Not a very successful one.

Cheetor, meanwhile, is a retool of Blurr - a fact Sideswipe remarks on four BotCons later, in "The Return of Blurr". which takes place at about the same time as "The Stunti-Con Job". Hence Blurr's appearance in the latter, in the High Council box alongside Cliffjumper - still cubified, and no doubt still talking twenty-four to the dozen.

Strika's Team Chaar, seen at the very end of this story, has undergone a reshuffle since "Transwarped" - Oil Slick is still there, unfortunately, but Cyclonus, Blackout and Spittor have been replaced by Mindwipe, Sky-Byte, Scalpel and Blot.

As for Autobot cameos, there are too many to list, but most of them are here:

(Botanica is also in this frame, but further up in the High Council box. TFWiki claims that Tap-Out is somewhere in the crowd; I can't see him, though.)

[girlactionfigure]

On Tuesday morning I returned to Israel from Tokyo via Bangkok.

‎Before boarding the plane from Bangkok to Israel, the terminal was full of young backpackers who wanted to return to Israel to the reserves. 

‎Upon boarding, they announced that all those who still do not have a seat will wait and try to get everyone on the plane. 

‎There were dozens of young people there who wanted to go back to enlist! 

‎⁦‪@ELALUSA‬⁩ took all the available seats on the plane and filled up to the last seat on the plane. I felt sorry for those who could not go up due to lack of space. 

‎Then to my surprise, after they finished filling the plane, the El Al people took more than twenty young women and put them on the plane and put them in the crew's folding chairs. 

‎And after that the captain gave permission and more than ten young men to sit on the floor in the kitchens and near the doors of the plane were put on the flight.

‎In my entire life I have never seen a flight where dozens of people are sitting on the floor. During the entire flight, they slept on the floor wherever possible including near the cockpit, on the floor in the business class and in every corner of the plane. 

‎The pictures speak for itself and illustrate a little of what was on this special flight.

‎During the flight I saw the captain walking around the plane making sure the crew was taking care of all these wonderful young people.

‎Thanks to the wonderful team of El Al pilots and flight attendants for the extraordinary gesture. 

‎Kudos to the CEO of El Al for having such employees.

‎I have to admit that they warmed my heart (to say the least).

‎Original post by: אורי שכטר ‎Translation and post by: ⁦‪@haivri‬⁩

livinglchaim

[stusbunker]

Spotless: Canto

Chapter Thirteen

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela

Other characters: Reader's OC family, Ellen, Dean/Jo, attempted Reader/Cas, Pam/Lee, Sam, Cole/Reader's sister and Garth/Bess

Word Count: 5009

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining. MORE BACKSTORY AHEAD, story takes place currently in Dec 2017, flashback to Jan. 2004 in italics, all towns mentioned are made up, I gave the reader the best dad in the world (you're welcome), underage drinking, talk of bar hook ups, car accidents, injuries, character death, guilt, stupid brother-in-laws, unbeta'd

Special shout out to @thoughtslikeaminefield who helped immensely on sorting out the backstory for this chapter and the next, way back when I started outlining this thing.

Series Masterlist

You made your way through the harrowing process that was holiday travel, flashing your medical card at the TSA agent and going through the regular pat down deal before finally getting to your gate. It was mild in LA, but you brought your puffy coat with you on the plane because December in Nebraska was never that kind. It was also a free blanket once you reached cruising altitude.

You put your phone in airplane mode, popped in your earbuds and let yourself nap for most of the three hour flight home.

You didn’t go home often, your schedule never left you with much time off, especially over the last couple of years. Or, at least, that’s what you told yourself and how you avoided invitations from your family. Between the band and Bobby, all you would have to do is ask for time off and they would have given it to you, of course they would. But it’s not like they aren’t workaholics themselves.

The wind rattled the jet bridge as you made your way to the gate, dozens of strangers trudged along beside you as you felt the first hint of true winter air. You turned your phone back to normal settings and tried not to get caught in a young family’s way as you all followed the signs to baggage claim. You smiled as you heard the familiar buzz of the accentless plains’ speech in the surrounding conversations, you were really home.

You stepped out of the line of traffic to find a restroom and clear out the ridiculous amount of notifications you received while in the air. You had texts from both your mom and dad, your sister, Sam, Dean, Bobby and Ellen. You opened up the chat with your dad because he was picking you up and said you had landed and told him where to look for you because you knew he parked instead of waiting in the chaos of the arrivals area traffic.

You ignored your mom and sister because it was all wondering when you got in and you’d have time to reply on the drive home. You opened Dean’s message and it was a picture of a ‘Nebraska… the good life’ sign taken out of a car window. You sent a heart emoji and told him that you just landed, because no matter how tough he was Dean always complained about flying and you needed to give him proof of survival.

Sam’s message was a compilation of shots of Dean sleeping with random things propped on his head or shoulders, which meant Dean was probably driving the last stretch to their dad’s and Sam had been saving those for blackmail. You laughed, forgetting you were in public and rushed out a reply before saving them to your phone.

You read the message from Ellen but stopped yourself from fully opening it. You locked your phone and shoved it into your pocket. Right now nature’s call was more important than answering questions and you always had to be careful how you replied to your surrogate mother, she could always read between lines you didn’t know you’d drawn.

Twenty minutes later, you were greeted by a burly bear hug, compliments of your dad, that knocked the handle of your duffel out of your grip and rocked you on the spot. He smelled like engine oil and canvas with winter still clinging to his Carhartt, you held on tight.

“Glad you’re home, sweetheart,” he mumbled, breaking a way with a firm hand on your shoulder. “Got everything?”

“Yep!” 

He smiled his tight lip smile, where it was all in the eyes, and nodded. “Alright then, let’s get out of here.”

The ride home was uneventful, catching up, complaining about traffic, asking about the weather, all while you cleared through your messages and emails. You stopped for a late lunch and got the rundown on your older sister and four-year-old niece. 

“Any word from Cole?” you ask about the elephant in the conversation.

“Nothing she’s telling us. Figured you’d know more,” your dad sighed.

You tisk, “like she tells me anything.”

“Maybe she would if you called her,” your dad replied, eyebrows up and knowing.

You rolled your eyes, you and your sister were not close. After she got knocked up by a guy known for his charm, you pretty much never heard from her. You weren’t worried about her, she always had a tight friend group that was impenetrable. But when her husband suddenly dropped off the face of the Earth, you started to pay attention.

Your mom had generously kept you in the loop, whether you liked it or not.

You and your dad finished your meals and got back on the road. The town of Mills’ Crossing had roughly a population of one thousand people with enough villages and farmland surrounding it to make it feel bigger than it was. Your first trip to LA the summer before starting college was mind altering. Coming home was surreal, knowing everyone (to some degree) everywhere you went was almost alienating after so long living amongst droves of beautiful strangers.

You never sought that kind of attention.

Your parents lived in the same three bedroom ranch you grew up in on a quiet street with normal, working class people as neighbors. It was the exact opposite of your place now, where you were wedged in a neighborhood that was both overpriced and rundown and your neighbors came from every walk of life imaginable.

Luckily for you, you were charged next to nothing by LA standards of rent.

Your dad drove through town with the radio on classic rock, like always, unless he was in a mood and he put in a Maynard Ferguson cd or Tower of Power, blasting brass to wake up. Meanwhile, you took in all the things that had changed since you left, not that there were many. As you approached Hound Drive, a familiar apprehension crawled into your stomach, taking you back to a snowy night almost fourteen years ago.

“Come on! They’re not going to be there all night, and it’s not like we can follow them to another bar,” Jo whined at you as you put on your makeup. She barely needed any, which always made you jealous. But you didn’t want to rush yourself and look like you were still in high school. Bela had taught you a lot about maintaining a strict beauty regimen during your first semester and you were going to put those lessons to good use. So what if you were late.

You primped your hair and took one last look in the mirror.

You drove to the Roadhouse in your ancient Buick LeSabre, which still had a cassette deck. But you had upgraded it with an adapter so Jo slipped a burnt cd into your Discman and turned up the volume, Phantom Traveler’s latest recording blasted through the old speakers. The open road and the entire world were at your feet.

“I can’t believe they’re still playing around here,” you said, letting the drum beat add to your excitement.

“Dean says they’ve had some nibbles from labels, but he won’t tell me which ones,” Jo confided.

“How often do you guys talk?”

“Enough that my mom got me my own phone line for Christmas,” Jo admitted.

You shrieked. “Girl, I know that bill has gotta be ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but I’m paying for it. And it’s worth it. Can’t be as bad as his cell bill.”

You giggled. “Which one is the one you want me to talk to?”

“Castiel, Cas, he’s the quiet one with blue eyes. Not the guitar player, that’s Lee. He’s been eyeing the drummer, so don’t get any ideas there. Trust me.”

You tried to picture who she meant from the handful of times you’d seen them play, but came up empty. The parking lot was packed and you pulled your jean jacket tight against the falling snow as you made your way to the entrance, missing the California weather you’d been soaking up since starting school. A wave of smoke and stale beer hit you as you stepped into the bar, an old jukebox filled the dim space and you tried to act like you weren’t too young to be there.

Jo navigated the crowd and you kept pace behind her, scanning your surroundings until you found a group of guys who towered over both of you at the pool tables. 

“Dean!” Jo called over the cacophony at a guy in a vintage leather jacket drinking a beer. He was even more hot up close, almost casual until he spotted her and his entire face lit up.

“Here she is!” he called, stepping away from a long haired guy to drag her in for a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“This Y/N?” Dean asked, holding out his hand for you to shake. 

You shook it like your dad had taught you, firm and with eye contact. “Hey.”

Dean cupped your hand in both of his before turning and tucking Jo into his side and gestured to the guy he had been talking to. “This is Lee, and that’s Cas, Pam’s around here somewhere. What are you ladies up to?”

You nodded at the other guys, older than any of your classmates, but still welcoming. You couldn’t have known that your life would change in impossible ways that night. 

         Jo challenged the winner of that round of pool and you mingled, not sure what to do with yourself besides tease Jo and try and seem aloof. Apparently, the band were out for a good time and even though you were driving, you accepted a beer from their pitcher when they offered. It was crappy, but it was free and you weren’t about to play prissy to get something that tasted better.

Around ten o’clock, Ellen spotted you and you gave her a hug and asked about her shift. She eyed Dean with suspicion as Jo flirted with her cue in hand. You tried to keep Jo’s mom’s attention away from the budding romance, but other customers were more effective than your rambling about California ever was. You left her to work and got suckered into a game of pool.

“Cas, please, teach this girl how to shoot. Explain the physics of it or whatever, because I can’t watch Sammy win that easy,” Dean begged his friend, who you had learned was the keyboard player.

Cas rolled his eyes and circled around the table to your side.

“Not exactly subtle are they?” you conspired.

“No, but Dean always tells me my people skills are rusty, so this is him playing wingman,” Cas admitted. “Here, you want to brace the cue on your left hand.”

“I know how to do it, I just really don’t care if I win,” you said out of the side of your mouth.

“I won’t tell if you won’t, but it will be a lot easier if you play it up,” Cas admitted in his low voice, knowing you both were stuck in this setup while neither of you were particularly interested in one another.

“So, what? I just let you put me in position, cop a feel?”

Cas’ eyes sparked with amusement. “I’m fine with verbal instructions if you’d prefer.”

“Nah, it’s okay, let’s give them something to talk about.” You winked at him and saw the blush creep across his cheeks with his gummy grin.

“If you say so,” Cas whispered, stepping behind you to guide your arms.

