#i go mostly by sales and sell through

[brltpop]

I was going through my albums and realized the cheapest one i own was $1 (the cure greatest hits) and the most expensive one was $60+ (seventeen's love & letter repackage)

#the first one has a lowkey interesting story bc the store that was selling it were getting rid of cds so they put em on sale #and it was an eternally long table full of cds #and believe it or not mostly weren't interesting to me (ballads. cumbia etc) and also there were a lot of repeats #so after going through almost all of them i gave up and was set to leave.... but i forgot one row #i thought it was probably full of repeats so i didn't bother. but then i thought: well. one last row to check. why not? #and i did and i swear to goth.... the very last album there was the cure's one #for a dollar #and i was like No Fucking Way 🤯 #maybe someone hid it there to buy later but wtfff... A DOLLAR! #and the second one was stupid bc i caved in to the pressure of buying kpp albums for sales numbers and music show wins #it was the very last day to buy and i woke up at 8am to do so and i just paid #didn't even realize they charged $60 #then when i received it it hit me... SIXTY????????? #rambless

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Social Quitting

In “Social Quitting,” my latest Locus Magazine column, I advance a theory to explain the precipitous vibe shift in how many of us view the once-dominant social media platforms, Facebook and Twitter, and how it is that we have so quickly gone asking what we can do to get these services out of our lives to where we should go now that we’re all ready to leave them:

https://locusmag.com/2023/01/commentary-cory-doctorow-social-quitting/

The core of the argument revolves around surpluses — that is, the value that exists in the service. For a user, surpluses are things like “being able to converse with your friends” and “being able to plan activities with your friends.” For advertisers, surpluses are things like “being able to target ads based on the extraction and processing of private user data” and “being able to force users to look at ads before they can talk to one another.”

For the platforms, surpluses are things like, “Being able to force advertisers and business customers to monetize their offerings through the platform, blocking rivals like Onlyfans, Patreon, Netflix, Amazon, etc” and things like “Being able to charge more for ads” and “being able to clone your business customers’ products and then switch your users to the in-house version.”

Platforms control most of the surplus-allocating options. They can tune your feed so that it mostly consists of media and text from people you explicitly chose to follow, or so that it consists of ads, sponsored posts, or posts they think will “boost engagement” by sinking you into a dismal clickhole. They can made ads skippable or unskippable. They can block posts with links to rival sites to force their business customers to transact within their platform, so they can skim fat commissions every time money changes hands and so that they can glean market intelligence about which of their business customers’ products they should clone and displace.

But platforms can’t just allocate surpluses will-ye or nill-ye. No one would join a brand-new platform whose sales-pitch was, “No matter who you follow, we’ll show you other stuff; there will be lots of ads that you can’t skip; we will spy on you a lot.” Likewise, no one would sign up to advertise or sell services on a platform whose pitch was “Our ads are really expensive. Any business you transact has to go through us, and we’ll take all your profits in junk fees. This also lets us clone you and put you out of business.”

Instead, platforms have to carefully shift their surpluses around: first they have to lure in users, who will attract business customers, who will generate the fat cash surpluses that can be creamed off for the platforms’ investors. All of this has to be orchestrated to lock in each group, so that they won’t go elsewhere when the service is enshittified as it processes through its life-cycle.

This is where network effects and switching costs come into play. A service has “network effects” if it gets more valuable as users join it. You joined Twitter to talk to the people who were already using it, and then other people joined so they could talk to you.

“Switching costs” are what you have to give up when you leave a service: if a service is siloed — if it blocks interoperability with rivals — then quitting that service means giving up access to the people whom you left behind. This is the single most important difference between ActivityPub-based Fediverse services like Mastodon and the silos like Twitter and Facebook — you can quit a Fediverse server and set up somewhere else, and still maintain your follows and followers:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/23/semipermeable-membranes/#free-as-in-puppies

In the absence of interoperability, network effects impose their own switching cost: the “collective action problem” of deciding when to leave and where to go. If you depend on the people you follow and who follow you — for emotional support, for your livelihood, for community — then the extreme difficulty of convincing everyone to leave at the same time and go somewhere else means that you can be enticed into staying on a service that you no longer enjoy. The platforms can shift the surpluses away from you, provided that doing so makes you less miserable than abandoning your friends or fans or customers would. This is the Fiddler On the Roof problem: everyone stays put in the shtetl even though the cossacks ride through on the reg and beat the shit out of them, because they can’t all agree on where to go if they leave:

https://doctorow.medium.com/how-to-leave-dying-social-media-platforms-9fc550fe5abf

So the first stage of the platform lifecycle is luring in users by allocating lots of surplus to them — making the service fun and great and satisfying to use. Few or no ads, little or no overt data-collection, feeds that emphasize the people you want to hear from, not the people willing to pay to reach you.

This continues until the service attains a critical mass: once it becomes impossible to, say, enroll your kid in a little-league baseball team without having a Facebook account, then Facebook can start shifting its surpluses to advertisers and other business-users of the platform, who will pay Facebook to interpose themselves in your use of the platform. You’ll hate it, but you won’t leave. Junior loves little-league.

Facebook can enshittify its user experience because the users are now locked in, holding each other hostage. If Facebook can use the courts and technological countermeasures to block interoperable services, it can increase its users’ switching costs, producing more opportunities for lucrative enshittification without the risk of losing the users that make Facebook valuable to advertisers. That’s why Facebook pioneered so many legal tactics for criminalizing interoperability:

https://www.eff.org/cases/facebook-v-power-ventures

This is the second phase of the toxic platform life-cycle: luring in business customers by shifting surpluses from users to advertisers, sellers, etc. This is the moment when the platforms offer cheap and easy monetization, low transaction fees, few barriers to off-platform monetization, etc. This is when, for example, a news organization can tease an article on its website with an off-platform link, luring users to click through and see the ads it controls.

Because Facebook has locked in its users through mutual hostage-taking, it can pollute their feeds with lots of these posts to news organizations’ sites, bumping down the messages from its users’ friends, and that means that Facebook can selectively tune how much traffic it gives to different kinds of business customers. If Facebook wants to lure in sports sites, it can cram those sites’ posts into millions of users’ feeds and send floods of traffic to sports outlets.

Outlets that don’t participate in Facebook lose out, and so they join Facebook, start shoveling their content into it, hiring SEO Kremlinologists to help them figure out how to please The Algorithm, in hopes of gaining a permanent, durable source of readers (and thus revenue) for their site.

But ironically, once a critical mass of sports sites are on Facebook, Facebook no longer needs to prioritize sports sites in its users’ feeds. Now that the sports sites all believe that a Facebook presence is a competitive necessity, they will hold each other hostage there, egging each other on to put more things on Facebook, even as the traffic dwindles.

Once sports sites have taken each other hostage, Facebook can claw back the surplus it allocated to them and use it to rope in another sector — health sites, casual games, employment seekers, financial advisors, etc etc. Each group is ensnared by a similar dynamic to the one that locks in the users.

But there is a difference between users’ surpluses and business’s surpluses. A user’s surplus is attention, and there is no such thing as an “attention economy.” You can’t use attention to pay for data-centers, or executive bonuses, or to lobby Congress. Attention is not a currency in the same way that cryptos are not currency — it is not a store of value, nor a unit of exchange, nor or a unit of account.

Turning attention into money requires the same tactics as turning crypto into money — you have to lure in people who have real, actual money and convince them to swap it for attention. With crypto, this involved paying Larry David, Matt Damon, Spike Lee and LeBron James to lie about crypto’s future in order to rope in suckers who would swap their perfectly cromulent “fiat” money for unspendable crypto tokens.

With platforms, you need to bring in business customers who get paid in actual cash and convince them to give you that cash in exchange for ethereal, fast-evaporating, inconstant, unmeasurable “attention.” This works like any Ponzi scheme (that is, it works like cryptos): you can use your shareholders’ cash to pay short-term returns to business customers, losing a little money as a convincer that brings in more trade.

That’s what Facebook did when it sent enormous amounts of traffic to a select few news-sites that fell for the pivot to video fraud, in order to convince their competitors to borrow billions of dollars to finance Facebook’s bid to compete with Youtube:

https://doctorow.medium.com/metaverse-means-pivot-to-video-adbe09319038

This convincer strategy is found in every con. If you go to the county fair, you’ll see some poor bastard walking around all day with a giant teddy bear that he “won” by throwing three balls into a peach-basket. The carny who operated that midway game let him win the teddy precisely so that he would walk around all day, advertising the game, which is rigged so that no one else wins the giant teddy-bear:

https://boingboing.net/2006/08/27/rigged-carny-game.html

Social media platforms can allocate giant teddy-bears to business-customers, and it can also withdraw them at will. Careful allocations mean that the platform can rope in a critical mass of business customers and then begin the final phase of its life-cycle: allocating surpluses to its shareholders.

We know what this looks like.

Rigged ad-markets:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jedi_Blue

Understaffed content moderation departments:

https://www.dw.com/en/twitters-sacking-of-content-moderators-will-backfire-experts-warn/a-63778330

Knock-off products:

https://techcrunch.com/2021/12/08/twitter-is-the-latest-platform-to-test-a-tiktok-copycat-feature/

Nuking “trust and safety”:

https://www.reuters.com/technology/twitter-dissolves-trust-safety-council-2022-12-13/

Hiding posts that have links to rival services:

https://www.makeuseof.com/content-types-facebook-hides-why/

Or blocking posts that link to rival services:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/12/19/better-failure/#let-my-tweeters-go

Or worse, terminating accounts for linking to rival services:

https://blog.joinmastodon.org/2022/12/twitter-suspends-mastodon-account-prevents-sharing-links/

That is, once a platform has its users locked in, and has its business customers locked in, it can enshittify its service to the point of near uselessness without losing either, allocating all the useful surplus in the business to its shareholders.

But this strategy has a problem: users and business customers don’t like to be locked in! They will constantly try to find ways to de-enshittify your service and/or leave for greener pastures. And being at war with your users and business customers means that your reputation continuously declines, because every time a user or business customer figures out a way to claw back some surplus, you have to visibly, obviously enshittify your service wrestle it back.

Every time a service makes headlines for blocking an ad-blocker, or increasing its transaction fees, or screwing over its users or business customers in some other way, it makes the case that the price you pay for using the service is not worth the value it delivers.

In other words, the platforms try to establish an equilibrium where they only leave business customers and users with the absolute bare minimum needed to keep them on the service, and extract the rest for their shareholders. But this is a very brittle equilibrium, because the prices that platforms impose on their users and business customers can change very quickly, even if the platforms don’t do anything differently.

Users and business customers can revalue the privacy costs, or the risks of staying on the platform based on exogenous factors. Privacy scandals and other ruptures can make the cost you’ve been paying for years seem higher than you realized and no longer worth it.

This problem isn’t unique to social media platforms, either. It’s endemic to end-stage capitalism, where companies can go on for years paying their workers just barely enough to survive (or even less, expecting them to get public assistance and/or a side-hustle), and those workers can tolerate it, and tolerate it, and tolerate it — until one day, they stop.

The Great Resignation, Quiet Quitting, the mass desertions from the gig economy — they all prove the Stein’s Law: “Anything that can’t go on forever will eventually stop.”

Same for long, brittle supply-chains, where all the surplus has been squeezed out: concentrating all the microchip production in China and Taiwan, all the medical saline in Puerto Rico, all the shipping into three cartels… This strategy works well, and can be perfectly tuned with mathematical models that cut right to the joint, and they work and they work.

Until they stop. Until covid. Or war. Or wildfires. Or floods. Or interest rate hikes. Or revolution. All this stuff works great until you wake up and discover that the delicate balance between paying for guard labor and paying for a fair society has tilted, and now there’s a mob building a guillotine outside the gates of your luxury compound.

This is the force underpinning collapse: “slow at first, then all at once.” A steady erosion of the failsafes, flensing all the slack out of the system, extracting all the surpluses until there’s nothing left in the reservoir, no reason to stay.

It’s what caused the near-collapse of Barnes and Noble, and while there are plenty of ways to describe James Daunt’s successful turnaround, the most general characterization is, “He has reallocated the company’s surpluses to workers, readers, writers and publishers”:

https://tedgioia.substack.com/p/what-can-we-learn-from-barnes-and

A system can never truly stabilize. This is why utopias are nonsense: even if you design the most perfect society in which everything works brilliantly, it will still have to cope with war and meteors and pandemics and other factors beyond your control. A system can’t just work well, it has to fail well.

This is why I object so strenuously to people who characterize my 2017 novel Walkaway as a “dystopian novel.” Yes, the protagonists are eking out survival amidst a climate emergency and a failing state, but they aren’t giving up, they’re building something new:

https://locusmag.com/2017/06/bruce-sterling-reviews-cory-doctorow/

“Dystopia” isn’t when things go wrong. Assuming nothing will go wrong doesn’t make you an optimist, it makes you an asshole. A dangerous asshole. Assuming nothing will go wrong is why they didn’t put enough lifeboats on the Titanic. Dystopia isn’t where things go wrong. Dystopia is when things go wrong, and nothing can be done about it.

Anything that can’t go on forever will eventually stop. The social media barons who reeled users and business customers into a mutual hostage-taking were confident that their self-licking ice-cream cone — in which we all continued to energetically produce surpluses for them to harvest, because we couldn’t afford to leave — would last forever.

They were wrong. The important thing about the Fediverse isn’t that it’s noncommercial or decentralized — it’s that its design impedes surplus harvesting. The Fediverse is designed to keep switching costs as low as possible, by enshrining the Right Of Exit into the technical architecture of the system. The ability to leave a service without paying a price is the best defense we have against the scourge of enshittification.

(Thanks to Tim Harford for inspiring this column via an offhand remark in his kitchen a couple months ago!)

[Image ID: The Phillip Medhurst Picture Torah 397. The Israelites collect manna. Exodus cap 16 v 14. Luyken and son.]

#pluralistic #social media #post-twitter #post-facebook #switching costs #network effects #web theory #locus magazine #exodus #decentralization

[avastrasposts]

A Baker's Dozen - Two

Twelve Pedro boys, twelve stand alone short stories, all set in the same bakery.

Hello!

I'm so overwhelmed and grateful for all the lovely comment you all left on the first part of A Baker's Dozen! I'm having so much fun exploring what it's like to write for different Pedro boys and finding their voices.

For those of you who are new, we've got twelve Pedro boys, twelve short stories, each set in the same bakery.

It's fluff and sweetness, lots of food and flirting. Series Master List

Taglist: @harriedandharassed @inept-the-magnificent @sheepdogchick3  @readingiskeepingmegoing @noisynightmarepoetry @survivingandenduring

The glare is what catches your eye first, sunlight bounces off the shiny metal surface and hits your face through the window. You shield your eyes and glance at the door as it swings open, for a second you can’t see who steps through, you’re almost blinded, but as the door swings closed, he, or she, comes into focus. 

“Hi, welcome!” you say, trying to keep your voice steady as the imposing figure takes a few tentative steps into your bakery. 

“Heading for a con?” you ask, glancing up and down the impressive outfit. 

“A con?” 

The voice that comes through the helmet is deep and resonates through what almost sounds like a speaker. It’s definitely a man, if the sheer size of the body didn’t give it away. He’s tall, broad and made even broader by the metal pauldrons on his shoulders. A heavy belt hangs around his narrow waist as if to emphasize the sheer build of this hunk of metal that’s standing in the middle of your shop, looking somewhat lost despite the fact that you can't see his face under a solid looking metal helmet. 

“Yeah, like a convention, where people meet and dress as their favorite characters from tv-shows and stuff. Are you going to a con?” 

“No,” comes the short answer.

He looks around the bakery, the black T of his visor seemingly scanning the selection of bread and cakes you have for sale today. 

“Something smells…good,” he says, turning his helmet back onto you and you can’t help but smile. 

“Thanks, yeah, I had a pretty tasty selection today, but most of it’s already been sold,” you wave your hand over the mostly empty display cases, “Do you want to buy something?” 

“I…don’t think I have credit,” he hesitates but he takes another step into the shop, glancing down at the croissants stacked in a basket next to the till. 

“We accept cash too,” you reply, “you don’t need a credit card.” 

“No, I mean, I don’t have the right…currency for your world.” 

“Oh…” you frown, did he just say ‘your world’? 

You mentally shake your head, a misunderstanding, surely.

“I mean, I could let you sample something, then maybe you’ll come back with the right currency,” you say, smiling at the man. He sounds a bit confused and your customer service persona kicks in, unwilling to let someone leave without trying something that’ll get them to come back. 

“I don't know what you sell here,” he says, “I have never seen food like this before.” 

“Oh, really? What kind of baked goods do you have where you’re from?” you ask, surprised, you were sure pretty anyone would recognise at least a muffin and a cookie, both on display in your cases. 

The tall metal man comes closer, standing next to the counter and looking at the selection, “We have many baked things where I’m from, but I have never tried any of them.” 

“You’ve never had dessert?” you ask incredulously, “I have dessert every day, it’s a must!”. 

“I’m Mandalorian, food is only energy for our bodies, we don’t indulge in it,” he straightens up when he says it, his hands falling to his hips. He looks imposing, like a warrior all of a sudden, and his voice takes on a serious note. 

“Oh, wow, I didn’t know that was a thing, a mandalorian, huh” you raise your eyebrows, this guy doesn’t even seem like a cosplayer. Or he’s really in character. 

“Are you not allowed to eat dessert at all, or is it just like, not an everyday kinda thing?”  

“I can eat what I want but I’ve never had a need for dessert,” the voice coming through the helmet is a rich baritone, but holds a guarded edge, like the owner is trying to navigate something unfamiliar.

“I mean…technically there’s never a need for dessert, but I eat it everyday anyway. A good dessert is sometimes the only way to fix a bad day,” you give him your warmest smile, trying to make him feel a bit more at ease as you go back to straightening up your counter for the end of the day. 

“What’s this?” The man points to the croissants on the counter and you pick one up with the tongs, holding it out to him. 

“It’s a croissant, a French type of pastry. It’s not sweet, just has a metric ton of butter in it. It’s really flaky as you can see. Go on, try it.” 

“I don’t remove my helmet in front of other people,” he replies and your eyebrows shoot even higher up into your hairline. 

“What…but why?” The second the question comes out of your mouth you regret it, “Sorry, don’t answer that, it’s none of my business.” 

“You can ask, I don’t mind,” he says and you think you hear a slight smile from behind the helmet. “I’m Mandalorian, it’s my religion, and we don’t remove our helmets in front of others, it is the way.” 

“So you only eat alone?” you ask, curiosity overtaking your embarrassment and he nods. 

“Yes, we never share a meal with others.”  

“How sad, for me I mean,” you say, “One of the best parts about being a baker is seeing when others eat what I’ve made, I love seeing their reactions. If you try something, I won’t know what you think about it.” 

“I can just turn my back to you and lift my helmet a little,” he replies, and you can definitely hear the smile in his voice now. It changes the tone of his voice, as it comes through the helmet, makes it warmer, softer, and you smile back at him. 

“What do you want to try then?” you ask, “If you’ve never had dessert then I have to give you something special to try.”

“I don’t know,” he looks around the cakes and cookies on display and shakes his head, “I can read your signs but I don’t know what cinnamon or vanilla tastes like, or this one.” He points to a stack of millionaire’s shortbread, “I have never heard of peanuts.” 

“Well, in that case, just in case you're allergic to peanuts, let’s not start with them,” you grin, “the last thing I need is you passing out from an allergic shock in my shop. That armor looks a lot heavier than what I can lift.” 

The Mandalorian looks down at the plates that cover almost every part of his body, “It’s made from beskar, it’s a metal from my home world.” 

“It’s beautiful,” you say, and you mean it. The metal is polished and rich looking, a light gray color that catches the light as he moves, “It’s a very beautiful armor.” 

“Do you want to hold a piece?” he asks, looking over at you again, or at least you think he’s looking at you, it’s hard to tell with the helmet. 

“Is that allowed?” you ask, “I don’t want you to break any rules in your religion.” 

“There is no rule against this,” he says, reaching up and taking off one of the shoulder pauldrons. It has the image of a dangerous looking animal that you don’t recognise, and as he hands it over, you see him reverently brush his fingers over it. Carefully you take it from his gloved hands, the metal warm to the touch, and just as heavy as it looks. 

“It’s warm!” you say surprised and he nods. 

“It holds my body heat easily, good for cold climates.” 

You don’t know why, maybe because you can’t see even a sliver of skin on the man, but the thought of holding something that’s been warmed by his body heat, makes you slightly aroused. He could look like anything underneath all that metal and cloth, but his voice, his rich, low voice through the helmet, and his sheer imposing presence, makes you almost subconsciously attracted to him. 

He comes around the counter and stands close as you turn the pauldron over in your hands, tracing the outline of the animal, feeling the warmth of his body. 

“What is this animal?” you ask, looking up at your own reflection in his visor, “I’ve never seen one like it before.” 

“It’s a mudhorn, it’s the mark of my clan.” He traces his fingers along the animal too, brushing against yours as you marvel at the intricate work. 

“Thank you,” you say, handing the pauldron back as the touch of his fingers against yours becomes too much to handle, “Thank you for letting me hold it.” 

“You’re welcome,” he says, his voice lower now that he’s standing next to you. You watch as he clicks the pauldron into place on his shoulder again. 

How do you flirt with a man whose face you can’t even see? you wonder as he turns his visor back on you. It seems like he holds you in place for a few seconds before you slowly have to turn yourself away from him and the intensity of his sightless gaze. 