The rest of the night was a blur. You started drinking soda around midnight, knowing your parents would kill you if you came home smelling like booze, even if they couldn’t enforce a curfew on you anymore. But Jo could sneak behind the bar like the thief she was and everyone else was getting sloppier for it. Knowing Ellen, she was keeping tabs, but as long as she had an eye on you both, you knew you couldn’t get into too much trouble.

Sam wasn’t much older than you, but being in a band and astronomically tall gave him sway into the not getting carded club. He asked you about school and you told him as much as you could, though most of your classes were just prerequisites at that point. He seemed really smart and thoughtful, but maybe it was just because he was less lewd than Dean or Lee.

Jo held her own, like always, keeping the men on their toes like the bartender she had grown up to be. It was no wonder she had made friends with them when they played there after their dad begged Ellen to give them a place to play. Stopping back on their latest self-scheduled tour had just lined up for your winter break and Jo’s night off.

At some point, you lost Jo and when you tried to go find her, Lee dragged you back to the tables with a game of ‘Never have I ever’, they didn’t even tease you for drinking soda. Dean appeared out of nowhere and stole Cas’ beer, before a very flushed Jo rounded the table and deposited a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels for them to split. That earned her a chorus of praise, but something told you she had been off stealing bases instead of just booze.

You smirked at her and bit your lips. She just nodded at you and mouthed ‘later’.

Later came with Ellen kicking everybody out, warning you to get Jo home to bed before she could put her to work closing the place up. You huddled in your car as Jo and Dean had their goodbye in the parking lot, Sam honking the horn on an old Chevy for Dean to wrap it up. You hoped they had done just that, curiosity ate at you as your car warmed up.

Finally, Jo dropped into the passenger seat with her dimples on full display.

“Oh my god, dude!” you balked.

“I know! Shut up.”

“Tell me everything and then I’ll decide if I will!” 

Jo smirked and turned down the volume on the radio. “He is such a good kisser, Y/N, you have no idea.”

“Uh, I couldn’t have guessed! God, you were out there for like twenty minutes.”

You pulled onto the side street and increased the speed of your wipers, the steady snowfall had turned into a cascade and you really needed to see. Jo continued about her rendezvous with Dean in the men’s room and how he’d fingered her against the stall door. 

“Oh my god, Jo!” You were impressed, guys were always talking about this shit, but apparently it was worth it to Dean to see Jo squirm.

“He was so into it, like obviously, he’s a musician, he’s got good hands, but it was like he liked doing it,” Jo continued. “Ugh, he better call me before they leave town.”

“He will, he’s got it bad, even I can see that.”

She beamed. “Yeah? What did Cas say? Did Dean tell him anything?”

You threw your head back and laughed, feeling the tires slip on the unplowed road. You righted the wheel and checked your surroundings, slowing slightly to keep steady.

“Cas didn’t say anything about you two, but I could just tell, okay? Call it bff intuition, okay?”

You made the turn onto Hound Drive, three blocks from Jo’s neighborhood, feeling the way your backend fishtailed with even the most careful of maneuvers. Jo continued her story, talking about Dean promising to take her out, just the two of them, about how big the backseat was in his car. And just as you made her promise to be safe, headlights blared on the wrong side of the road. You spun left to avoid a head-on collision, but the other driver wasn’t slowing down and before you even fully stopped you were T-boned directly into Jo’s door.

You woke up to the sound of the other driver screaming at you if you were okay. You couldn’t move your right leg and Jo hadn’t woken up. There was glass and blood everywhere. And even though the snow had gotten worse, you couldn’t feel the cold. The paramedics told you it was shock, they wouldn’t tell you if your best friend was dead or alive.

Your mom hugged you at the door, followed directly by your niece, Ada, running from the playroom shrieking your name. It felt good to be so welcomed, so loved. You held them both longer than they meant you to. Your sister gave you a sad smile, but hugged you too. And you told her honestly that it was good to see her. You hoped she meant it when she said it back.

You dropped your stuff off in your old bedroom and joined everyone in the living room where the Christmas tree was bursting with years of handmade ornaments. You could spot the new additions from Ada’s preschool. You wondered if you’d ever have little hands in your life to make macaroni art with. It wasn’t something you ever really thought about, but leave it to being home or the adorable company to stir up those nurturing instincts.

“Wanna play cards before dinner?” your dad asked, breaking you out of the daze of the tree’s lights.

“Obviously,” you replied and marched over to the pantry to fish out a deck and the coin jar.

Christmas Eve was magical, carols on the old stereo and lots of snacks. Your aunts and uncles and cousins came and went, making sure to leave time for everyone to get to church for the candlelight service. Ada fell asleep in your dad’s arms before the closing hymn of Silent Night sent you all back home to await spiritual and material gifts.

You opened presents at the crack of dawn, you could tell your parents had missed having little kids to cater to with the amount that “Santa” brought that year. But you couldn’t blame them, the coffee was bottomless and breakfast was to die for. Nothing could beat home cooking.

Just before ten, you had your dad drop you off at the Roadhouse and you let yourself in through the employee entrance. Ellen’s smoky voice greeted you before you even made it into the kitchen, “here comes Trouble!”

“Merry Christmas!” You called back, smiling, she was the one who had given you that nickname in the first place.

She tossed the towel she was wiping her hands with onto the counter and held open her arms. You stepped in to hug her and a piece of your heart thrummed inside your chest. 

“It’s damn good to see you,” Ellen whispered, though nobody else was there.

“Yeah,” you agreed, still holding her tight.

Ellen pulled back and looked you in the eye, dark eyes full of wisdom and sorrow. “You doing alright?”

You nodded and sighed. “Same old, same old.”

Ellen hummed, still watching you. “Okay, if you say so. Why don’t you wash up and we’ll finish up these trays?”

Every year on Christmas day Ellen opened the Roadhouse for a free dinner. She sent fliers to the nearest homeless shelter, veterans outreach center and local churches. She served everyone, no matter what and whatever leftovers she ended up with, she left at the firehouse for the night shift to enjoy. The bar itself was closed, it wasn’t about money, it was about something bigger.

Whenever you were home for the holidays, you helped. It wasn’t much, just chopping vegetables and serving the people as they came through, but it made you feel good to be able to do something. To be able to be there for Ellen on one of the hardest days of the year was the least you could do. Your family never questioned you ditching them and before Ada was born, your parents volunteered sometimes too.

Something about this year, you were grateful for it to be just you and Ellen doing all of the prep work. An old radio played the classics in the corner and you helped finish the green bean casserole. You worked in comfortable silence, every once in a while answering questions that came up about life and the band. The one you didn’t want to answer popped up just as the last tray went into the oven.

“So Dean’s seeing your friend, huh?”

“Ellen,” you groaned. You did not want to lie to her.

“What? Is that a bad thing?” she prodded.

“No, it’s just weird talking to you about it, I guess.”

“Girl, I’ve heard more gossip than you could shake a stick at. I’m just checking in on you all. It’s not like I get updates all that often,” she finished with a flawless guilt trip.

“Yes, Bela and Dean are an item,” you said in a confessional huff, crossing your arms over your chest and waiting for the interrogation to begin.

Ellen hummed again and bit her bottom lip. “Well, I guess that’s something. She good for him? I know he’s been going through it again.”

“He’s been doing a lot better. Sam and Bobby got him a therapist,” you sidestepped beautifully.

“No shit. Huh.”

“And we’re ramping up for a new tour. New album is all done, just waiting for clearance from the label and that’ll be on the market in a couple of months.”

“I’m sure that’s great, but I’m worrying about you as individuals, not as rockstars and company,” Ellen smiled sadly at you. “You know that, right?”

You melted inside and nodded, letting your defenses down. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Okay, well, let’s go move some tables while everything cooks,” Ellen said, guiding you out to the main room of the bar and grill.

The day became a whirlwind of small talk and easy smiles, faces you remembered but names you couldn’t really recall. Just after three Garth showed up with his wife Bess and little girl in tow to give you and Ellen a chance to sit down and eat yourselves. He had worked the bar through dental school and ran a small practice on the edge of town after settling down. He was always in a good mood and its genuineness thrived at the holidays. 

Ellen watched the small family fondly as she tucked into her mashed potatoes. “They’re expecting again, twins,” she confided in you.

“Good for them,” you said between bites.

A couple of older guys sat at the other end of the table, sipping coffee and talking about a mutual friend. They must not have had anywhere else to be and it made you mix of sad and proud that Ellen did this whole thing in the first place.

Nobody should be alone on Christmas.

“How are you doing? Still dragging your feet about putting more sandwiches on the menu?” you asked Ellen, changing the subject.

“Oh, I’ll do it eventually, maybe before the summer tourist season. I’ll have some more staff by then,” Ellen answered non committedly.

“But things are going good?” you pressed.

“Yeah, I mean, my back is still acting up, but can’t really complain,” she replied.

“You seen Cole around?” you asked about your elusive brother-in-law.

“Not lately, but I heard he wandered off on your sister, what a coward,” Ellen muttered.

“Yeah, well, we’ll see. He seems to get his mind on something and he can’t leave it until it’s sorted. Maybe missing Ada’s at Christmas will wake him the hell up,” you sighed.

Ellen gave you a knowing look.

“When do you want to head home? I usually wrap this up around five,” she asked.

“That works for me, no plans for the rest of the day, thank God,” you said before excusing yourself for the bathroom. The gentle croon of ‘Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas’ reverberated through the bar and the persistent ache inside you reminded you it still existed.

When you got back to the main room, Dean and Sam were there giving Ellen hugs and asking in hushed voices about what was going on. 

“You mean she didn’t tell you? I’ve been doing this for years, her too most years,” Ellen chided. 

“Hey, guys. Merry Christmas,” you said as they turned and hugged you in turn. Sam got to you first, hugging you to his chest with a quick clutch on the back of your head. Dean sauntered closer and you could tell by the look on his face it had been a hard day. You hugged him and could smell the whiskey on his breath, but trusted Sam to be the safe driver.

“You better eat now that you’re here, nobody gets served on Christmas, you understand?” Ellen laid out the law before corralling them towards the line.

Dean nodded and hid his face, shoving his hands in his pockets as you went behind the line to let Bess get off her feet. 

“Wow, Ellen, you’ve got all the fixin’s,” Sam pointed out.

“It looks amazing, thanks for letting us crash your meal,” Dean said softly.

She looked him over with her classic tough kindness. “Anytime, hon.--- Now don’t you worry about anything, let John rot in his own stubbornness, alright?”

Dean didn’t say anything, just hummed in agreement and turned his plate for you to add the gravy. You hadn’t thought you’d run into them since you were only home for a couple days, but something about being back and guessing what had been going through Dean’s mind made you feel oddly protective. And you couldn’t help but watch them both as they sat at a booth by themselves and ate in near silence. 

The remaining guests came through by themselves, occasionally two at a time. But just before Ellen was going to call it a young family came in with their three kids and little Gertie had somebody to play with as you dished up plates for them all. Ellen ducked into the kitchen for to-go containers, wanting to send some home with them before taking the rest to the firehouse.

Dean and Sam stuck around, wiping down tables and making sure everybody had a way to get to where they were going. Once Ellen had her truck loaded up, you turned to say goodbye to the boys.

Instead Ellen interrupted, “you’ll get her home safe? I’m wiped and would appreciate it.”

“Wha–I thought you were taking me?” you felt instantly guilty about pilling on to Sam and Dean’s Christmas.

“We got Trouble, it’s fine,” Sam answered over your head.

“Come here,” Ellen insisted, pulling you into another motherly hug. “Don’t forget to call me when you get back to California so I know you’re safe. That goes for you two, too!”

You held her tight and promised. “Love you.”