“So you’ve never had dessert and you don’t know what any of this tastes like?” you say, giving your own cakes a critical look. 

“No,” comes the voice from the man beside you, “Maybe you can choose for me?”

“Hmm…that’s a big ask. Your first dessert has to be something really special, but maybe not too overwhelming, and not too sweet either because if you’re not used to it, then sugar can be a bit too much. And it has to have the right combination of textures too so that you get the full experience and then maybe it should be-” you cut yourself off and look up at the man who’s shifted his weight, leaning against the counter and looking at you with his head cocked to the side. “Sorry, I’m rambling, I went into full baker mode.” 

“No, go on, I enjoy hearing you analyze my first dessert experience,” he says, encouraging you to go on by putting his hand on your arm. The little touch makes you tremble slightly and you pray he doesn’t notice through the soft looking leather of his gloves. 

“Really?” you ask, “Because I have an idea but I’d have to bake something for you, are you in a hurry?” 

“No, I’m waiting for someone and they won’t be here until tomorrow,” he says, dropping his hand from your arm, “What would you make me?” 

“Do you mind if I keep it a surprise? Only, I want you to have the best possible first dessert experience” 

“I usually don’t like surprises but I’ll make an exception for dessert. And for you,” there’s a small chuckle from behind the helmet and it makes you smile. 

“I’m honored,” you say, “come into my kitchen, I think I have what I need for what I was thinking of making.” 

You sidestep him, making him turn sideways as you brush past him, and you don’t miss the way his hand comes up to the small of your back as he walks just behind you into the kitchen. 

Your kitchen is big enough but the metal clad man takes up a lot of space as you direct him to stand by your workbench. He looks around it as you start going through your stores. 

“I’ve never been inside a professional kitchen before,” he says, “I can see that you’re used to a lot of metal.” 

You glance around at all the stainless steel counters and shelves that line the walls, stacked high with stainless steel pans, bowls and baking trays, and then the big shiny door that leads into your walk-in fridge before it hits you.

“Did you just make a joke about your armor?” you snort. But the man behind the helmet remains motionless and soundless as the giggle dies in your throat, afraid that you’ve somehow offended him. You look at him, your cheeks heating up, and then he chuckles loudly. 

“Yes.” 

“Oh fuck off, you’re terrible,” you exhale in relief, but smiling again, “I thought I’d insulted your religion or something.” 

“No, jokes are allowed,” he says and you hear the mirth in his voice clearly this time, behind the visor he must be grinning widely. 

“No more bad jokes, or you won’t get my dessert,” you give him a mock scolding look but he just tilts his head sideways. 

“There’s another joke in that sentence,” he says, still a smile in his voice, “but I don’t want to miss out on your dessert.” 

The innuendo is heavy and you have to bite back your grin, there’s no doubting his flirting tone, and instead focus on pulling lemons, sugar and butter from your stores. 

“If you say so,” you huff and he chuckles, coming to stand next to you while you start prepping. 

“So can you tell me what you’re doing at least?” he asks, picking up one of the lemons and turning over in his hand. 

“I’m making you a pie, I already have the dough ready for the crust so I’m just going to roll it out and blind bake it before I make the filling,” you say, bringing out the rolling pin and the slab of pie dough you had in the fridge. 

“I’ve never had pie,” he replies, “but I’ve seen them sold.” 

“What do you eat?” you ask and you see him shrug, shifting a bit. 

“Just…well, mostly freeze dried stuff that I can just add water to when I travel,” he says, “bone broth is nice too.” He shrugs again and you shake your head. 

“You need to live a little, try some different food, life’s too short to live on freeze dried camping food and bone broth. Doesn’t your wife cook for you?” The last thing slips out without you thinking, your mouth racing ahead of your mind and you bite your tongue, apologizing again. 

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to pry, or assume that you’re married, or that a wife should cook. Or that it would be a wife, just ignore me, I’m alone too much in the bakery,” you ramble, trying to catch up with yourself. 

Beside you the Mandalorian shifts and stands with his hip leaning against the workbench so that he’s looking directly at you, he’s crossed his arms and cocked his head and it shouldn’t be that sexy, you can’t even see him, but it’s making your heart rate speed up as your cheeks go warm again. 

“No, no wife,” he says, his voice somehow even lower than before, “no one to cook for me, and I wouldn’t expect my wife to cook for me either,” he shifts his weight, putting one hand down on the workbench, the other on his hip, “But it would be a wife.”

You refuse to look at him, it won’t give you anything, just that stupid shiny helmet. But you can hear the smirk in his voice, so you just nod your head. 

“Good to know,” you press out, very much focused on rolling the dough to a perfect circle which isn’t strictly necessary. 

“And you?” his asks, his low baritone vibrating the air around you as he seems to step even closer. His chest plate isn’t touching you but if you turn your head, your breath will fog on it. “Anyone to cook for you at home?” 

“Uhm…no,” you stutter, “just me.” 

If this was a normal man you’d expect to turn your head now and look at him and he’d ask if he could kiss you, or he’d lean in closer and just do it. But the helmet is in the way, how the hell is he so flirty with that damn helmet? He does know how to kiss, doesn’t he? 

“I’m ju-just going to put this in the oven,” you say, trimming the edges of the pie crust, leaving the scraps of dough on the bench. 

“Ok,” he says, still with a smile in his voice, watching as you line the pie with a sheet and then baking beads, before sliding it into the oven. 

“What’s next, the filling?” he asks and you nod. 

“Yeah, I’m going to zest and squeeze these lemons,” you pick up the one he’s left on the bench and show him how you get the zest off into a bowl. 

“Have you had lemons before?” you ask and he nods. 

“Yes, I think so, or something similar. But it was very sour,” he bends forward and looks closely at the zest you’ve mixed with some sugar. “It smells good though, do you often use them in pies?” 

“Yeah, and they’re amazing in anything baked, as long as you have enough sugar.” 

“I trust your skills as a baker,” he says and you smile at him. 

“Thanks, I think you’ll really like this.”

He stays still a beat as you turn back to the lemons, “I already do,” he says, a whisper, just loud enough to escape the helmet. For a second you’re not sure he meant for you to hear it, and you let your hands continue squeezing the lemons before giving him a quick glance. It tells you nothing, the man might as well be a statue. 

You start separating the eggs, letting the egg whites slip through your fingers, holding onto the yolks, until all five are neatly laying on the bottom of your mixing bowl. The silence is stretching between you and the man, still standing still, leaning slightly on the edge of the workbench. You can feel his eyes on you behind the helmet, watching as you stir together the filling, lemon juice, zest, sugar, corn starch, it all comes together. 

“Can I ask you something?” You look up at him, slowly stirring the cubes of butter into the lemon mixture. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to though, it’s kinda personal.” 

“Ok,” he says, cocking his head to the left. 

“How…h-have…h-ow do you kiss if you can’t take the helmet off?” 

He doesn’t move, the blank front of the visor steadily trained on you. 

“Nevermind, it was a stupid question, don’t answer that,” you mumble, dropping your gaze back to the filling. 

“No, it’s not a stupid question,” he says, and you feel the soft leather of his gloved hand under your chin, tilting it up, back to him. “There are…loopholes…in the creed. I’ve kissed someone, when they couldn’t see my face. But it requires a lot of trust.”

You’re staring at your own reflection in the visor, trying to discern where his eyes are. You wonder if he’s looking at your eyes or your lips, and you wonder what his lips look like. 

What they would feel like. 

“Does that answer your question?” he asks, that rich, warm baritone, distorted by whatever lets him speak through the helmet, makes your heart flutter, your breath catches in your throat. 

“Y-yes…thank you,” you stutter, “yes.” 

You bet he’s smiling at you again, as he lets go of your chin and you look back down at the filling. 

“I’m going to fill the pie now, and then make the meringue that goes on top.” 

“Ok,” he says, “I don’t know what that is but I bet it will be irresistible.” 

It makes you smile, at the filling, as it pours, golden and thick, into the pie crust. It settles into a smooth layer, ready for the last step and you place the pie to the side and reach for the egg whites. 

“Can I ask you a favor?” you ask and he nods. 

“Of course, what is it?” 

“The ancient looking mixer, up there, can you reach it?” 

He steps behind you, over to the shelf and effortlessly lifts the heavy old Husqvarna machine, it looks almost weightless in his hands. Those hands, inside the soft gloves, are big, almost dwarfing the mixer and the thought crosses your mind, to have those hands on you, wrapped around your waist, or grabbing your thighs, lifting you up as effortlessly as the machine, placing you on the bench, pushing your legs apart and- 

He carefully puts it next to you, and moves to stand on your other side. But his hand gently brushes over your back, just a small touch, but it makes you wish it lasted longer, and wasn’t so gentle.

The mixer is loud as you start it, whipping the egg whites into stiff peaks in just a few minutes.

“The trick,” you say, detaching the bowl, “is to whip them until you can hold the bowl upside down over your head and the meringue stays put.” You hold out the bowl to him with a grin, “Do you trust me?” 

He chuckles behind the helmet and takes the bowl from your hand, “I guess I do, but you’re polishing the beskar if this falls on me.” 

He carefully tips the bowl, holding it over himself, and the meringue stays put, not a drop falls on him and you give him a wide grin. 

“I passed the test.” 

“You did. Pity, my armor could do with a clean,” he says, his voice serious, but you can hear the smirk in it  this time. 

“Cheeky,” you laugh, “clean your own armor, I’m making you pie.” 

You grab the bowl from him and start scoping out the thick meringue on top of the filling, creating swirls and peaks with your spoon.  “It just needs to set now,” you say, taking the pie, “Could you open the fridge door, please?” 

He takes a few long strides and works the handle, holding it open for you as you go inside and place the pie on a back shelf. 

“I have never seen so many cakes before,” he says, coming in behind you, looking at the shelves of cake bottoms that are defrosting in preparation for your weekend orders. 

The door behind you slips closed and the fridge is thrown into darkness. 

“Oh, I forgot to tell you that the door needs to be wedged open, the light broke in here and I haven’t gotten round to replacing it,” you say, fumbling towards the door with your hand on the shelves, “I’ll get it.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got night vision in my helmet,” he replies matter of factly, and you hear him walk to the door. 

“You have night vision in your helmet?” You’re not sure he’s joking or not but judging by how quickly he moves across the small space, he must be seeing something. 

“How does the handle work?” he asks as you hear the handle click and catch on something. 

“You just pull it against you and it should open,” you say, carefully walking towards the sound of his voice. 

“It’s not opening, it sounds as if the handle isn’t latching on correctly”. 

“What? No, the door has to open!” You say, panic creeping into your voice, “I can’t…try it again, it has to work!”

You bump into him and his arm comes out around your waist, “Careful, don’t hurt yourself,” he says, his voice suddenly very close to you, steady and soothing, and it calms you down a little. 

“Sorry, I’m- I’m not good with small places I can't get out of,” you mumble, holding onto his arm. 

“The handle isn’t working, but I promise you, I can very easily get us out of here, don’t be scared.” He must’ve let go of the handle because his other hand comes up to rest on your cheek, the gloved thumb caressing your face with smooth motions. “Don’t be scared, mesh’la,” he says, his voice soft. If you move you think you’ll bump your head against the metal of his helmet, so you close your eyes and focus on his hands. One on your back, the other on your cheek, you take a long steadying breath. 

“H-how can you get us out?” 

“I have tools for it, in my belt, don’t be scared, I’ll get us out in no time…but…” he trails off, a small hint of uncertainty suddenly in his tone. 

“I trust you,” he says, “and I want to kiss you.” 

“You’ll take your helmet off?” you ask and in response you hear a low chuckle from inside it. 

“Yes, it would be very difficult otherwise.” 

“You don’t know that, maybe I’m used to making out with metal,” you say, biting your lip, and you’re rewarded with laughter in the darkness. 

“Using my jokes against me, clever,” he smiles as his hands leave you. There’s a click, the soft hiss of air escaping, and you guess his helmet has come off. You feel him bend down, placing it on the ground next to him and standing up again. 

“Ca-can you take your gloves off too?” you ask.  “Yes,” comes his voice in the lightless room and it makes you inhale. Unfiltered it’s much richer, warmer, but somehow rougher, slipping around you, making you break out in goosebumps as you shiver, no voice has ever made you shiver before and now you want him to keep talking to you, to feel his voice in all your senses. It makes you lift your hands to find him in the darkness but he finds you first.  

The soft sound of leather hitting the floor is the next thing you hear before his warm fingertips brush across your shoulder, finding your neck and trailing up over your chin. 

“I’m as blind as you now,” he whispers, leaning closer, “tell me where your lips are.” 

“Here,” you whisper in reply, taking his hand and guiding it to your mouth. He traces his thumb over your bottom lip, then the top, and you feel his hot breath skim over your skin. 

His lips are soft, gentle, as he presses them against yours, a slight tickle of facial hair before he pulls away a fraction. 

“Touch me,” he mumbles, “please,” a pleading tone to his voice. 

“Where?” you ask, lifting your hands from your sides and searching for him, finding cold metal and a rough flight suit. 

“Everywhere, my face, my hair, please touch me.” 

He leans his face into your hand as you find his cheek, your other hand slipping around to the nape of his neck, the longer hair winding around your fingers. It’s messy and curly and so silky to the touch that you hum under your breath. 

“You're so soft,” you say and it feels like he shakes his head.  

“No, you are, can I kiss you again?” he whispers but you don’t reply, just find his lips with yours and he groans into your open mouth, your tongue coming out to taste his lips as he parts them, and you feel his tongue lick against yours. 

His kisses are slow, and you match his pace, moving in the same lazy way as him, his tongue exploring and tasting every part of yours. Soft hands have come up to hold you close to him, his fingers in your hair, not letting you move from where he needs you. And it feels like a need, his soft presses turning needy, a soft moan escaping you as he pulls you closer, your whole body pressed up against his hard metal exterior. The contrast makes you feel disembodied, your legs, stomach, chest resting against cool armor, your face, your hands touching, and being touched by warm skin, soft hair, his demanding tongue growing in confidence by the second as he groans under your touch. 

He suddenly takes hold of your waist, moving you without effort, pressing you against the door with his whole, tall frame. 

“Your kisses are…” he pants, “please, I don’t want to stop, I…I…can’t.” 

He’s mumbling between insistent kisses, his tongue dipping into your mouth, tasting, groaning as he needs more with every second that passes. And you would give it to him, you’re moaning into his mouth, pressing into him as eagerly as he’s pushing you up against the door. If he wants to fuck you on the floor of this fridge, you’d let him. His soft lips, rough hands, his heady groans, and when he finally gives in and grinds his hard cock into your hip, it makes you lose all sense of where you are, who you’re with. 

“Mesh’la,” he mutters, another kiss on your lips, “Tell me to stop, mesh’la, I can’t stop on my own.” His tongue slips between your lips again and you thread your fingers through his hair and hold him close, keeping him from pulling back again. 

“Don’t stop, keep kissing me,” you gasp, his thigh is between your legs, rubbing firm at your aching core. 

He growls, his hand coming down to grab hold of your thigh, lifting it up onto his hip, and the door flies open. With a shriek you feel yourself falling backwards, crashing towards the hard kitchen floor. But his arms catches you, you hear the loud clunk as his metal covered legs and arm hits the surface beneath you, the other arm secure around your waist.  “Don’t open your eyes,” he snaps, panic in his voice, and you squeeze your eyes shut, they almost flew open as he caught you.  “I won’t, they’re closed, they’re closed,” you pant, the air knocked out of you. 

“I’m going to put you down and then get my helmet, don’t move until I say so,” he says, still close, gently lowering you down to the floor. 

“Ok,” you nod, staying still. But you don’t hear him above you, and his arm is still at your side. When he does move his chest comes flat against your own, his nose brushing over your cheek, bumping into yours, and then his lips are on yours again. Soft, warm, pliant, his beard tickling you, open mouth and gentle tongue, tasting and exploring with a low hum in his chest. When he finally pulls away and pushes himself up, you feel the loss of his lips like an imprint on your own, your fingers come up and trace across them, touching where he just was. 

From the fridge you hear the click of his helmet being put in place and then his footsteps come back. 

“You can open your eyes again,” he says, “thank you for keeping them closed.” 

You blink your eyes open and look up at him, his face again hidden behind the visor, his expression unreadable. But his voice is soft and he holds out his hand to you, his gloves not on yet. You take it and he helps you to your feet, one arm around your waist as you find your balance again. Looking down at the hand holding yours, you trace your fingers along the thin white scars that crisscross the back of his tan skin. His hand is rugged, the pads of his fingertips rough and well used. It’s hard to imagine that these hands could touch you so softly in the dark. 

“I…I hope I didn’t ask too much,” he hesitates as you keep touching his hand, holding it between your own, “I never kissed anyone like that before.” 

“I liked it,” you mumble, looking up at his visor, his hand still between yours. “I’ve never kissed anyone like that before either. And I don’t even know what your name is.” 

“Din,” he says, his voice low, like he’s telling you something guarded, “My name is Din, but I don’t tell many people that.” 

“I won’t tell anyone,” you say and he nods, placing his hand on your cheek again.  “Thank you, mesh’la.” 

“I’ve never met anyone like you, Din,” you say, trying to find his eyes behind the black visor. 

“I don’t think there’s any of my kind on your world,” he says with a small chuckle and you frown.  “What do you mean, ‘your world’?” 

He shakes his head, “Don’t think about it, it doesn’t matter, I just want to try your dessert now, like you promised,” his hand slips down to yours and he takes it, tugging you back towards the fridge, “Is it done yet?” 

“Uuhm…yeah, I just need to torch the top a bit,” you say, confused, as he opens the fridge door again. 

“I’ll hold it open this time,” Din tilts his head down towards you as you pass him, his hand trailing over your hand as you let go of him. The pie jiggles slightly when you tap it, so you pick it up and carefully bring it to the workbench again. Din closes the fridge door behind you and follows you back. 

“I’ve never smelt anything like it,” he hums as you reach into your tools and pull out the small blow torch. 

“Just wait until you taste it,” you smile, turning on the gas and igniting the torch. Din’s hand flies up to grab at your arm as the flame comes out but stops as he realizes what you’re doing. 

“I have one of those too,” he chuckles, “But mine’s a bit bigger.” 

“If I’d known, I would’ve used yours,” you grin and he shakes his head. 

“It would’ve burnt down your kitchen, it's not really meant for this delicate work,” you can hear the smirk as he leans forward and looks on as you carefully caramelize the top of the meringue, painting the white swirls in toasty brown. 

“There, it’s done,” you say as you turn off the blow torch and put it aside, “you’re very first dessert, a lemon meringue pie.”

“I can’t wait to try it,” he replies as you take down two plates, spoons and your sharpest knife. 

“How do you want to eat it?” you ask, cutting a generous slice for him, bigger than you would serve to the customers. He looks at the pie for a few seconds and then cocks his head and looks at you.  “I trust you,” he says, the smile in his voice evident under the unreadable helmet, “we can sit back to back and you can at least hear my reaction.” 

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to do something you’re not comfortable with,” you hold out the plate to him and he lifts it up to eye level, looking closely at the bright yellow filling and white meringue on top. 

“I’m sure, I trust you. And I want you to be happy when you hear my reaction.” 

“I hope you like it then,” you laugh, “Or this is going to be very awkward.” 

“If it tastes only half as good as it smells, this will be the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” he takes your hand and pulls you down onto the floor, you begin to protest that you have chairs but he just shrugs and sits down, crossing his legs with his back against you. You sink down behind him, crossing your legs too.  “Lean against me, mesh’la,” he says, “and don’t turn around.” 

“I won’t, I promise,” you rush out as you hear a soft woosh of air from the helmet. 

“I know,” he replies, his voice unfiltered and rich again, a low baritone that seems to send a shiver down your spine. The spoon clinks on his plate and he seems to hesitate. 

“I just put my spoon in it?” he asks and it makes you smile. 

“Yes, just get some of everything, and tell me what you think.” 

You hear the rustle of his flight suit as he seems to move around a little, it’s almost as if he’s trying to figure out how to  tackle the slice on his plate. Eventually you hear the spoon scrap over the plate again as he cuts off a bite. 

You listen intently, wishing you could see his expression, as he silently tastes the pie.

“Maker…” he breathes out after a few seconds, the spoon clinking again against the plate and you hear him take another bite. 

“Maker….” his mouth full and the word is muffled, “this is…” the spoon scrapes over the plate and you hear him take one more mouthful. His head leans against yours as he tips it back, sighing deeply. 

“Maker…I’ve never tasted anything like this before,” he groans, “It’s fresh and rich and sweet, how have I never tasted something like this before?” 

“Because you’re a fool, obviously,” you laugh, taking a bite for yourself. You know this pie is good but Din’s reaction makes you feel giddy. Behind you, you hear him take another spoonful, humming as he savors the flavors. 

“I am a fool,” he says after swallowing down another bite, “this is like nothing else. I want to eat only this for the rest of my life.” 

“That might not be the healthiest choice,” you chuckle, “and wait until you try chocolate, that’s on a whole other level again.” 

“Thank you,” he says from behind you, his hand reaching back and finding your arm, “Thank you for making this, I’m grateful.” 

“No trouble, I like seeing how much you enjoy it, especially since you’ve never had dessert before, you strange man.” 

At that you hear him laugh, “I’m not that strange, just maybe on your world, mesh’la.” 

“What does that word mean?” you ask, “Mesh’la?” 

“I’ll tell you, if you give me more pie,” his voice is so cheeky it makes you laugh out loud.

“I’ve got you addicted it seems,” you reply and he chuckles behind you, “I’ll keep my eyes closed and you can take as much as you want, take the whole pie.” 