“Love you more,” Ellen replied, brushing the hair out of your face and thumbing your chin before pulling back to hug the boys.

You stood there next to Sam’s car and watched her pull out of the parking lot, the winter chill enough to keep you in the moment. 

“I guess we better get going,” Dean said to Sam more than to you.

“Yeah, did you still want to swing by St. Mary’s?” Sam asked quieter. Your mind spun on the idea of them going to church, but then you remembered what lay behind the aging brick building.

“Maybe we should ask her if she wants to go,” Dean said, looking you in the eye.

You swallowed and shook your head. “It’s okay, if you don’t mind dropping me off first. I know it’s in the other direction.”

“It’s fine, we’re not in a rush,” Dean answered for them both.

You climbed into the backseat, finding evidence of their cross-country trek strewn about. You pushed some wrappers off the seat and clicked your seatbelt. Sam turned down the music and double checked your parents’ address. Dean whisper-sang along with the radio while you asked them about their trip. 

It wasn’t a long ride, nothing in town was, but you hoped it was enough to even Dean out before going to see Jo. You told them you’d see them next week, double checked Dean would be back for the photoshoot to accompany his interview with Meg on the 31st, and that everyone would be going out for New Year’s afterwards. It felt ludicrous to be discussing LA excess after the humbling day you’d had, especially in the driveway of your parent’s home. Even if that was the life you all led, you didn’t want to look at it too closely.

“Alright, drive safe, talk to you soon,” you said, finally opening your door to find a familiar truck parked behind your dad’s.

“Tell your folks Merry Christmas,” Sam said. 

“Later, Trouble,” Dean added, watching you with something unsaid behind his gaze.

It turned out, Cole had shown up not long after you left, arms full of presents for everyone. And he and your sister had taken a walk to talk things out while Ada napped. Which was probably the only reason your dad hadn’t kicked him out on the spot. You sat down on the floor with Ada to open the gift Cole had brought for you while your mother’s favorite Christmas album played. 

It was a double sided picture frame, one side held Ada’s school picture and the other had a picture of the rest of your family from one of their camping weekends the previous summer. 

“I know you’re big time in LA, but figured you probably have a desk or something to put that on,” Cole said shyly. 

You felt the heat behind your eyes, but you wanted him to know where you stood, squarely on the fence about him still. “Thanks, I know just where to put it. Look at that big girl, huh, can’t believe it.”

“I am gonna be fibe Auntie Y/N. I’ve been big a long time already,” Ada said firmly.  You couldn’t help but laugh and hug her little shoulders. “I know, babygirl, I know.”

Tagging:

@deans-spinster-witch

@mrswhozeewhatsis

@cosicas-cuquis

@fics-pics-andotherthings-i-like

@suckitands33

@ladysparkles78

@deans-baby-momma

@stoneyggirl2

@sassy-pelican

@leigh70

@globetrotter28

@winharry

@lastactiontricia

@rockhoochie

Chapter Fourteen: Pomposo

[lady-bess]

Just A Date - Jack Daniels/Agent Whiskey

Part of the LadyBess Valentine's special! 8 Characters; 8 Dates 💜

Jack Daniels/Agent Whiskey x GN!Reader Mature/18+ (Minors DNI Please✨) WC: 1.7k Notable Tags: Fluff, Jack being the biggest sap you've ever seen, References to Spouse/Partner Death, References to Sex, References to Trauma/Implied PTSD, Admission of Love, Kissing, Shameful Flirting.

Paying a homage to my dear friend @avastrasposts for Jack's Valentine's Day fic, using a subtle nod to their bakery created in 'A Baker's Dozen' as where these two lovebirds met ❤ Please check out their work if you haven't already!

Anyone who knows me knows that of course I had to kick off these character Valentine's head-canons with the one and only Jack Daniels. And, oh boy, have I overthought about how that man would treat you on Valentine’s day…

Ahem...

Now, let’s get something cleared up first. Jack, as we see him in Kingsman: The Golden Circle is, deep down, a broken shell of a man. It’s been twenty years since he lost his first sweetheart, “the love of my life”, and it’s still got him so messed up that I cannot imagine him even wanting to date.

But after his… injury (yeah, that’s what we’re calling it. I’m in charge of the script now, Vaughn), let’s say Jack goes through some much needed therapy. After such time, he’s finally open to letting someone into his life.

This is the Jack I’ll be describing.

It had been years since he had actually wanted to celebrate this holiday. For so long he’d not had any reason to, and for years after losing his sweetheart Valentines day became nothing other than a harsh reminder that he had lost the one he loved with all his being.

But, years after the events of The Golden Circle incident (as Champ so aptly named it…), life was different for Jack. He’d left Statesman, the therapist he worked with helping him to see that for as long as he remained in that line of work he was never going to improve. Every bump to the head that saw him needing Ginger to prompt his memories with a picture of his sweetheart sent him back months with any progress he made.

Now, gone from the organisation, Jack was truly living for the first time. Settled in nicely on a small patch of land in the Kentucky countryside, he kept himself to himself predominantly. He’d met you by complete chance on one of his trips into town, nestled in the corner of a bakery where you both waited for your collection orders to be finished up.

He’d struck up a conversation with you there, it being easy to make small talk when a subject was handed to you on a plate – quite literally. It turns out you’d both ordered the same item from the bakery in question to take away, but there had only been enough for one of you to take it.

Jack, being the perfect southern gentleman, let you be the one to take it.

“Please, sugar, you have it. I’ll go ahead and order something else,” he’d said, tipping his hat towards you as you gingerly took the box from the worker’s arms.

“Are you sure?” you’d asked him. Jack grinned as he sensed the golden opportunity.

“I tell you what, sugar, give me your number and let me take you out sometime, and all will be forgiven,” he chuckled.

To his surprise, you’d agreed, blushing at the cowboy’s request and letting him type out the digits of your number into his phone. He watched you walk away, a slight skip in your step, and he began that moment planning your date.

That was seven months ago now, and now you were fast approaching your first valentine’s day together as a couple. Jack couldn’t be more nervous if he tried. He suddenly had the same level of anxiety as he did the day he asked his first love to marry him, which was ridiculous, because he had nothing quite to that extent planned.

Not yet, anyway.

But it had been so long since he wanted to make an effort on Valentine’s day that suddenly today was filled with all these great expectations. He’d actually managed to terrify himself into wanting to call off the whole day’s plans off. But he persisted, and from the moment the sun rose on the 14th day of February, Jack had been working tirelessly on his plans.

His day had started early, heading to the same bakery where you’d both first met to pick up a selection of savoury and sweet treats. Jack had considered going all out and cooking you a steak dinner under candlelight, but the more he reminisced on your time together, the better this idea suited the two of you.

Once he had everything he wanted, he headed to a nearby florist, and picked out some flowers for you. Twenty-eight flowers, each one signifying a week that the two of you had been dating. He’d smiled to himself bashfully as he waited for the florist to string the bouquet together, allowing himself to briefly think back on his marriage to his first love. This was the sort of gesture she would have adored, and he hoped deep down that she would be able to find comfort in knowing her cowboy was happy once again.

Jack took the flowers carefully and headed back to his truck; next stop, you.

Jack had mentioned something about valentine’s day to you a couple of weeks back, but nothing more had ever been said. Truth be told, you weren’t all that bothered, as you viewed the day as nothing more than an excuse for big corporations to push cheap tat on people in a bid to create an illusion of happiness. But Jack had said to keep your day free, so you let your cowboy run with whatever idea he had brewing.

Just before lunch, there was a knock at your apartment door. You turned down the volume on the TV as you headed over to go answer it, expecting it would be Jack, but not knowing for sure. Sure enough, it was.

Stood in a freshly steamed suit, a basket in one hand, and a bouquet of flowers in another, the cowboy before you looked absolutely ravishing (well, he always did, but today it was certainly more so). You smiled at him, giggling at the toothy grin that he shot back at you, a smile that was somehow brighter than you’d ever seen it before.

“Well, look at you, all scrubbed up nice,” you teased, stepping back to let Jack in. He set foot in your apartment, chuckling under his breath and rolling his eyes.

“Alright, alright, less of the teasing,” he joked, leaning forward and kissing your cheek before allowing you to close the door behind him.

“Okay, sorry!” you giggled, “You look good, Jack. Is this my valentine’s gift?” you asked, motioning to his slim yet muscular body, perfectly contoured under the fabric of the denim suit. Jack smirked, then shook his head.

“Maybe later, sugar. But for now, I got you these,” he said, handing you the flowers. Your face softened as you lovingly took the bouquet, handling them delicately. You made note to count the amount of flowers, and realised the significance behind them.

“Jack,” you began, looking up at your cowboy, “These are lovely. Thank you,” you said. “Let me put them in water!”.

Jack chuckled as he watched you head to the kitchen sink, filling up a vase that was already in the windowsill, and then carefully setting the flowers in the glass. You arranged them so that they would catch the sun while in the kitchen window, and gently placed the vase to one side once you had done.

“There! Oh, they look so lovely,” you said, “Seriously, thank you.”

“I’m glad you like ‘em. Now, I hope you also like these,” Jack said, now handing you the basket in his other hand. You took it from him, furrowing your brow slightly.

“What have you got buried in here then?” you chuckled, setting the basket down on the table. Jack stood next to you, his hand settled on the small of your back as you peeled away a small cotton cloth which covered the top of the basket.

The smell of freshly baked pastry hit you the second the cover had been removed. A mix of aromas, sweet and savoury, flooded your senses and almost threatened to make your mouth water. But the scent was familiar, like it was something you’d smelt a thousand times before…

“Are these from-,” you began, turning to look back at Jack, but stopping speaking at the look he gave you. It told you everything you needed to know.

“The bakery where we first met, yes,” he said, confirming your suspicions. “Felt apt that I should go there, back to where this all began,” he said, chuckling slightly. You turned properly where you were stood, allowing Jack to snake his arm around your waist properly and to hold you in his arms. You rested your hands on the lapels of his jacket and looked deep into his eyes.

“Look at you, getting all nostalgic with me,” you giggled, “What gives, cowboy?”.

Jack sucked his bottom lip in and averted his gaze momentarily. The one thing he wanted to say was something he had been toying with admitting for a while, but he had been so scared to do so. Eventually he took a deep breath in and looked back at you. Cupping your cheek with one hand, he kissed you softly. You kissed him back, smiling against his lips, and in a small whisper he spoke.

“I love you, sugar. With all my heart. Happy Valentine’s day,” he said.

You smiled at Jack, your heart pounding in your chest at the confession. You knew the trauma that he’d been through in his life, Jack had always been very open about that. It was something his therapist had recommended he be, to involve you in these discussions, and you’d even attended a couple of therapy sessions with him to show your support for him. Long before he had the courage to say he loved you, you knew.

“I love you too, Jack,” you said, softly kissing him anew. He sighed in contentment into the kiss, relief passing over him as he heard those sweet words leave your lips – words he had hoped you would speak, but not ones he ever wanted to guarantee.

In each other’s arms, together on this day, Jack felt like for the first time he was truly starting his life over again. And to do it with the one he loved?

Well, what could be better?

For more from this series, check out the Just A Date Masterlist! For more works from me, here's my main Masterlist! ❤

LadyBess xox

[7grandmel]

Todays rip: 24/02/2024

Staff Roll (SM64) Fusion

Season 5 Featured on: SiIvaGunner's Highest Quality Rips: Volume GS

Ripped by Emm Bee Sea Visuals by Brawlcats

Requested by crickqt! (Ask Box)

The show must go on, and we move now from yesterday toward a happier little tale. Wheras I grieved over not getting to know enough about R.L.99 in Through the F​-​F​-​Fire and the F​-​F​-​Flames, today's rip sort of explores the opposite journey. Because in the narrow view of the SiIvaGunner community that exists within its comment sections, it was impossible not to recognize Emm Bee Sea.

With videos as frequent as those on the SiIvaGunner channel, there's bound to be just as many different kinds of comment sections, each rip its own little hub of discussion. There's the funny ones, like the comments to :3 being filled with other people reciprocating the same kitty emoticon, there's ones from more recent rips wherin people are still trying to discern what the joke is, enjoying the music althesame, there's ones where people remark on and discuss the absurdity of the channel's lore like on A love letter to this wonderful community and my amazing friends...and honestly, Staff Roll (SM64) Fusion just so happens to hold a lot in common with that last example in particular. Amidst all these comments sections, you would start to recognize regulars, people who obviously knew their stuff from having watched the channel for so long - people like New Guy, and like Emm Bee Sea.

Its not even as if I can pinpoint any specific date that I started realizing how often Emm Bee Sea was showing up, but eventually she just became someone you expected to see, always wearing the same recognizable profile picture of Maki Love Live. And like, it obviously isn't a very substantial connection, but...there WAS a connection there, one that made the realization that she was now full-on contributing to the channel hit more than it otherwise would have. And even three years later, Staff Roll (SM64) Fusion sits pinned on Emm Bee Sea's profile as her proudest work. In my eyes, its easy to see why.

We've covered Fusion Collabs on here before - File Select Fusion Collab, Balcony Fusion Collab, Bramble Blast Collab - they're a mainstay of the channel put together as loveletters by a group within the channel. But by that metric, and indeed by its own title, Staff Roll (SM64) Fusion doesn't technically fit the bill - as you can see at the top of the post, Emm Bee Sea made the audio entirely on her own, covering one and a half dozen styles across the track's entire runtime. A task that's usually divided up across multiple rippers for projects like this was taken on by this one ripper alone - yet all the styles, from MOTHER 3 to Kirby's Dream Land 3 to Super Mario Sunshine, are incorporated so seamlessly, never feeling as if corners are being cut. It's effectively a tribute to both Super Mario 64 and the SiIvaGunner channel itself in that way, a tribute to the very idea of fusion collabs, set to the credits theme of one of the channel's most-ripped games.

Staff Roll (SM64) Fusion delivers exactly what it promises on the tin, as a befitting celebration to Super Mario 64's twenty-fifth anniversary, yet it's stuck with me in some special way for just how well the styles chosen all fit the source track. So many of them, from Mario Party to Ghost Trick to the Mii Channel, have a sort of silly, Bossa Nova lightheartedness to them, that fit the Super Mario 64 Staff Roll theme like a glove - althewhile taking such good advantage of all their unique soundscapes. It reminds me of a rip like Aquadial, where an otherwise so simple concept is elevated to great heights by just how immaculate the vibes become through the instrumental style chosen. It made me immensely happy to see Emm Bee Sea cherish this rip as much as I still do, and she's right to be proud of it.

[random-of-random]

Can I Save You?

Chapter 2: I’m Going to Get You Out of This

The airport was quiet, Patricia had never seen an airport that quiet when it wasn’t after midnight. Still filled with people, they were huddled around televisions watching Bane's latest statement. Patricia and Wilson stopped to watch with them.

"Behind you stands a symbol of oppression; Blackgate Prison, where a thousand men have languished under the name of this man..." He was holding up a picture. The man had blonde hair and a kind smile. "Harvey Dent, who has been held up to you as the shining example of justice."

"Who is Harvey Dent sir?" Patricia asked.

"The old DA. He was said to have been killed by Batman." Wilson replied.

"You have been supplied with a false idol to stop you from tearing down this corrupt city. Let me tell you the truth about Harvey Dent from the words of Gotham's police commissioner, James Gordon." Bane continued. Patricia saw a woman in the airport crying. Her dirty blonde hair was hanging at her face and two teenagers were sitting on either side of her. The girl had her head in her mothers shoulder, but the boy, however, the same blonde hair as his mom's was staring intently at the television. His eyes were dark but Patricia saw something he was clearly trying to hide. Fear, but not fear for him, fear for someone else. The mention of Commissioner Gordon's name had caught attention. "'The Batman didn't murder Harvey Dent, he saved my boy then took the blame for Harvey's appalling crimes so that I could, to my shame, build a lie around this fallen idol. I praised the mad man who tried to murder my own child but I can no longer live with my lie. It is time to trust the people of Gotham with the truth and it is time for me to resign.' " The woman cried harder.

"Well, this is certainly going to make things a lot worse." Wilson said, his hand was tapping his belt. A nervous twitch he had adopted when he was promoted to director.

"And do you accept this man's resignation? Do you accept the resignation of all these liars? Of all the corrupt?"

"What's he getting at?" Wilson asked. Patricia felt her heart racing.

"What ever it is, sir. It's nothing good."

"We take Gotham from the corrupt! The rich! The oppressors of generations who have kept you down with myths of opportunity, and we give it back to you... the people. Gotham is yours. None shall interfere. Do as you please. Start by storming Blackgate, and freeing the oppressed!" Bane continued. "Step forward those who would serve. For and army will be raised. The powerful will be ripped from their decadent nests, and cast out into the cold world that we know and endure. Courts will be convened. Spoils will be enjoyed. Blood will be shed. The police will survive, as they learn to serve true justice. This great city... it will endure. Gotham will survive!" As he finished his speech, the cameras quickly moved. A tank had a gun pointed at them. The camera dropped and there was a moment of static as a loud bang sounded through it's microphones.

"My God!" The cameraman must have been the one talking. The camera pointed at a now gaping hole in the side of a wall. For a moment there was just dust settling, but then men, by the dozens, wearing orange jumpsuits and carrying guns of every kind came storming through. The camera cut off and a reporter came quickly into view. Sitting in a studio, she was claiming technical difficulties.

"At least we know the police are safe for right now." Patricia commented. "Down in those sewers, they might not be able to help, but the prisoners can't get to them either."

“You called it, about going after the rich.”

“I think he wants chaos.” Patricia said with a sigh. “This just helps get there quicker.”

"We should be going." Wilson stated and Patricia followed them to get their luggage.

The sunlight was almost painful after being in the artificial light of the airport. A young man walked up to them, he couldn't have been more than twenty-one. He looked like how television and movies think FBI agents should look. He was dressed in a black suit, black tie, and dark sunglasses. His light blonde hair almost looked out of place.

"Mr. Wilson? Miss. Robertson?" He asked.

"Mr. Tiller?" Wilson replied and the kid nodded before smiling. Patricia could tell he was wearing a gun on his hip and another on his ankle. He graciously picked up Patricia's bag and lead them to a black SUV. Patricia climbed in the back and leaned her head back against the headrest. She studied the outside world once the vehicle started moving through the city. DC looked normal, despite the crisis in Gotham. People went in and out of grocery shops, moms took their children into daycare, and college kids went into bars for an early drunk. She couldn't imagine what the people of Gotham were experiencing. As far as she knew no one had left the city, the military wasn't letting anyone across the only bridge left and the tunnels out of the city had been blocked. The SUV they were in came to a standstill and Patricia sat up.

"I'm sorry." Tiller said quickly. "It's about that time. Traffic can come to a crawl or worse sometimes. I'll have us there as soon as I can." Patricia let her body fall against the comfortable seat.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Bane. The current Bane, cold, heartless. She closed her eyes anyway. Nightmares had stopped her normal sleep pattern. Well, what she called a normal sleep pattern. Going from 4 hours a night to 1 was just unhealthy. A thought popped into her head as she felt the seat behind her, a memory.

————-——————-

"How long have we been running for?" Patricia asked. She was sitting in a chair in a very small hotel room in Berlin, Germany.

"2 years?" Dominic replied. "You were 14 when we left."

"Then two years." Patricia commented.

"You should have stayed to finish school." Dominic's voice sounded sad.

“You’re less than two years older than me. You should have finished school.” The lines around his eyes increased and she could tell that he was smile. Dominic was laying on the hotel room bed. His body was tired, they had been in China the previous morning, and his belt had been taken off. As long as he didn't move the pain would stay at bay.

“I… I’m ready to tell you.” Dominic said barely above a whisper.

"About what happened to you?" Patricia asked her voice turning serious. She could see a flash of pain cloud his eyes. Not physical pain, mental. "I told you that you don’t have to tell me-“

"I didn't want to scare you." He said quietly. Patricia stood up and moved to the opposite side of the bed, trying her best not to move the bed very much she laid down beside him. She heard him sigh.

“You’re not going to scare me.” She pushed some hair off of his forehead.

"I was three or four. My mom woke me up late one night.” He started, his eyes closed. “I remember my room was so dark. She told me to hide under the bed. Men had broken into our home. I could hear stomping, a-and shouting. The men burst into my room and they found me, quickly. When they pulled me out from under the bed my mom began fighting them."

He took a ragged breath and Patricia felt his hand softly grasp hers. "It’s okay. I’m right here.” She assured him.

“She was so strong. She attacked the guy who was holding me. I think she stabbed him with something, but he was strong. He pulled me to the window. My room was on the second floor. He shouted something down, in a language I didn't understand. Then he dropped me."

Patricia inhaled sharply. Her eyes were wide and she squeezed his hand, urging him to continue.

"I felt an excruciating pain shoot down my back and I cried out, but as soon as I screamed a boot was put on my face. Someone trying to keep me quiet. I felt like I was suffocating and I tried kicking and pushing, but whenever I moved the pain was horrible. I saw my mom sneaking around the side of the house. The man holding me didn't." His eyes looked as if he was in a far off place. "I could feel warm blood running down my face mixing with tears. My mom jumped on the man. They fell into the darkness of the back yard and I tried to get up, call after her but all that came out was a scream. It hurt so bad that I passed out.”

He didn’t even realize he had been crying until Patricia wiped the tears from his cheeks.

“When I woke up I was in a hospital room and my mom was sitting a chair next to me. I felt so weak that I couldn't move. Mom told me not to."

"Do you know what hospital?" Patricia asked.

Dominic nodded. “Where your dad worked.” Patricia’s dad was a surgeon. “I guess I had just come out of an operation. Your dad was talking to my mom. He told her my back was severely broken and would never be the same. He wanted to do a lot of surgeries and my mom told him that we needed to run. That they would still come looking got me. So, he told her the only thing they could do is keep giving me pain killers. I think he performed, at least, one more surgery. I was in and out for what felt like weeks. The anesthetic and pain meds they were using just made me tired. It was the only time I wasn't in pain. We stayed there until I was healed enough to move then we were on the run.”

"Why?" Patricia asked. "Why are these men after you?"

"My father owes a debt." Dominic said with a sarcastic smile. "He offered me. That I be put in a prison instead of him."

"He can't do that!"

"Where he's from, he can. I am suppose to rot in prison for him." Patricia moved closer to him and rested her forehead against his shoulder. "They started catching up to us when I was eight. My mom knew we couldn't keep running."

"That's when you guys came to us." Patricia remembered. "You were about 8 then."

"My mom knew we could trust your dad after all the help he gave us before. Plus, your parents and my mom go way back.”

“I remember my mom saying they were friends as kids.” Patricia offered.

“When my mom left me there I was barely coherent. I remember the news story your dad brought into me saying she was found dead."

"I'm sorry Dominic." Patricia said softly.

"You saved me." He was looking at her.

"Not yet." She replied seriously. I am going to get you out of this. In one way or another." She felt his hand squeeze hers as he closed his eyes.