“I can’t do that,” he says as you feel him shift behind you, getting to his feet. 

“Of course you can, you should take it, I can make another.” 

“I would argue with you, but the pie is too good,” he sinks down behind you again and this time you hear his spoon scrape over the metal of the pie form. 

“Din?” you ask and he stiffens. 

“Yes?”

“Are you eating straight from the form?” 

“Is…Is that wrong?” 

“No,” you laugh, “just a very good review of my pie.” 

He chuckles again, relaxing against your back as he takes another mouthful. Together you sit in silence, eating the pie, cross legged on the floor of your kitchen. Yours is soon gone and you happily listen to your strange guest hum and moan as he all but seems to demolish the rest of the pie. Maybe you should tell him to pace himself, but he seems to be enjoying himself immensely. 

After a few more moments the pie form is placed on the floor and Din groans, “I’m so full, but I want to eat more.” 

“I should’ve told you to go slow,” you smile, “but just take whatever you didn’t finish with you.” 

“Hmm…I…I ate the whole thing,” he says sheepishly and you giggle. 

“You might feel a bit sick in a while, but don’t blame me. But I really love how much you loved it.” 

“I’ll come back for more pie whenever I can,” he says, finding your arm with his hand again, “Please keep your eyes closed.” 

“I’ll make sure to have it on the menu all the time then,” you smile, your eyes squeezed shut. 

Behind you, you feel him move and turn, his warm hand coming up to cup your face, a thumb sliding over your cheek. His lips are soft and gentle as he brushes them against yours, his tongue slipping out, your mouth opening. He tastes of sharp lemon, sugar and butter, and underneath, his own self. He lets himself linger for a few moments, his nose stroking over your cheek, before he pulls back, your eyes still firmly closed. The click of his helmet lets you know that he’s once more covered up and you open your eyes, slightly sad that he can’t let you see his face, you’d love to see what those soft lips look like. 

“I should go,” he says, a tinge of regret in his voice, “I have other things I need to see to before I leave.” He takes your hands and helps you stand, the remains of the pie forgotten on the floor as you follow him out to the front of the bakery. 

“This….was wizard…” he mumbles in a low voice, yet again standing by the door, “I’ve never…experienced something like this.” 

“Me either, Din,” you mumble, suddenly very sad that he’s leaving, “Promise that you’ll come back some day.” 

“I’ll try, but I can’t promise,” he says, his hand, gloved now, comes up to caress your cheek one last time. 

He turns and puts his hand on the handle and something hits you, “Wait, hang on, just wait there.” 

You rush back behind the counter and grab one of your bread bags and quickly put four croissants into it. 

“Here,” you say, holding it out to him as you get back to the door, “For the road, or whatever you’re doing.”

He takes it, cocking his head to look down at the bag before he looks up at you again, “You’re going to make my armor fit very tight.” “Hey, I didn’t tell you to eat the entire pie in one sitting,” you grin and from behind the helmet comes a low chuckle. 

“I still blame you for baking something far too irresistible.”

“Take care, Din, I hope I see you again sometime.” 

“Me too, mesh’la,” he says, giving you a nod and opening the front door. 

Part Three

If you want to try Din's Lemon Meringue Pie, here's the recipe I used!

#pedro pascal character fanfiction #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin x you #the mandalorian

[dynared]

The thing that gets me about Rooster Teeth being shut down isn’t that it’s happening, frankly the company revealing that RWBY was never profitable was a damning indictment of how they ran their business, but the news that they want to sell their original IP is baffling, mostly because of how little value it has.

Red vs Blue at the end of the day might be the easiest sale, it was done with the help of Microsoft who owns Halo, sell it to them and have it as part of the franchise in-house without having to share with Warner.

RWBY? If you had done this two years ago, Crunchyroll would have been happy to add it to their originals, but now, they’re disinterested in original content. I suppose that you could sell it to a Japanese company or someone who distributed through Crunchyroll or Netflix, but if that happens, it will be rebooted with non-crap animation, massive changes to the story, and probably throwing out most if not all of the late Monty Oum’s restrictions.

And then there’s gen:Lock. You remember gen:Lock? If you need a refresher, it was the show that RT executive Grey Haddock funded by stealing money from other projects, overworking temps and not paying overtime, only for Season 2 to be turned into a weird diatribe against mecha (because Western writers hate mecha and anything that uses it un-ironically as more than a box on legs) that suggested that maybe one of the main characters was right to kill themselves because the world is screwed. Sounds like a real winner, especially when Michael B. Jordan, the producer and star, refuses to discuss the show anymore. Sounds like the bids are going to be around the block for that one!

So yeah, the question is less “why did Rooster Teeth shut down” and more “who wants the charred remains of what’s left?”

#rooster teeth #RWBY #gen:Lock #red vs blue #rvb #mecha

[2cutie]

PLEASEEEEE SHANG TSUNG WITH HOPE IS SO CUTEE I CANNOT 😭💖

i will do anything to hear more about em,,,,

eee yes i force more people into my ideas *ugly evil laugh* Continuing the Shang + cat!reader (named Hope after this prompt)

Before Shang is a sorcerer:

-You are mostly an outdoor cat. Mainly because Shang is out as well, trying to sell potions. You can tagalong with him, sometimes Shang even uses you to boost sales; saying you're sick, need medical attention, or that you're a magical cat because of his potions.

Don't worry, he's trained you in gimmicks. You're quite the actor.

Sometimes Shang also has you go back into towns where he can't show his face and you would steal food or something for the night.

-Because you're an outdoor cat and low to the ground, you got dirty pretty quick.

You loathed baths, but Shang hated them so much more than you. Because you *did not* corporate. He brandished cat scratches every single time, and you would still cuddle up next to him after it all like you didn't just try to scratch him to the bone.

-You annoyed Shang in the mornings. On purpose, of course. You liked when his hair was down since he barely ever had it down. So everytime he was sitting and putting his hair up in a bun, you walked through his arms. You were on his shoulders. You would paw his bun out.

You lived to see the annoyance on his face. And loved to see how you only needed to do something cute to make the annoyance disappear and he would go back to petting you.

-Shang would talk to you. Quite a lot. You were his only friend, after all. He would tell you what he would put in his elixirs, show you what they looked like after, even if it was just tea.

He would rant to you as he combed through your fur, gossip about annoying townsfolk. Tell you how you both deserved much better than the slums.

-You watched him while he slept. Just because when he woke up and saw you staring into his soul, his expression was priceless. But you also made sure he was alright. He had night terrors often.

He would hold you close on nights he was in pain with how bad he was beaten. Sometimes his eyes were vacant, but you were a constant. A comfort. You were the only thing that could never hate him.

-Despite him not having much, Shang would eventually get you something that displayed you were a pet. A collar with a charm; a very nice charm at that.

After Shang is a sorcerer:

-He will show you around his *entire* palace. He is proud of his accomplishments and delighted to show you. He shows you all, Except for the dungeon.

-You are mostly kept secret, but Syzoth does know of you because of his close working with Shang. You are friendly to the reptilian, and you very much enjoy him actually. Sometimes he takes care of you when Shang is too busy. He likes you better than he likes the sorcerer.

-You have the most beautiful fur coat a cat has ever had. Shang takes the upmost pride and care for you. You have decorative collars, charms and jewels that you're constantly bedazzled with. All your collars are embroidered with a snake in some way.

-You have many, many catbeds around the palace. All so plush and comfy. But your favourite place is still Shang's lap and shoulders. But all is well, as you're his favoured accessory.

You sleep on his bed as well. Shang is much more of a cuddler than he's willing to admit. You like to see him when he just wakes up. His tired expression and bedhead is lost to the rest of the world. You get to see his 'ugly' and low moments.

-You like to paw at his freckles. He finds it endearing until you do it when he's trying to focus then he gives you a groundbreaking glare. He could be terrifying!

-He would read spells and spellbooks to you. It helped him memorize more quickly as well. When he wrote notes in ink, he would add your pawprint in ink to the end of the page.

#mk1 #mortal kombat 1 #shang tsung x reader #shang tsung #my art

[tonyboneysblog]

Do you really? part one

paring: you x hawks

word count: 2.2k

warnings: drugs mentioned , slight language, violence

notes: hawks x crazy mafia drug selling y/n anyone?? (Thank you Ricky Montgomery for getting me through this…)

summary: hawks gets a tip about you, a villain who is putting the popularity of the league at risk, from Dabi. hawks investigates, loves ensues (cause your so cute)

“so…what was the point of dragging me all the way out here again?” Hawks asks with annoyance.

“listen, you wanna be trusted by the league right? then stop them.” Dabi proceeds to throw a Polaroid towards hawks.

Hawks catches it, looks it over, the quality isn’t terrible…maybe a tad bit blurry but it’s not horrendous. Looks like it’s woman around her early 20’s.

“what they do? I mean why do you want them gone..” hawks interrogates.

“Shigaraki doesn’t want them around, getting more popular than the league in his opinion due to all their drug sales…you wanna be a hero? Kill them and you’ll help us and the ‘public’s view’ of you too.” Dabi says with some type of annoyance.

Hawks crosses his arms with a slight sigh.

“where am I even supposed to find them?”

“usually at the bakery down the road from here, they do most of their dealings there.”

location and a face, that’s all hawks needed to find you.

Contrary to what hawks thought, it was actually harder to find you then he originally thought.

he’s walked into this bakery multiple times and hasn’t seen you not even once, aside from the pictures on the wall.

not even his feathers can pick you up but…it’s not like he knows what your voice sounds like but no one has even mentioned you??

he can’t even pick up the secret code where you get hardcore drugs instead of a nice croissant, these people who come in don’t even look like they’ve been on anything.

until a worker comes up to him…a pretty one at that.

“Evening! I’ll be your waiter for today, could I get your order sir?” Says a nice blonde girl.

it’s not you but maybe he could make her talk.

“yknow what I’d love? a croissant.”

“we can get that for you sir! is that all?”

“actually…” he grabs he hand softly “could you help me with finding out who this is? Heard from a little birdie that they worked here.”

The worker flushes “o-of course sir..do you h-have a picture?”

light work no reaction.

Hawks hands her the Polaroid.

She looks over it carefully…”this…this is my boss, she only works on Sundays!”

“Ah, thank you so much…see she’s friends with a cousin of mine who recently got a terrible surgery! Have to update…” hawks stops, he doesn’t even know your name.

“update…? update y/n?”

light work, slight reaction.

y/n…fits your face atleast. I mean you don’t look like a hardcore drug dealer, you look like a nice girl so…

“That’s right! Her name slipped my mind only for a moment.”

“I’ll be right back with that croissant sir!” the waiter walks away.

well at least he knows when you work and your name…now he just needs that code, you must be smart…I mean you look like a smart girl- no don’t say that about a drug dealer hawks…

he has your face, location, your works days, and your name. Rest should be as easy a cake.