———————————

Patricia's door opened and the bright light was almost blinding.

"Sorry if I woke you." Tiller said shyly.

"I wasn't sleeping." Patricia replied stepping out of the car. She fixed her blazer and followed Wilson into a back entrance to the white house. She was immediately searched, and then they were led into the heart of the white house and down toward a basement. The situation room there was white and very well lit, a stark contrast MI6. FBI director Parsons was there to greet them and they took two seats around a large table. The secretary of defense as well as the president were among the people chosen to decide what to do about Bane.

"Wilson, you seemed to have an idea over the phone. What was it?" Parsons asked.

"I think we should send men in with the food. Workers will have to drive the food in to the city. It should be special forces, a chosen few. We take their badges, give them different ID's, and send them in."

"The first rations will go in within a few days. We can have fake IDs for all the forces made by then" Parsons commented.

"With all do respect sir." Patricia started. "We should not make a move that quickly."

"What do you mean?" He asked.

"I mean that Bane's men will be weary of any workers coming into the city. They'll expect cops. They need to be the same rotations of workers. The special forces and myself-"

"You think you're going in there?" Parsons asked.

"I know I'm going in there." Patricia answered. "I know Bane better than any of you. I've studied him. I'm also trained in the field." No one said anything. "Now, the special forces soldiers and myself should go every time. We need the men checking out the trucks to recognize us. Think that we're normal civilians who won't do anything."

"Alright, Robertson." The President said carefully. "Then you start as soon as the first shipment goes in."

"Yes, sir." Patricia replied.

“How long are we thinking this could last?” The President asked.

“As of now, sir.” Parsons started with a sigh. “We really have no idea how long it will take.”

The days and planning ticked away slowly. Patricia's ID read 'Megan Reilly' and their first trip into Gotham was rapidly approaching. They had picked several special forces officers that would rotate in and out. Communications with the saved commissioner Gordon as well as his detective had been made. They grocery shop they were going to had a back room where they would meet.

The ride across the bridge was slow and nerve racking. Patricia's driver was nervous and they were stopped before crossing completely. Men dressed for gorilla warfare checked their ID's. One eyed Patricia suspiciously.

"England?" He asked, looking at her ID.

"Yes." she answered quickly.

"Why are you here?" He asked. She took notice of the machine gun hanging off of his shoulder.

"I came for the American dream. Didn't turn out as I expected." He laughed and Patricia felt her body slightly relax as he handed her ID back and let them pass. The shop was half stocked when they arrived. As the truck began unloading the man at the counter signaled Patricia to head to the back. She was unnaturally nervous and could hear her heart beating. He was somewhere in this city. Somewhere closer than they'd been in a long time. The first person she saw had dark hair and matching eyes. He was younger but his eyes looked hardened. Immediately he walked up to her.

"John Blake." He said while shaking her hand.

"Gordon's detective." Patricia said returning the handshake. "Patricia Robertson, MI6."

"Good to meet you." He said hurried.

"You'll see me every time a delivery is made. We're trying to get the guards used to us, to trust us. Eventually we'll come in with more power and some of us will start to stay, build up as many men as possible."

"We need all the help we can get."

"Try to keep people calm." Patricia said softly. "Hopefully people won't fall for Bane's ploy. Stay hidden and get as many high standing members of Gotham society to hide as well. You'll see me soon."

"Thank you."

"Good luck, Blake. Be safe out there."

[claypigeonpottery]

Heyyyyy~ I'm just... So in love with all the work you do, they're all so precious and beautiful I'm in tears. Thank you so for what you do, can't wait to buy something you made soon :D

If it's okei, can you please tell the story of how you got into this and how did you progress from being babie artist to now growing artist and how long you've been doing this for? What's your top 3 fav works you've done? Did you eat good food today, if not please dooo. Thenks

thank you! that's very sweet x3 I'm excited to get more stuff fired and up on Etsy, hopefully before the end of June

.

choose three favourites of my work? oh, that is a difficult question.

one thing I really didn't like about my art when I was younger was that it was all very static. it was people sitting or standing, it was still life paintings. one of the things I'm really proud of in my work now is the sense of capturing a moment instead of someone posing, and/or giving a sense of movement

these two are just the opposite of static and I love them for that

and then there's this mug. the design is great, the details are great and I had so much fun carving it. it was honestly just delightful and I wish I'd kept it. I don't say that very often.

all sold

.

I'm putting the rest of this under a cut because I'm going to ramble

I started drawing because I was making silly comics about me and my friends in grade school and through high school (I assigned them all fursonas because I was a really cool 15 year old lol)

I got a little more serious about art in high school, but I never thought it'd be something I'd make money at.

when I was... in my early twenties? maybe 19 still? ah, memory issues, I went through a nine month art program, the 'Urban Canvas' project run by SCYAP (saskatoon community youth arts programming). the program is meant to support young artists, especially those with mental health or addiction issues. and it meant I got paid to draw and paint and create weird shit for 40 hours a week, for nine months. and then some (seven? eight?) years later I got to go through the program again which... honestly I'm so grateful I got to do that. (and SCYAP still supports me, they give me a table at their craft show every year and helped me with my first solo gallery show)

these are some of the pieces I made during my time at SCYAP:

and two very rare pictures of me, posing with two of my master studies. the left from when I was 20ish, and the right when I was... 27ish? (man I'm still proud of that Gentileschi copy)

.

it was after SCYAP when I started thinking that I could actually make money as an artist. so I painted more than a dozen murals, drew a 20-some page full colour comic, painted pet portraits, and sold my own paintings. commissions were more reliable than selling my own work for a long time lol

as for how I got into pottery, my mental health uh... haha. it took a nosedive about six years ago and during some of the worst of it, I was severely agoraphobic. my mom, who has always supported my art, offered to take me to pottery classes with her, in an attempt to get me leaving the house at least once a week. it did help (along with a lot of other things) and once I started exploring the surface decoration side of pottery, things really clicked for me

.

tangent: one of the things that really drove me to progress as an artist was having something driving my work. whether it was preparing for a gallery show or making a bunch of holiday cards or making piles of fan art because I was obsessed. every time I made something, anything, I improved. so when I had a goal that made me create more, I improved faster.

my unsolicited advice: make that weird fan art. it's good for your art. (I was really into tf2 lol)

.

I've tried tons of different mediums and I think it was a great way to help my style evolve.

when you're making art with a new medium, it might take awhile before you're making your own personal work. I, at least, find that I usually have to do some studies of other peoples' art and just try some basic creations before I do anything more personal. but once I'm ready to do MY stuff, I have a new repertoire to pull from. I wouldn't be the potter I am if I didn't have the experiences I got from other mediums

like acrylics (I did a lot of self portraits >.>)

paper flower making

watercolour

collage

cake decorating

(also oil paints, pastels, 3D wire art, crochet, linocut, stone carving, sewing, set painting and quilting. also my spouse and I like to make crafts together, like cutting-construction-paper, gluing-pompoms-and-googly-eyes crafts, because it's just fun to make stuff together)

I'm sure pottery isn't the last medium I'm gonna try. I'll probably get obsessed with carving tiny wooden figurines or making wax sculptures at some point. who knows!

.

and now I'm in my mid-thirties, making art pretty much every day. I've been doing this since I was a teenager, so almost twenty years now.

I never imagined I'd be satisfied with my own art, that I could look at most of my pieces and not see how I could have done it better, but hey, here I am.

.

wow that was rambly. the ADHD really comes out when I'm writing lol. and I did eat real food today! before having some freezies

thanks so much for your ask, hopefully I satisfied your curiosity

[anamazingangie]

iron out the kinks by AmazingAngie

Aegon II Targaryen x Daemon Targaryen x Rhaenyra Targaryen

E / 12k / Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three

Summary:

Daemon liked pretty. He really did. But there was something boring about simple beauty, something more attractive when you pushed someone who was pretty past that point.

Pushed them to the point where they were flushed, panting, crying, out of control of their emotions and pleasure and just clay in the palm of your hands. That was far more interesting. He couldn’t wait to get this boy to that point—and his sister too. 

sequel to a sign of maturity (or a midlife crisis)

...

Chapter Three

chocolate

...

When they were all awake—and wearing slightly more clothing, they ordered their meal, which fell somewhere between lunch and dinner. Rhaenyra was tapping away on Daemon’s phone in an attempt to accomplish the task, proudly announcing after a few minutes that a dozen cartons of Chinese food were on their way. While they waited for it to arrive, she played hostess—offering him water before disappearing into the bathroom with a glare in his direction, “ I need to clean up.” She said, the implication of cleaning up your cum was not lost on him. But he wasn’t feeling too guilty, not with how much she had also enjoyed it. 

Daemon and Aegon made small talk while she was gone, him rambling about his classes—all business related and boring apparently. Daemon asked a bit about Rhaenyra too, discovering she was double majoring in business and fashion design, “She always wanted to be a model.” Aegon said, “But she was too short—so that was the next best thing.” 

Daemon thought it a pity there were height requirements for agency’s—he’d dated enough models to know about them, but didn’t see why it mattered, not when beauty came in every size. Especially her size, he thought, thinking of her lovely curves, skin, features, and, well…everything. 

Rhaenyra heard the tail end of their conversation chiming in with, “That’s why I have an OnlyFans, I get to live out my fantasy.” She said pragmatically. 

Aegon snorted, “Oh yeah, OnlyFans and Vogue are basically interchangeable.” Rhaenyra wrinkled her nose at him, but her annoyance didn’t interfere with her sas, “OnlyFans pays better.” She said, which Daemon thought was probably true. 

“What do you post there?” Daemon asked, curious how explicit their content was—though he knew Aegon’s fans liked the gape of his asshole, and it would be difficult—though not impossible— to get more explicit than that. 

“Mine is mostly pictures of boobs.” She admitted. 

“They are great boobs, though.” Aegon said appreciatively. 

Daemon agreed wholeheartedly. 

When food arrived, they sat cross legged around their coffee table—eating directly from the cartons with wooden chopsticks. Rhaenyra had put on a fresh pair of underwear and snagged her brother's shirt, which was unbuttoned and giving a wonderful view of her chest that was honestly pretty distracting. Aegon was wearing his jeans, and Daemon himself was—somehow, still fully clothed. 

They got back on the topic of family, and Daemon was forced to admit he didn’t have much. He was adopted as a baby, raised by two wonderful people who tragically passed away when he was in his early twenties. “I’m so sorry.” Aegon said, looking sad, “That’s awful.” Rhaenyra agreed. Daemon nodded, it was but it was also a long time ago—and thanks to that alone, it was no longer as painful as it used to be. 

“And you?” He asked, they had spoken a little bit about their parents that day—enough that he knew they were still alive, and not great at, well, being parents. “Any other siblings?” He asked. 

Rhaenyra laughed, “Yes, two.” Aegon shoved her with his elbow, “ Three. You always forget Daeron.” Aegon corrected, but Rhaenyra just waved her hand, mumbling something about “ he hardly counts,” before taking a bite of fried rice. 

“Daeron was an oops baby,” Rhaenyra said, “He was like four when we moved out?” She said, though she didn’t sound entirely sure. Aegon nodded in confirmation, leaning across the table to dip into a carton of spicy chicken. 

“I’m the oldest. Then there is Aegon. But you should see our other siblings! Aemond and Helaena. God they are so in love it’s disgusting.” Rhaenyra said, rolling her eyes even though her voice sounded fond. Daemon’s brow rose, “Are they… together, too?” He asked, not wanting to misunderstand her definition of love. 

“Oh yeah.” Aegon said, “They are like…two halves of a whole, like soulmates or something. Only eyes for each other. It’s a miracle our parents haven’t noticed.” Rhaenyra nodded in agreement, and Daemon gaped—god what was it with their family? Was incest in their fucking veins? Not that he was judging just, wow. 

Though this distracted him, what he found even more surprising was how they spoke about their siblings' love for each other. Like it was different from the relationship they shared. He couldn’t resist tugging on that thread, “You two aren’t like that? ‘ So in love it’s disgusting?’” Daemon asked, quoting Rhaenyra’s words back to her. 

They both laughed, as if this notion was ridiculous.  

“No, if you asked our parents, they’d probably say we hated each other.” She said, and he couldn’t help but snort in response. If they hated each other, they hid it pretty fucking well. “I mean it!” She said, indignant. “We cohabitate surprisingly well but we bickered nonstop at home.” 

“It’s true,” Aegon agreed with a shrug. 

“Your relationship is more than cohabitation, though.” Daemon said—it wasn’t a question. They’d said as much that morning, that they didn’t want to be in a relationship without each other. That was something even if it wasn’t love. 

Aegon looked thoughtful, but Rhaenyra spoke first. “It’s hard to explain. I love him more than anyone else. More than I should love a brother, and there is obviously sexual attraction there too, but it isn’t… romantic.” She sighed, sounding almost frustrated at her inability to describe it. 

Aegon nodded, “We love each other because we’ve always been there for each other. We’re family. ” 

“It’s not a romantic love.” Rhaenyra described, “We’re like siblings with benefits—we’ll do things together, we are together, we’ll fuck each other, but we wouldn’t go on dates.” Rhaenyra said the word like it was dirty, and Aegon’s nose wrinkled in response, as if this thought was unthinkable.  

“Like, we’d never get each other flowers for valentines day, you know? It’s just different.” Aegon said. 

“How would you feel if someone else got you flowers?” Daemon asked, wondering if he could sneak inquiries about jealousy into this conversation. They both seemed to consider that, “Flattered? I think we are pretty secure in our relationship?” Rhaenyra asked, looking at her brother for confirmation. Aegon nodded too. 

“I don’t think either of us feel threatened by the possibility of having another partner. If anything we like the idea of someone doting on us in a way we desire but can’t provide for each other.” Rhaenyra said. 

“You don’t feel envious? Seeing someone else fuck or kiss the other?” Daemon asked, pleased with their responses so far but needing further reassurance. “I’m not… possessive over him like that.” Rhaenyra said, and then Aegon chimed in, “I think we are almost… part of each other so seeing something happen to the other doesn’t feel like cheating so much as an extension of us?” 

Rhaenyra nodded, “It would be different if you were only interested in or attracted to one of us. But I know I’ll get a turn eventually, so it’s just sort of…hot to watch while I wait.” She said, with a faint blush coloring her cheeks. “I think I’d get jealous if you did something with anyone else, though.” She admitted.

“ That feeling is very much mutual.” He agreed. 

It was Aegon who asked, “Do you feel envious seeing us with each other?” 

God, that thought hadn’t even really occurred to Daemon. He’d maybe wanted to trade places with them once or twice, but those desires had been brief, and he was usually enjoying the show of them together too much to even want to interrupt. 

“No,” he said, thinking back to when he first saw them kiss, “You’re beautiful together.” 

It was Rhaenyra who said, “You’re not so bad yourself.” The words would have been more impactful if she hadn’t spoken them while her mouth was full—but at least she covered it while she chewed. He just shook his head, returning to the food and enjoying his time with them, since it was likely coming to an end. 

…

Daemon was right, after eating things seemed to wind down. “We’d ask you to stay over, but…” Aegon trailed off, waving his hand in a gesture to their room. “Our beds are fucking tiny.” Rhaenyra clarified, and Daemon laughed—he wanted to tell her off for her language, but if he brought up her dirty mouth he had a feeling they would never leave.

“Oh!” Rhaenyra said, seeming to surprise even herself, “Are you coming to the club tomorrow?” She asked. His brow rose and he shook his head, he hadn’t been planning on it. 

Aegon sighed, “ What she means is: we are performing tomorrow night, and it would be nice if you could come.” He said, with a glare in his sister’s direction. Rhaenyra nodded before confirming, “Yeah. That.”  

“I’d love to.” He said, and he meant it. 

He left not long after that—giving Rhaenyra a lingering kiss in the doorway, then a matching one to Aegon. Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes before darting in and giving a final peck on his lips—as if she couldn’t be out done by her brother. Daemon smiled at that, then tilted his head. “Why don’t you kiss each other and give me something to remember, hm?” They followed his request eagerly, lips meeting lazily in a way that was still passionate before parting. 

“Beautiful.” He said, feeling slightly gutted to be leaving them. He would see them soon though, tomorrow to be exact. 

And in the meantime, he texted his assistant—surely he paid her enough to find a florist that would deliver within the hour at 5pm on a Saturday? He requested something chaotic for Rhaenyra, and something sweet for Aegon.

He was pleased, at the texts he got from the siblings later that evening—Rhaenyra’s bouquet was primarily bird’s of paradise, orchids, roses, and ferns. Smaller flowers and random sprigs of greenery filled out the vase, making it look cohesive despite the odd variety. 

The white lilies and pale blue hydrangeas suited Aegon, much simpler, but no less striking. 

He texted his assistant again. 

Have bouquets delivered weekly until I tell you otherwise. 

…

For the second time in a week, Daemon found himself entering Dragonstone. The red band around his wrist felt heavier now that he was here to see his submissives. Sure they hadn’t signed a contract but they’d also made it pretty clear that they didn’t want one. They didn’t want a traditional dominant, daddy, or master, they wanted… a husband. That was what they’d said. And fuck he wanted to be that for them, too. 

He had a single minded focus as he stalked through the club, uncaring of any displays outside of the submissive siblings’ whose bed he hoped to soon be warming. He was slightly late, but by some miracle there was still a seat for him. Thank god, he would not be above pulling his “I own 51% of this company” card just to get a better view of the two fucking. 

He was impressed at what a prominent position they had in the club, given the fact they were having relatively vanilla penis-in-vagina sex, but fuck they were gorgeous. Mysaria had perfected the lighting over the years, blanketing the room in a darkness that served almost like a fog—you could see through it, navigate through it, but it took effort. It provided privacy for those who wanted it, while still allowing people to be seen. And of course, it drew eyes to the main attractions—a half dozen or so stages displaying a mixture of beds, crosses, and kinky devices. 

He could hear the swish of a whip coming from a stage behind him, along with the dull tone of a dom explaining basic bondage harnesses and rope safety. But all of that faded away, and Daemon found himself unable to focus on anything other than the pair on stage. They were gorgeous together. The way the light hit them made them glow, like an oil painting—skin too smooth and soft to be real. 

They were unhurried, the signs of eagerness they showed in his dominating presence were absent when it was just them. They clearly knew each other’s bodies well, taking time to kiss and lick at each other's mouths before Rhaenyra moved to Aegon’s neck. 

When she did finally press his length into her body, she rode him hard, grinding down against him while Aegon held her hips. The boy did what he could to thrust back against her, but it was hard from his vantage point. It really was a beautiful sight, watching them together—watching Rhaenyra in control of his pleasure—though it chafed Daemon that there was no one responsible for her pleasure. She had fingers pressed to her clit, but clearly it wasn’t enough. 

Aegon’s moans were louder now, and Daemon could see his eyes squeezing shut—his fingers forming fists. He was trying to clench down and hold back, and Rhaenyra must have noticed too. She was nearly frantic towards the end, in how she rode him, but she didn’t peak before Aegon. The boy cursed as he came, following it with a line of apologies. Rhaenyra looked near tears, as she ground against the softening length trying and failing to find her own release. 

He watched her wipe her eyes and blush when she caught his gaze. He crooked a finger at her—hoping she would come over to him now that the show was done. He was pleased when she did—Aegon trailing behind her like a puppy. They had shrugged on robes for modesty, but left them untied, so Daemon had a lovely view of their fronts as they approached. 

“I don’t usually come before her!” Aegon said, when they were within hearing range of him. Daemon snorted, brushing the boy's disappointed face. “It’s alright, what did I say about you just being a puppy? Your sister's pleasure is too much responsibility for you.” Rhaenyra looked less sympathetic, somewhere between embarrassed and angry if he was reading her expression properly. 

Daemon’s hands fell to her waist, pulling her closer to him. His fingers stroked her folds, a little puffy from use and damp from her brother’s seed. “Do you want to sit on my lap, princess? I told you, I’d stretch out your little cunt—now it needs me, hm?” She nodded, and he unzipped his pants—pulling out the hard length of him, which had perked up quite nicely from their show. “Get it wet with your brother’s juices first, hm?” He suggested, guiding her hips up and down the length of his cock, until he was wet with slick. “That’s a good girl,” he cooed as she came closer, positioning herself above him with her knees resting on the leather booth. 

He stroked her sides as she pressed down on him, both of them moaning in pleasure at the sensation. Rhaenyra slowly picked up speed, but he slowed her with his palms—”There is no rush, princess, just enjoy the feel of having a proper cock in your cunt, okay?” He said, grinding her down against him. She nodded, following his lead and the pace of his own thrusts. He continued to guide her hips somewhat, forcing her to grind down every so often and preventing her from getting a good rhythm. 

He could tell she was getting frustrated, which was cute but he also felt bad. He gripped her hips tightly, standing up while he was still buried in her. She yelped in surprise, but moaned when her back hit the table. Daemon was left standing, finally having enough leverage to thrust deeper into her. The combination of that and the flat of his palm on her mound made her come in a matter of minutes. 

And with her, hot, tight, and wet around him? He was gone, following her soon after and spilling deep inside her as he ground his pelvis against hers. 

Daemon slipped out of her, falling back into the booth, while Rhaenyra stayed laid out on the table trying to catch her breath. Aegon was still standing next to them, and he was quick to ask, “Do you want me to clean her up?” Daemon smiled at that, reaching out to cup the boy’s cheek. 

“You are so eager for the taste of your sister's cunt, it’s cute. But she worked hard for that cum, no? She should keep it for a while.” Daemon was going to offer his limp length to the boy, if he was so desperate to suck on something—but then he realized Aegon’s cock was already swelling again. Ah, the joys of youth. 

Fine then, he could offer the boy his mouth. Daemon patted the table, helping Aegon hop up onto the surface. Rhaenyra sat up during the exchange, watching curiously as she pulled her robe more tightly around her—obviously finding some sense of modesty now that she’d found her orgasm. 

Aegon showed no such shame, despite usually being the more shy of the two. His robe easily parted to reveal the entire front of his body—from the soft lines of his neck, to his muscled chest, to the pale skin stretched taught across the bones of his pelvis. Daemon traced his fingers across it, before scratching them through the thatch of hair at the base of his member. 

In this position, when Daemon leaned forward, his mouth was level with the boy’s length. Aegon was looking down at him with a mixture of wonderment and anticipation which was honestly pretty inspiring. Daemon hadn’t had a dick in his mouth in…god, had it really been years? Surely it must be like riding a bike…though to be fair, he hadn’t done that in decades, so he wasn’t sure how well that would go, either. 

Anyway—he started out by licking up the length, before gripping the base of it with his fist—which to be honest, didn’t leave much more than the head exposed, but that was fine. He licked at the slit before wrapping his lips around it, finding the width of it surprisingly manageable. He moved his hands, placing them on either side of the boy’s groin as his mouth moved further down the length. 