It was in fact not easy as cake. Did you even work Sundays?? you weren’t even around at the moment, hawks was getting sick of smelling baked goods all the time.

people were staring at him, obviously because he’s hawks but the workers stared at him with worry…mostly because he’s been in the store for 5 hours.

He wasnt too focused on that anyways, to much attention going towards the feathers in the store, still trying to find the code for the drugs he’s looking so hard for.

it must be something simple…something in plain sight, but there’s not even a pattern.

“excuse me could I get the wedding cake 86?”

today in the bakery was packed…too many voices, hawks could barely pick them out.

There were at least two registers open, I suppose it would help with the crowd and-

pain shot through hawks wings

“s-shit!” He exclaimed loudly

of course, the customers who were sitting looked at him like he was crazy but…

someone destroyed his feather.

one specifically near the back of the store, nowhere he could see with his own eyes.

what destroyed it? Was it fire..? or maybe something el-

there it was again. Another feather destroyed

blood. Was that it? a blood manipulation quirk…that heated itself up to boil his feather? who even wastes the time…

*ding!*

another customer..not suspicious but something’s off.

“Could I get a…Creme puff 86?”

another 86..?

“of course that will be 120…”

a little expensive for a Creme puff…

not expensive for drugs though….

…

well that was easy. Hawks found out the code because someone wasn’t asking for some extravagant cake.

hawks looks towards the person ordering…yep their definitely on something, only took one person to mess up the whole operation…

hawks rises from his seat, preparing to follow the culprit but then-

he’s forced down to his seat?

“What the-?!”

“are you alright sir?”

asks a woman with her hand slightly pointed towards hawks.

“customers complained that a little birdie was in pain? now I’d like my customers to be happy and content-“

Hawks was barely even listening to what you were saying.

your location, your face, your work times, your name, and now your voice…

“would you like to come to the back?”

hawks tried to move his head no but…something was compelling him not to, instead it was nodding?!

“come now then…”

Hawks suddenly stood up, following you to the back room. What were you doing to him?

you open a door to what looks like your office, it’s quiet nice actually.

“Now sit.”

Hawks sits immediately, not by his own accord.

“W-what’re you doing t-to me”

He could barely even move his own jaw.

“how about you explain why a pros feathers are all over my place of work?”

blood control, kinky but mildly discomforting…

“M-maybe I was interested in the big boss?”

“mhm…sure.”

“all i speak is truth.”

“Well you’re a hero, so I have no reason to believe what you say.”

wow really showing you hatred for hero’s immediately?

“w-well trust me, will ya?”

you look at him, weighing your options.

“if you run, I’ll break your legs.”

the control on hawks body was suddenly released, feeling the blood pour back into its rightful spots.

“blood control right? pretty icky”

“don’t insult my quirk.”

“yes ma’am.”

“who sent you? Some other evil bakery?”

“Told you I was just interested in the owner?”

“Clearly I don’t be believe that.”

clearly you do not, hawks mission was just to kill you..maybe he should just do it now- no your too on edge…you’d take control of his body almost immediately if you even feel threatened.

“I heard about this bakery’s pretty little owner..but your not little”

“are you calling me fat?”

“W-what? N-no I meant it as a compliment!”

you giggle slightly, it’s nice.

“sure it was.”

“I swear it on my honor as pro hero number 2!”

“not a lot of honor being in that position.”

what was that supposed to mean…

“one date is all i want?”

“…”

maybe a date could do some good, find out more about the drug operation..and you.

“please?”

“beg a little harder and then maybe I’ll think a about it.”

oh wow.

“I-i uhm…will you please, the prettiest lady in the whole universe, go on a date with me?”

“In the whole universe?”

“mhm, means your prettier than space and then plants, dove.”

you falter slightly, but recover quickly.

“I don’t like dove, reminds me of the soap bar.”

“sweet cheeks”

“My cheeks aren’t sweet.”

“Honey…?”

“no.”

“My princess?”

“mph..“

“you like, princesss?”

you look away.

“just one date?”

“just one, princess”

“…fine.”

winner. winner. chicken dinner

It was Friday, the agreed day for your date, hawks didn’t really understand why he was so nervous…it was just another mission, just another…villain.

you both agreed to met at some nice restaurant, hawks is paying of course-said it was the gentleman way.

You walk into the restaurant, asking for your table and there he was. Now you don’t really understand why he put feathers all over your restaurant just to go on a date with you but he’s hot so he gets a pass.

there he his, he stands and pulls out your chair, bowing slightly.

“Madam~”

you sit down, nodding your head as a response as he walks and sits back to his own seat.

awkward. That’s the only way you could describe it, you both aren’t even looking at eachother. Small talk isn’t exactly your strong suit.

“so…”

“…so”

“how was your day?”

“Just fine…”

this is making your blood burn with embarrassment.

“what happened during it?”

“nothing really.”

“very interesting…”

“…”

Actually a lot happened in your day, it was supposed to be one simple dealing but no, the building exploded. what a pain in your ass…

“how was…how was yours?”

hawks perks up.

“terrible!”

“tell me about it.”

he starts explaining his whole day, some villain throwing him into a building, making his back ache all day, then a building exploded (it was yours) then he got yelled at by his supervisors.

“sounds terrible”

“How do you handle Bads day like that?”

“I run a nice hot bath and listen to music…”

“Without me?”

ick…super senior core…

hawks bursts into laughter at your face of cringe.

“I was just joshing~!” He giggles out.

you smile slightly, “very funny, hero”

“I can be even funnier if you just give me the chance princess.”

“real funny, hawks”

“I’m serious.”

he was in fact not serious, he didn’t care too much about you…going on a date would only get you closer to being sent to jail and his trust towards the league to increase.

it’s quiet..like your surprised he’d say such a thing..you cut that short though.

“I like your beauty marks..the ones near your eyes.”

“These old things?…well thank you, I like your scar..the one on your palm?”

you scratch at it slightly, and old wound on your palm, it was formed so long ago…you barely remember why it’s there.

“I used to cover it up with gloves…”

“shouldn’t do such a thing.”

He suddenly but softly touch’s your palm near the scar.

“it’s apart of you, y’know.”

You don’t speak, you look hurt but maybe you feel complete with that statement, no one’s ever said such a thing to you about it.

“hm…”

“hmmm?”

“nothing just thinking…”

“I’ll lend you my ear, birdie.”

“Why call me birdie…? your the bird.”

hawks stops, your correct.

“correct..but…”

“I like princess better…”

hawks lights up.

“I knew it!”

The waiter comes, takes your order, and then comes back. The two of your continue your conversations late into the night.

“yknow I’ve had fun but it’s my time time leave-“

“Let me fly you home.”

“It’s fine, really-“

“I’m faster than any taxi, princess.”

and probably cheaper too…I mean your pretty amazing on cash, drug money does wonders to your bank account…but flying would be so much cooler?

“don’t want you stalking me, birdie”

“everyone wants a cute stalker.”

“…”

“I won’t stalk you…”

you stand up from your chair, “let’s go then.”

Hawks flaps his wings excitedly, walking outside the restaurant with you.

“Now you need to hold on tight, princess.”

You wrap your arms around him snuggly.

“jump.”

you jump into his arms, quite a comfy spot.

“Comfy?”

“mhm”

hawks bends his knees slightly and flies into the air, you squeeze tighter.

“don’t be scared.”

“n-not scared..”

he laughs loudly, “whatever you say, princess.”

The rest of the flight was quiet, a nice view- not of hawks, just the city.

“Here we are.” He lands on your balcony, decorated with far too many dead plants.

“Thank you..”

“No need to thank me, just wanted you to get home safe.”

it’s quiet again. You pick a your skin nervously.

“why are you interested in me?”

“because I like you?”

“do you really?”

quiet again, you can’t stand the silence.

he doesn’t stay anything, just grabs your hand and traces your scar…maybe that’s his answer.

it’s quiet.

“Next Friday?”

You nod. he leaves, did that even answer your question?

it’s so quiet.

he was so loud.

it’s lonely in your house.

quiet.

why didn’t he answer you?

will he even answer it if you ask him again?

#anime #fanfics #keigo x you #bnha keigo #mha takami keigo #keigo takami #keigo x reader #keigo x y/n #mha hawks #bnha hawks #hawks x reader #my hero academy fanfiction #my hero academia #hawks #my hero x reader #hawks x y/n #Spotify

[piosplayhouse]

Niche fandom happenings to take your mind after whatever stuffs happening in your fandom:

So as you can probably deduce, the model horse collecting hobby is made up mostly of older people. The hobby has been well established since the dawn of the Internet and I've talked a few times about how it's difficult to find some older resources about it/its history because of how every other link you click on which used to lead to a hobbyist artist's angelfire blog now is just a dead link or worse, bought out by some ad company sitting on the URL. Up until recently, a huge portion of hobby talk still relied on now-defunct Yahoo groups; now most have moved to either forums like Model Horse Blab or private Facebook groups. Individually most of these are pretty decentralized, but since model collecting by nature is a hobby that requires a significant amount of financial interaction (buying, trading, selling, commissioning, etc.), there has to be some kind of centralized marketplace for people to pitch their goods to as many corners of the hobby as possible.

Enter Model Horse Sales Pages (MH$P), a, well, site where people can post sales pages for model horses and accessories. It's an old fashioned sales pages site from the 2000s with a somewhat shitty layout but unparalleled detailed search functions-- to order things from a seller, you'd have to personally email them to negotiate for their listing. Though this seems somewhat inconvenient to our modern senses used to one click payments and speedy delivery, MH$P is undoubtedly a pillar of the model horse community.

... So that's why people are scrambling as it's allegedly been hacked and taken down for the foreseeable future. Worrying about personal information aside, now fans are left to wonder: what's the alternative? Well, the first one is of course eBay, which many hobbyists already use. However, eBay is obviously less catered to model horse hobbyists and is therefore a bit harder to search if you're deep in the hobby and can't be assed to look through 4000 "plastic horse" titled listings to find the 2008 SR glossy xX Devilish Girlfriend++ Thoroughbred you want. MH$P occupied a specific niche for long time fans looking for grails.

So what are our alternatives for people in the hobby looking to buy from others in the hobby? Well, there's a few decentralized official dealers like Chelsea's Model Horses or Triple Mountain who you can consign older models to, but going through a middleman takes time and you have much less freedom in your personal listings. Alternatively, you could go grassroots and post listings in Facebook groups and on forums, but those have reaches limited to the members of those specific, often small, groups, and it can be hard to move stock that way. So now people are looking for a backup marketplace platform, both for the current situation and longtime health of the hobby. But imagine my surprise when I went on Model Horse Blab and saw people suggesting an alternative site kickstarted by

STAR STABLE ONLINE YOUTUBER DENIS/DENISE WISESTORM. Denis has been a controversial figure in the SSO fandom (though there's pretty much no uncontroversial ssotubers especially on ssoblr because clickbaiting and weird reactionary takes are like the bread and butter of that side of the fandom) who's been called out for having some alt-right homophobic views in the past, as well as for his abject and unproductive negativity towards improvements made on the game. He's a lps customizer and pretty prolific breyer collector, though, so his drive to create a model trading and selling platform makes sense at least. But still! Why him!!!!!!