That was manageable too, and Daemon found he liked the boy’s size—it felt comfortable in his mouth, a pleasant warm weight on his tongue. Daemon much preferred sucking a real dick opposed to the various objects he’d been trained to deep throat years ago. He didn’t sort his sexuality out until his twenties, so his first few experiences doing this were on gags or dildos—something his first dom had a real fetish for. 

Even soft dildos couldn’t recreate the stiff yet velvety feel of human skin, and they all had a sort of plastic-y taste that lingered in your throat. Plus, you didn’t get to enjoy the responsiveness—the little twitches, moans, and thrusts of the man you were sucking off. There wasn’t the heat of flesh, and pulse as blood throbbed through the length, either. Really no fun compared to a proper cock.

Daemon liked changing techniques, moving up and down for a time before giving special attention to the head. Then he’d follow the veins with his tongue, and use his hands to play with the boy’s balls. If he was at home, he’d flip Aegon over—lap at his taint and maybe finger his ass a little. 

But for simplicity's sake, Daemon stuck to his dick, and it didn’t take long. He figured Aegon was just used to Rhaenyra’s mouth—the predictability of having a single partner for a long period. It was easier to control yourself when something was familiar, and he was hopeless to Daemon’s mouth, coming in a matter of minutes and moaning loudly through his release. 

It was cute how the boy thrust gently against Daemon’s—the movement almost apologetic, like he didn’t want to inconvenience him, but was too desperate to stay still. Daemon didn’t mind—it wasn’t like the boy could gag him with his cock, not to be crude but it wasn’t big enough for that. 

Daemon swallowed, giving a final lick to the head before freeing the limp length from his mouth. It was only after he pulled off that he really thought to look up at the boy—and gods, wasn’t that a sight. Aegon looked a little stunned by what he just experienced, like he had been fucked stupid, but he still looked so pretty. 

Daemon liked pretty. He really did. But there was something boring about simple beauty, something more attractive when you pushed someone who was pretty past that point. To the point where they were flushed, panting, crying, out of control of their emotions and pleasure and just clay in the palm of your hands. That was far more interesting. He couldn’t wait to get this boy to that point—and his sister too. 

Speaking of Rhaenyra, she slid off the table and into his lap, pressing her lips to his and lazily licking the taste of her brother’s cum out of Daemon’s mouth. He grinned against her lips, the kiss was wet and messy and he was pretty sure she was leaking onto his trouser leg but he didn’t care. Fuck he was so gone on her—on Aegon, on the pair of them. They just felt good in his arms, in his mouth, on his cock, against his lips, just… everywhere. 

After a time they separated for air, Rhaenyra moving down his neck and biting above his collar in a way that was sure to leave a mark. He hissed, dragging her away from him with a fist in her hair. She glared as she was forced to unlatch herself from his neck, but it turned to a smile when he asked, “Do you want to get out of here?” 

…

By the time the car pulled up to his building, it was past midnight. It had taken almost an hour for them to actually leave the club. His pets were popular and after he had ‘finished’ with them, people were eager to talk to them. When they had made their way upstairs and to the showers, he was left to wait pathetically until they returned to him. 

It was cute seeing them with damp hair and bare faces, all flushed from the warm water and scrubbed clean. Rhaenyra was no less pretty with her face free of makeup, her complexion almost unnaturally clear. Her hair was pulled up in a scrunchie, with locks falling around her shoulders—he couldn’t resist giving her a kiss—though he tried to keep it brief since his driver was waiting. 

He told himself they could kiss in the car… and they did. 

It was late when they got back, his apartment dark and all of them too tired for small talk. He flicked on the lights that were necessary to navigate through the place, leading the pair to his bedroom. It was sweet how they followed him, like sleepy little ducklings. He ushered them into his bedroom, Rhaenyra letting out a sarcastic whistle when she saw the space. 

“How many orgies has that bed witnessed?” Rhaenyra asked, gesturing to the extra large king bed. Daemon’s eyes narrowed as he considered her question, “None? It’s relatively new. The bed frame however…” He trailed off, smirking when she glared at him. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, princess.” He said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

Aegon seemed amused by their banter, but when Daemon began undoing his cufflinks, the younger man quickly followed suit. None of them seemed particularly motivated to stay clothed around each other unless the situation absolutely required it. 

Rhaenyra kicked off her skirt first, her sweatshirt following shortly thereafter—both men paused fiddling with their buttons to watch her, as she casually unhooked her bra and discarded it as well. It was some comfort that even after years together, even her own brother couldn’t look away thanks to his fascination with his sister’s form—not that Daemon could blame him, because gods. 

Rhaenyra lay back on the bed—seeming to make herself at home, and as tempted as Daemon was to just stare at her, he’d rather join her, so he unbuttoned his shirt as quickly as he could. He wasn’t fast enough though, Aegon beat him to the bed, pulling Rhaenyra to him. He nuzzled into her neck, pressing little kisses to the skin. Her hands ruffled his hair—holding him in place as she let out noises of contentment. It was nice, seeing them like this—casual affection without the ultimate pursuit of release. 

He assumed he would see more of it if he stuck around—which he desperately hoped he would. Right now he was the new and exciting thing in their life, and his role in their relationship put them in a position where they wanted to please him more than each other. Time would temper this, and things would balance as they adjusted to having him  in their life. 

God, he was eager for that. He wanted to see them interact in the morning—learn how they took their coffee. What their favorite cereal was. If they snored. He wanted to know every mundane thing about them…but for right now, he just wanted to get into bed. 

He joined the pair once he was stripped down to his boxers, curling around the other side of Rhaenyra and kissing her shoulder. She giggled, pointedly turning away from him and moving closer to Aegon. Their lips met a few times, before she relaxed back against the pillow. 

“I think I might actually be too tired for sex.” Rhaenyra admitted, and Daemon laughed—though not in disagreement. He loathed to get up, but it was necessary so he could turn off the overhead light. 

Before laying back down, he pressed a kiss to each of their foreheads. 

He settled beside Rhaenyra, basking in the press of her bare flesh against his own chest. It was funny, he’d been so eager to get them into a bed, and now that he had them here, he just wanted to sleep. But he was so completely satisfied in that, because he was eager for their company more than anything else. 

…

[pastamansta]

Occasionally, I think about the film that "Spider-Man: No Way Home" (2021) is not.

While I had my fun in theaters, while I enjoyed getting to see Tom Holland, Andrew Garfield, and Tobey Maguire all get to share the screen, while there is a lot of good in the film... I always find myself wondering about the film that we didn't get. While there's been a few talks about what the original draft for a sequel to "Spider-Man: Far From Home" (2019) looked like, there's never been definitive answers. However, it seems obvious to me that there wasn't much setup for the direction that the end of the trilogy took. This isn't exactly shocking, however. After all, it's hard to imagine watching just the Watts trilogy without knowing anything about the greater MCU. "Spider-Man: Homecoming" (2017) is a very different film than the one that follows it, mostly due to the non-Spider-Man films that came between the two, especially the films where Spider-Man still had to make an appearance.

Lots of films in the Marvel Cinematic Universe are like this, however. "Iron Man 3" (2013) notoriously ends on a dramatic send-off, one that would have to be ignored by the time of Iron Man's next scheduled appearance; "Avengers: Age of Ultron" (2015). "Ant-Man and the Wasp" (2018) has a similar problem. If there were any fans of Ant-Man that weren't fans of the larger MCU, I'm sure they'd be wondering why exactly he was put under house arrest. That's not to say that the films don't mention what happened off-screen, they actually do a totally adequate job of re-capping previous entries, but that's to say that it's hard to picture why exactly the characters were taken in the directions they did when you don't watch the films... that they barely appeared in. These films were not just not made to be watched without becoming invested in the entirety of the MCU, they're nearly impossible to understand without.

This problem is made far worse by the introduction of the series. Now, you don't just have to watch twenty-six films, give or take a disputed entry or two, to understand the latest Spider-Man film... You also need to watch a six-hour series, "WandaVision" (2021) and a four-hour series, "Loki" (2021). That's intentionally discarding "The Falcon and the Winter Soldier" (2021) and "What If…?" (2021) as "truly option" content.

While I can't promise that the original draft, one that had not yet considered the MCU's coming fixation on the idea of the "multiverse," would be any more or less entertaining, it might, at the very least, feel more consistent than the film we received. Whispers of a film with Kraven the Hunter and/or Scorpion, hired by J. Jonah Jameson to take down the masked menace at any cost, sounds like a film that could reasonably come after Spider-Man's dramatic clash against Mysterio and more dramatic world-wide unmasking. To me, consistency means a lot, especially when you've got something good on your hands.

Funnily enough, though, "Spider-Man: No Way Home" (2021) is not the film I'm here to talk about.

I'm going to lightly criticize "Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse" (2023) and then lock my doors.

The sequel to "Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse" (2018) is one of the best films that I never asked for. Dramatic, high-concept, and more ambitious than I expected, even from a sequel to such an already ambitious movie, I can't help but wonder if it's too much.

The original film is so charming, funny, and easy to enjoy. It's perhaps the best starting point for anyone who's never seen a superhero film before.

So... why isn't the sequel another one of those? A lot of the film is dedicated to small, intimate discussions between Miles and his family, or semi-philosophical debates between dozens of variants of Spider-Man clashing over the concept of "canon events." Does this not feel somewhat out of place when you think about how the first film was so casual that it introduced Spider-Noir as a near-parody gulper of egg creams, when the actual Spider-Noir is best known for taking on a Vulture who cannibalized Uncle Ben and a Doc Ock who... well, you can research that yourself. Of course, I loved the endless references and throwbacks and reveals and action and spectacle... but is this really a sequel that feels like the first?

I've heard so many people criticize the film's ending, the hidden "See Part 2, Coming Soon" that soils what was otherwise a "perfect experience," but... what else is there to expect? It's not a family-oriented comedy with some stunning, dramatic moments anymore... It's just another epic, just another "Avengers: Infinity War" (2018) and, frankly, as much as I like it, I'll always be disappointed.

However, I can't just end on that note.

I have to push my luck.

I have no doubt that some, upon reading this, would ask, "Then what direction should the sequel have taken?"

Well, we've got six mains; Miles Morales, Peter B. Parker, Gwen Stacy, Peni Parker, Noir, and the pig. What's a proper threat for a team of six Spider-Man variants to go up against that every director of every Spider-Man film and every company that's ever owned the rights to Spider-Man has daydreamed about, but called "too ambitious" to portray on the big screen? I'll give you a hint; it was set up in "The Amazing Spider-Man 2" (2014), teased in the after-credits of "Spider-Man: Homecoming" (2017), and even worms its way in to "Morbius" (2022).

If you can tell me honestly that you prefer the idea of the sprawling epic we received to a fun, in-line sequel where the main cast returns to go up against a multi-verse spin on the Sinister Six, then we'll just have to agree to disagree. In the meantime, I'm heavily disappointed in this future winner of the 96th Academy Award for Best Animated Feature.

Bravo. Well done. Five stars. I'm let down.

[sabraeal]

Merry & Bright, Chapter 11

[Read on AO3]

Written for @claudeng80 for her birthday! We have been friends so long at this point that my oldest kid is almost the same age as HER oldest kid when we first met. So when birthday comes around, Sarah always knows what she wants-- a few times she’s resurrected old fics that got stuck waiting for new chapters, and a couple times, like this one, she’s kept track of which regularly updated fics have missed their update 🤣

If it weren’t for the way the ghost of Doc’s cheek still haunted his lips, tingling so much he’s sure he still feels the heat, Obi’s sure he would have heard Bob’s casual, “Watch your head, son.”

Instead, he spends far too much time worried about keeping his feet underneath him-- Gayle may think the carpet looks nice, but he’s bit it too many times on these stairs to appreciate it-- and his head out of the clouds to notice that what used to be a comfortable distance had turned into the sort of overhang that would scrape open trucks like tuna cans. Only this time it’s his head. “Ow, Jesus. When that’d get so low?”

“Probably around the same time you got so tall.” Bob gives one of those huffy little laughs that would be right at home in his easy chair. “Now mind your noggin and get on down here. Linger there too long and Gayle’s gonna come ask you to buff your own bruise out of the woodwork.”

“Don’t I know it.” He takes the last two steps gingerly, scrubbing at his forehead. Maybe it won’t swell if he gives it enough attention. A long shot, but one he’s willing to take if it keeps Doc from fussing. “Still remember when she made Toddy-- aw, no.”

He’s been tricked. Bamboozled. Two days in the house Gayle’s kept with hospital corners, and he let himself forget. She might have dominion over every inch-- and a husband in the habit of keeping a workspace so neat top brass called it sterile-- but when it came to the trains...

Well, he can just see Bob’s head and shoulders over the maze of plastic tubs. “Don’t tell me you took these all out on your own.”

“Well.” Not a promising start. “There’s not that many.”

Obi hooks his hands over his hips, surveying the state of the den. “This has got to be two dozen at least! And I know from experience none of those tracks are light, never mind those houses or whatever.”

“Only twenty,” Bob blusters, as if four made anything like a dent in this mess. “And not all of them are mine! Some of this is your-- Gayle’s. Garland and knickknacks and the like.”

He knocks on a tote, too heavy to be filled with tinsel. “She told me you only had ten totes.”

A normal man might show some hint of shame. But Bob-- Bob’s a train guy. He just plants himself in the midst of his mess and says, not a bit contrite, “Well, she may not know about a couple of ‘em.”

Obi may not have stayed long enough in this house to learn much, but he did know: a picture may say a thousand words, but silences spoke volumes.

“It’s the O-scale, you see,” Bob presses. “Wasn’t enough track to get it all around the room. And then it’s got to have its own switches, plus that yard sale just down from the church had a nice holiday train-- lights up and everything-- and I couldn’t--”

It’s an effort not to sigh, not to scrub a hand right over his face and scream, but Obi manages. Somehow. “How’d you get all that without her noticing?”

“Oh, well, Jesse’s partner, he’s got this truck.” Bob slaps the top of one of the totes, too proud. “Took me right up to the drive and helped me load the whole lot in. Gayle was down at one of those garden sales the club puts on, and we just hustled the whole thing down.”

It’s impossible to imagine six-foot-we-stopped-measuring-when-we-ran-out-of-door Shane at a tag sale. Not just stomping down to one of those things, but letting Bob boss him right into a full bed of train parts. Not only that, but then driving him right across town where anyone could see them. Obi may have only known him a couple years, more as an accessory than an actual living, breathing person, but really-- he thought the guy had more sense than to go around Gayle.

“Even helped me stow ‘em.” One arm sweeps out under the table. “Had a helluva time getting them out though. Cal--”

“You brought Cal into this?” His shoulder gives one of its twinges, the kind that won’t come out without a nice, hard talking-to, but he makes do with a pinch of his fingers. If Bob thinks he’ll get less time in the doghouse if he just spreads the sentence between all his accomplices, he’s mistaken. “Coast Guard Cal.”

“Now, son, you know he’s in the Navy,” Bob says, all serious, as if he’s the delinquent here. “And we thought he got all of them, but it looks like there’s still two stuck back there, so...”

Obi sighs, rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll get ‘em.”

The plan’s to grumble the whole time doing it; if he’s going to risk one of Gayle’s looks-- the worst ones, the disappointed kind-- then he should at least get the pleasure of telling everyone how he feels about it. But he gets as far as his knees before Bob smiles so bright it makes the overhead light feel like a firefly in full sun. “Now that’s my boy.”

His fingers curl against the grain of his jeans, bracing him against the flood of warmth the overflows his chest.

“If Gayle asks,” he says, hating how his voice trembles, “I’m going to sell you out for free.”

If anything, that only makes his smile brighter. “Wouldn’t expect any less.”

Bob waits until he’s well and under the table before he springs the question.

“So.” His voice is muffled by the layer of balsa or cork or whatever this thing is made out of, but Obi can hear him just fine when he says, “Just how serious is this whole thing with your girl?”

“Wha--?” He rears back, bumping the table so hard his eyes blur just the littlest bit. Nothing he can’t blink away after a moment or two. “What do you mean?”

Bob hums. “Ah. I see.”

“No, no.” He backs out, boxes forgotten, dust shaking off him as he sits back on his heels. “That’s not-- that’s not an answer or anything.”

Both bushy brows take a hike toward his hairline, though Bob makes a real show of not looking at him while it’s happening. “So.” His lips purse as he peruses the back of a gorilla putty package. “It’s not serious, that’s what you’re saying.”

“I didn’t say that!” Obi’s not sure what he’s supposed to be saying, but implying that anything with Doc is somehow temporary isn’t it. “I just meant...”

It’d be great if he did know what he meant. Instead he just sits there, hands dropped between his knees, and flounders.

“I getcha, I getcha,” Bob says, tone implying he doesn’t ‘getcha’ anything at all. “Just thought I’d ask. Gayle was wonderin’ if we should get her a stocking, and I guess I’ll just tell her...”

He lets the pause hang, the way he always did when Obi talked himself into trouble; like if he let him twist a few minutes the mess of a boy the state saddled him with would sort himself out. Would have been nice if the rest of his life worked out as easy as that, too.

“No dice,” he laughs, squirming back under the table. “There’s no way Gayle hasn’t had one waiting for weeks now.”

Bob huffs out a laugh. “You got me. Bought one right after we got back from graduation.”

“What.” The totes are right in front of him, but he can’t make his hands close around them, not when there’s so much noise in his head. “You guys hadn’t even invited us. There’s no way you could have known I would be coming, let alone...”

The silence that settles between them is answer enough.

“...For sure,” Obi adds lamely, gripping at the lid. It scrapes out of place, traveling across the floor like it’s made of sandpaper, grinding the whole way. “I could’ve had plans.”

“Didn’t, though,” Bob says, like it’s simple, and-- and maybe for once it is. Gayle’s not lucky, per se-- she got him on her doorstep in the first place-- but once she’s got her hands around something, it’s hers. By the time she’d wrapped him up in a hug, Christmas was a foregone conclusion.

Bob bends down, dragging the tote out onto the carpet. “So, what should I tell her?”

“Hm?” The next one’s stubborn, really stuck back in its corner. Even a good shimmy doesn’t knock it loose, and Obi’s got to wonder if there’s some nail it’s caught on, or maybe a side crumpled in from Shane’s enthusiasm--

“About your girl,” Bob says, so casual. “Should I let her get her hopes up?”

“Ah!” Surprise gives him that burst of stupid strength he needs to yank that thing out, careening right into his knees. “Yowch.”

“You all right down there?” Bob squints, stooping down to check in. “If you need help--?”

“I’m all right. Just...” Obi catches his breath, heaving that tote past the finish line. “It’s all pretty new. This, uh, thing. I don’t want to jinx it.”

Bob’s mouth curves, too knowing. “I dunno there, son. Don’t think there’s any chance of that.”

Obi shakes his head, braced on hands and knees. “Wouldn’t be so sure about that, if I were you.”

Shirayuki stares down at the radio like it might bite.

Go ahead, Gayle told her, spraying down a fluted pan, put on whatever you like.

If it were Obi, he wouldn’t even spare a second; his thumb would scrub across the dial like it knew the precise groove his station was worn into, just a stretch of static until it settles onto a fast beat and wailing guitar, spitting lyrics that would have Gayle scolding him into the next week. But Shirayuki-- her tastes run to the niche, to the sweet voices that don’t carry well across the airwaves, the ones that can only be uncovered in the back of a music store or hidden in the annals of obscure playlists, with names like the angels that sing me straight to purgatory or we’ll all hold hands and make it through together (if it kills us).

(”Would it kill you to listen to something in a Top Forty?” Yuzuri sighs, scrolling through her Spotify to find something to pump over the lab speakers. “I’m not trying to tell you what genre. Just like...any of them.”

“It might,” Obi offers through the bench. “Maybe if she hears a four chord progression it sends her straight back to the cloud she came from.”

“I like popular music.” It’s not a lie; she enjoys whatever anyone else plays, it’s just... “I’ll hear it on the radio anyway. If I’m going to listen to something on my own, I’d prefer it to be something I won’t hear anywhere else!”

Yuzuri’s head thunks against the back of the chair. “You’re the worst kind of hipster.”

Shirayuki blinks. “Excuse me?”

“The kind I can’t actually hate.” Her breath hisses through her teeth. “All right, fuck it, I’m just going to put on some Marina.”)

Wincing, she guides the needle up the band, pausing at every hint of something between the crackles. It’s mostly commercials, half of them for cars and the rest for personal injury lawyers, but every once and a while she catches a snatch of country, or pop, and even once, a bit of R&B, but--

But none of them feel like the right thing to play for your grandmother. Or your boyfriend’s mother. Not that Gayle’s either of those things, but, well-- she’s supposed to pretend she is.

“I’m making this too hard,” she mumbles, under her breath. “I just need to...”

The last few notes of “White Christmas” waft out of the speakers, appropriately festive for the task ahead, and Shirayuki has a whole measure to pat herself on the back before--

“There’s only rule in this kitchen,” Gayle announces, slipping that cake of hers into the oven, “and it’s that there’s no carols allowed in here. Not until the afternoon.”

Shirayuki’s jaw goes slack. “Really? But...?”

A warm hand clasps her shoulder, leaving flour in its wake. “Trust me on this one, honey. If you start that business before Laila comes, we’re gonna be sick of it before those little men bake through. And we’ll still have the decorating left to do.”

It’s hardly the radio’s fault, but Shirayuki frowns at it anyway. If it’s good enough to bring Obi into line, maybe it might do something for whatever magic turned signals into music.

It doesn’t. But it’s a good try. Better than just scrolling the needle up and down the band until Gayle gets tired of the static.

“I’ll listen to anything, you know.” There’s a smile in Gayle’s voice, a patient one, the kind that’s used to sitting across the table from rounded shoulders and a chip balanced on one of them, big enough to fill the room. “Heard all sorts of things over the years. I can promise you won’t be the one to make me change the station.”

“I-I know.” It’s just important that she does like it, not just because she wants to like her, but because it’s something that she enjoys. Because that’s the point of music, to enjoy it, to feel that it adds something to the moment, even if it’s just running down a list, double-sided and with items scrawled in the margin, until it’s done--

(That music was old when her father was born, Opa snorts, wiping a handkerchief across his brow. Don’t they make anything newer?

Oma only shakes her head. Newer, but never better.)

Ah.

It’s like reaching across time when she puts her hand on the dial now, reaching into a different kitchen, a different Shirayuki. A smaller one, more innocent, and--

And maybe more lonely. But it doesn’t feel like it, not when the static breaks into, for it was I who chose to start. I see no need to take me home, I’m old enough to face the dawn.

It’s so easy for her voice to lift, not quite matching that notes Oma had, but close enough, “Just call me angel of the morning, angel! Just touch my cheek before you leave me...”

There’s an uncertain moment where the muscles in Gayle’s face tremble, where she’s not sure if they’ll curve into a smile or fall into a frown, and then--

Then her hands clap together, her laugh ringing out above the rising tide of the chorus.

“Now ain’t that just the thing,” she sighs, hands falling to her hip. “Let’s get to work, angel. We’ve got a real doozy of a morning.”

Shirayuki doesn’t need to be told twice.