#breyer #ssoblr

[sidewalkchemistry]

simple skincare tips!

🌼eat the foods that love you back. your skin is a direct mirror of your internal situation. if your digestive system is being bombarded often by foods that create a lot of wastes and residues, that does more harm than good. and so, the struggle to eliminate them will be reflected in your skin. your diet constitutes the vast majority of your skin health. change your meals to be whole food plant based (still delicious, satisfying, and exciting) & watch your skin glow and your skincare routine simplify.

🌼be conscious of what's going on your skin. the skin layers can be over-cleansed, imbalanced, and aggravated when the skin microbiome and pH are disrupted. if you wipe out the beneficial bacterial populations with harshly formulated products, you may find that you break out (i.e. harmful bacterial populations begin to thrive). use gentle, simple skin formulas such as castile soaps, natural oils & butters (i recommend jojoba oil for mostly everyone), natural soap bars, and clays. most commercial skin care products disturb the skin cells (introduce too much foreign material to the body, unsuitable pH ranges, imbalance the microbiome, etc). they sell because it's convention to buy them, the brands are well-known, and their sales pitches are enticing. but really, no cream or serum will ever be the magic potion your skin was asking for. it will only be a band-aid, at best. truly healthy skin comes from diet, and the products are just for any other necessary maintenance. if you get a pimple, you should look first to why the pimple emerged, not what treatment will remove it.

🌼keep your lymph flowing. simple ways to do this are through good lifestyle habits. things like doing exercise & sports you find fun, breathwork, dry brushing, eating lots of fruit, avoiding wearing bras & other tight clothing items, lymphatic massage/gua sha can all be helpful.

🌼focus on hydration via fresh fruits and veggies. the water within plant foods is more useable to your cells, and your skin will cease being overly oily or dry overtime (especially if you reduce/eliminate your salt & oil intake). it will also help to encourage lymphatic flow, so you can see problems like blemishes, cellulite, old scars diminish after great consistency.

🌼allow your skin to breathe. this is especially good if you spend time in stuffy (poorly ventilated) indoor environments, like offices, hospitals, planes, etc. one great way is via herbal facial steaming (i recommend it 3x a week or so). make a hot infusion of an aromatic tea, cover it and allow it to cool a few minutes, and, with closed eyes, allow the pores to open and receive the herbal medicine (this is a great time to meditate, manifest, and just feel pampered). getting more fresh air, working up a sweat, and going to a sauna are also ways to allow your skin to breathe.

🌼avoid steroid prescriptions creams at all costs. they are very deleterious to health in the long term, and they can be very painful to come off of. it's not a real fix. it's not worth hurting your kidneys & adrenals for. evaluate your diet instead. do you eat dairy? choose plant-based dairy options instead (they're simple to make yourself too). do you eat a lot of fats? try oil-free cooking methods instead (opt for sautéing with a bit of water, baking, steaming, air frying, etc). avoiding eating out as much.

🌼be aware of what you're putting in your hair as well. your shampoos, conditioner, leave-ins, gels, moisturizers, oils, serums, etc all tend to touch your face too, when your hair touches your face. if they wouldn't be good enough to put on your face, don't put them in your hair. a lot of the best skin cleansers are also suitable as shampoos. a lot of oils and butters can be used for both. plant-based gels like aloe vera or flax seed are simple to DIY, and are dual-use once again. basically, this will simplify your life.

🌼understand the water that runs through your pipes. if your shower and tap water are like most people's around the world, they aren't optimal for our skin. for example, they contain added chemicals to sanitize the water but that can prevent the proper microbiomes from developing on your skin. a weak skin microbiome is prone to skin issues. so, try to use distilled water on your face (if you're not able to get a water filter, a gallon jug at a store is affordable. they're about $1.30 USD in my area).

#txt #skincare #skincare routine #holistic leveling up #leveling up #level up journey #that girl #green juice girl #holistic health #skin microbiome #microbiome #glow up #true nourishment #lymphatic flow #mindful consumption #mindfulness #clean beauty #self healing #acne #skincare tips #holistic beauty #sidewalkchemistry

[lxstfathier]

Fortune Teller

Mark Hamill x Time Traveler! Reader

Summary: after spending most of your life traveling in time and teletransportating everywhere you ever wanted, you decide to stay in a certain year, not knowing that it would result in getting romantically involved with one of your favorite actors during his rise to fame.

Warnings: some death and human experimenting mentions, but nothing too bad, mostly it’s just fluff :)

A/N: omg it took me more than a whole month to write this but it’s finally ready! and probably it’s not 100% accurate to what happened in Mark’s life but hey, it’s fiction, so i hope that you all enjoy it anyways!! love you guys!! 💗✨

People often think that time traveling and teletransportation is fun, and it is, but after some time it gets… boring.

You discovered your unique abilities when you were just a teenager, basically still a kid, quickly learning how to control those weird moments in which you could just appear in any year or place that you wanted by simply snapping your fingers.

Since then, you visited every city that you ever dreamed of, every year that seemed interesting, and witnessed some historic events with your own eyes, better than any history book.

But now? You decided to calm down for a while, staying in 1976 to live in San Diego for a few months until you can decide what city is the next one in your map.

You have a lot of money for the moment, going back to 1898 to steal diamonds and gold was an easy task, so you don’t have much to worry about, just focusing on burning off your small fortune and have fun around. Maybe you should go to the comic con this evening? you have seen the flyers on every street, and it looks like a good plan for a saturday.

Yeah, you love comics, you have a big collection, but the real reason to go would be to see Mark Hamill in his youth. You remember watching a lot of his movies when you were still a normal kid, so it would be nice to catch a glimpse of him before all that fame hits him like a lightning strike.

After thinking about it all morning, you decide to go.

And half an hour later you’re already walking down the street, wearing some cute clothes and a little bit of makeup, not expecting much more than being just another nerd from the bunch.

The streets are calm, not as busy as they usually are, and everyone seems to enjoy a good time under the bright afternoon sun. But when you get to the comic con then it is a different story. There’s more people than you expected and a tedious long line to get tickets.

However, you don’t have anything better to do, so you wait, leaning against the wall with your arms crossed, simply watching everything around you.

Finally, after some long minutes, you buy your ticket and get in, excited to see how it goes and what new things you can add to your collection.

It’s not a big place, but it’s not small either. There’s a lot of stands with comics for sale, booths with merch for the newest movies, autograph signings from famous illustrators, and of course, the main stage for the press conferences.

Sadly, that stage is still empty, so you still have a lot of time to look around. And that’s exactly what you do, calmly checking out the comics and merch, even more when you get to the star wars table, delighted to be able to see that vintage logo, the small x-wing figures, the printed shirts and the posters and photos.

So, without thinking it twice, you buy a few of those things, hoping that maybe, with a little bit of luck, you’ll get them autographed and then go back to 2030 to sell them for a fortune.

Suddenly, the people cheering and loud voices through the speakers snap you out of your thoughts. The press conference for star wars has started and you’re still away, too lost inside your own mind to realize that you’ve missed the first few minutes.

Taking you newest purchases in your hands, you quickly make your way to the main stage and sit on the last row of chairs. It’s not super near like the front row, but you can perfectly see everything, to the microphones, to the pretty blonde boy who can’t keep still as the two other men answer questions about the movie.

And you never expected Mark Hamill to look that good. You’ve seen famous singers, models, or even roman emperors with your own eyes, but none of them compares to him. He is literally hypnotic, almost like a cosmic being, and now it makes sense of why they chose him to play a hero from another galaxy.

His face, his smile, his everything is just perfect, and with such a beautiful sight the time goes by incredibly fast.

If you could take your phone out to at least have picture of this moment, you would, but you don’t want to attract curious looks from everyone, so you just stare, letting out some dreamy sighs and saving every detail in your own mind.

Once the conference ends, you get up from your seat and walk back to the stands. Perhaps, if you get more lucky, you will find another vintage piece to resell in the future.

And you do, you manage to find some more things that will surely catch a collector’s eye. But when you’re heading to the exit, ready to go back home and call it a day, a familiar blonde hair makes you stop dead in your tracks.

Mark Hamill is there, just a few feets away from you, talking to another man while the other persons walk past the Star Wars stand, oblivious to the fact that they’re ignoring the guy who is about to become an international superstar and the biggest heartthrob of the decade.

And then he looks in your direction, with those piercing blue eyes, smiling slightly, probably finding it cute that you are nervous and not daring to come closer. But how does he expect you to be confident? has he never seen himself in a mirror? he’s the closest thing to an angel and that makes your heart race uncontrollably fast.

“Come say hi, i don’t bite” Mark says, letting out a soft chuckle, his voice kind but teasing.

For a moment you stay still, too impressed with him that you don’t even know what to do. And the fact that he directed a few words to you just makes it worse. In moments like this, you wish that you could be at least a little bit more extroverted and less awkward.

However, you don’t wanna lose the opportunity, so you do your best to approach him and talk normally despite your horrible anxiety.

“Mark, uh- hi, i… i’m one of you biggest fans, been following your career since texas wheelers. Can’t wait to see you in Star Wars.”

Actually, you started following him since you watched the fall of the house of usher as a teenager, but you can’t tell him that for obvious reasons.

And by the way he smiles and tilts his head to the side, it’s not difficult to guess that you’re probably the first fangirl who has come across his path.

“Well, if you liked me in that shitty sitcom, you’re gonna love me in this new movie.” he says, trying his best to lighten the mood.

“Oh, that’s for sure. I’m gonna go the the cinema a couple of times” you answer, as if you didn’t already saw all of his movies on your laptop more than once.

“Sounds like it’s gonna be a total success thanks to you” mark jokes and you smile.

“Star wars is gonna be a success, whether i watch it or not, believe me.”

Mark raises an eyebrow, suspicious as to why would you have so much faith in a new sci-fi movie that not even him believes in.

“How do you know? are you a fortune teller?” he asks.

“Something like that” you say, not wanting to give many details about your weird life. And before he can ask anything else, you hand him the two star wars posters that you just bought an hour ago. “Would you sign this for me? please?”.

He lets out a soft chuckle at your vague answer and then he is kind enough to autograph both of your posters with a black marker, taking his time to write more than just his signature, all while wondering if you are telling the truth or if you just want to mess with him.

Unfortunately, when Mark is almost done signing the second one, another person interrupts him, telling him that someone named Gary is looking for him to discuss some things.

“I need to go” he says, handing you back the two posters. “It was nice meeting you, maybe next time you can tell me the numbers to win the lotto.”

And with that, he just smiles one last time before turning around and getting lost in the crowd. So you stay there a few seconds, incredibly shocked with that first encounter.

His smile and those last words repeat inside your mind over and over again, only for you to realize that yes, he really believes you were messing around with him, but it doesn’t matter to you. The moment was perfect despite his lack of belief.

After that, you just hold the posters against your chest, making your way out of the convention and blushing all the way home.

⋆✮♡✮⋆

The next time you meet him is even more unexpected.

You’re sitting on the warm sand of the Malibu beach, feeling the ocean water on your toes, just having some time to yourself while admiring the beautiful sunset, totally captivated by the bright orange in the horizon.

It’s calm, and soothing. The sound of the waves and the slight breeze allow you to shut down your thoughts and relax for a while.

“I knew that your face was familiar” a male voice interrupts your sacred moment as he sits on the sand next to you. “You’re the fortune teller from the san diego comic con a few weeks ago.”

Of course, that’s a voice that you know quite well. And when you look to your right, Mark is there, talking to you again, looking more handsome than ever with an unbuttoned shirt and golden hair getting messy because of the breeze.

“Yeah it’s me” you answer, slightly confused. “How did you recognize me?”

“Well, someone like you is not easy to forget, you have something… different that makes you stand out from the rest.”

Your heart starts to beat fast again. Hearing him say that you’re unforgettable is more than a dreamy compliment. But, deep down, you know that he probably says that because you are from a different time, you look futuristic, and strange, and that’s what always catches everyone’s attention.

“It’s fine, you can say that i’m weird” you laugh, nervously playing with the sand beneath you.

“No, actually i think you’re quite pretty.”

Your cheeks go red immediately and a dumb smile appears in your lips. What are you supposed to say? you’re too shy to flirt back, so you decide to change the subject.

“What brings you to malibu?”

“I love this place, so i wanna move here” he says, in a more serious tone while looking at the ocean. “What about you?”

“Funny” you say, almost thinking that the coincidences are starting to be too much. “I live here, ten minutes away from the beach.”

“Looks like we’ll be neighbors then” he raises an eyebrow. “I got my eye on a nice property in the shore.”

“Great! come by whenever you need a cup of sugar or whatever”

“I’d probably ask for something more than that.”

With that you just let out a good laugh. If another man said that to you, you’d probably roll your eyes, get up and walk away. But it’s different when it comes to him. And you’ve heard guys say so much worse things in your native years of 2020’s that he almost sounds cute.

“Sure, i can give you some salt too if you need it” you joke around, just to see him smile, with those pearly white teeth and pretty wrinkles on his cheeks. Something that could easily overshadow the incredible sunset.

And you’re too lost in his smile to notice the way he is staring at you, with the same infatuation and curiosity.

“You’re not from here, do you?” Mark asks once the laughter is over. “From the states, i mean.”

There’s that question that everyone always makes. And the one that you always have to lie about. What are you supposed to say? that you are actually from the states but you look different because you were born in 2010 as product between two people who were used for experiments by the government and somehow managed to scape from it? he would call you crazy instead of fortune teller this time.

So you use the same made up story that you created for everyone who asks.

“I was born in spain, but my parents migrated here when i was five. Sadly, they passed away a while ago after i turned sixteen, so now i’m alone in this country.”

“Oh i’m sorry” he says, the smile fading from his face, regretting to touch such a sensitive topic. “I shouldn’t have-“

“It’s fine” you cut him off. Your parents are safe and sound in 2031, living their best life, so you don’t want to bug him with that. “Why don’t you tell me more about yourself?”

And that’s all you needed for him to talk for long minutes, with no intention to stop soon. But you can’t complain, his voice is really soothing, and his stories are entertaining, enough for you to listen attentively for some time, just saying one comment occasionally or laughing at his jokes.

Once more you end up being hypnotized by him, exactly like the first time, or is it that you’re just easy to impress with a pretty face? you’re not sure, but when you realize, the sun is completely gone and it has gotten super late.

You need to go home. And Mark, being a total gentleman, offers to walk you there, because there’s no way that he would ever let you go alone, even less at night.

The playful conversation keeps going all the way there, while walking close to each other, almost bumping shoulders. And when you get to your front door, he holds your hand, carefully, as a way to ask you to don’t go inside yet and stay with him just a few seconds more.

“Will i see you tomorrow?” he blurts out, patiently waiting for your answer, with a nervous smile on his lips.

How could you say no to him?

“Probably” you say, feeling your cheeks get burning red. “If not, you know where to find me.”

You really plan on leaving it there, clearly not expecting much else, just a dramatic goodbye to end the night. But before you know it, he pulls you closer, placing a hand on the nape of your neck to lean in for a kiss.

It’s soft and gentle, a quick peck on the lips, and it’s over before you can even realize what happened. But it makes you feel like the luckiest girl in the world, with thousands of butterflies fluttering in your stomach and a heart that threatens to get out of your chest.

“Good, cause you still owe me the numbers of the lotto.” He says, returning to his funny side as he lets go of your hand.

But you’re way too shocked by the kiss that you can’t even think of a good comeback. So you just smile and say goodbye to him with a wave of your hand, getting into the safety of your home and immediately closing the door.

Maybe Mark wonders if he overstepped your boundaries. Or maybe he thinks that it’s really cute how you got so flustered. You will never know.

It doesn’t matter, though. You’re so happy that you could burst into tears or giggle to yourself the whole night. Maybe you should even go to 2031 to tell your mom exactly what happened, and she would be happy to know that you finally found a decent man instead of a total jerk.

But first, you need to calm down, and probably listen to some romantic songs while praying that you’re not just another notch in his belt.

⋆✮♡✮⋆

Almost six months later you are nervous as hell. Probably more than that. You are terrified.

It’s only a matter of minutes until you and Mark arrive to the ziegfeld theatre for the star wars premiere in new york, but you’re still stuck in traffic, in the leather backseats of a very luxurious car. And when you look out the window, you can already see loads of people around, which makes you feel extremely overwhelmed.

Obviously, you think that you’re managing that anxiety and nervousness quite well, but you don’t, and Mark can easily tell how you’re not having a good time just by the way your hands play with the seams of your expensive silk dress or the fluff of your synthetic fur stole.

“Take a deep breath, please” he tells you, taking one of your hands between his. “It’s gonna be alright.”

Sure, it’s easy for him to say that when his job is to literally have cameras on his face all the time. He’s used to it, but you’re not. And what scares you the most is that this would be the first time in which you appear together in public as a couple.

What if his fans don’t like you? what if you can’t stand all that sudden attention? what if-

“Please” he repeats himself, squeezing your hand. “Just a few pics and we’ll go inside. Can you do that for me?”

“I’ll try” you nod, a shy smile lingering on your lips as you turn your gaze away from the window to look at him.

He looks so calm, and so so handsome. It doesn’t matter if you already watched him getting ready all day, seeing him with that black tuxedo, bow tie and hair combed back, makes your breath falter and your head feel dizzy.

That’s how you realize that you’re screwed. You already fell hard and face first.

Has he fell hard for you too? yes. All this time he has done nothing but prove that he loves you, in ways that you never expected, yet you still can’t comprehend how you managed to pull such a man. It feels unreal.

Minutes later, when you finally arrive to the place, Mark gets out of the car first and then goes to your side to open the door for you, even offering you his hand as an extra help, because he knows that it’s hard to walk with high heels, and also because your legs are trembling due to your nerves.

“I know you can do this, sweetheart” he whispers to you, inviting you to hold on to his arms instead of his hand. “Smile at everyone and that’s it… and please don’t faint.”

You take a deep breath, gather the courage necessary, and then start walking beside him, gripping his arm so hard that you fear to wrinkle his tux.

There’s a lot noise, bright lights everywhere, a multitude of photographers, journalists, press and a much more that doesn’t help with your nerves. It makes you nauseous and sweaty, but you try your best to deal with it, concentrating on Mark and not on anything else.

As soon as you both step on the red carpet, you can practically feel all eyes on you, with the camera flashes immediately going off over and over again. Most of the photographers are focused on Mark, he is the star after all, but some others pay attention to you, the mysterious girl by his side.

And it’s only when you’re being blinded by the intense flashes that you get a slight sense of guilt.

You shouldn’t be doing this. You already messed up his whole timeline. He was supposed to appear on all this pictures with somebody else, with some other girl from his time.

But do you care? not one bit. This is like a dream come true.

And while you’re too deep in your thoughts, posing for the cameras and controlling your nerves, it’s almost impossible for you to notice that soon a few of the photographers find something better to focus on.

This time they don’t point their lenses at Mark, or you, or the expensive clothes that you decided to wear for the occasion…

They’re drawn to the beautiful diamond ring on your left hand.

#mark hamill x reader #mark hamill fanfiction #luke skywalker x reader #star wars fanfiction #luke skywalker fanfiction

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for not promoting a charity play I'm in? TW for discussions of fictional sexual coercion.

I recently tried out for an amateur theater production whose ticket sales will support a local library. I wasn't really expecting much, as I'm not an actor, but I was cast as the lead! I've been enjoying rehearsals, but the issue is, well, I don't really like the script. It's a comedy, but part of the backstory of the play's events is that two of the characters were blackmailed into having regular sexual contact with someone they didn't like for YEARS. And this is repeatedly played for laughs.

No one else in the cast (mostly women) has voiced any issue with this. They all seem to find it funny - in fact, some of them even ad lib additional "jokes" about it. I haven't said anything disapproving because I knew from square one that I was NOT going to find a different script that would fit our needs - and even if I did, this is a very small charity group that can't really afford to license another script, so we're stuck with what we've got. I'm going through with it because it's for a good cause, and at least my character doesn't have to say any of the objectionable lines.

But WIBTA if I didn't tell anyone to come see this play? Obviously I'm pro-fiction, including bad, stupid, and tasteless fiction, but just because I believe this play has a right to exist doesn't mean I want my grandma to come see me perform in it. (When I say "my grandma," I'm using her as a rhetorical device standing in for a much wider social circle including family, friends, and coworkers, but yes, if she finds out about this play's existence, my literal actual grandma WILL come and I will not be able to tell her no.)

Reasons I might not be the asshole: I've been told that in past years, this play has always sold out. They probably don't need my hype.

Reasons I might be the asshole: This play is mostly advertised by word of mouth. And the last time they did this "annual" play, it was pre-COVID, so the fact that plays used to sell out then doesn't necessarily mean they'll sell out now. Also, I told at least one family member I was going to audition for this play, and she said something to the effect of "if you get in, let me know, because I have to come see!" which I agreed to. (At the time, I had no idea what the script was like.)

TL;DR: I'm in a play that supports a good cause but contains material that I find objectionable. I'm a bit embarrassed / ashamed at the thought of people who know me seeing me perform in this. WIBTA for keeping this on the down-low (and thus potentially depriving the charity of word-of-mouth ticket sales?)

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

[dira333]

Passing Peonies - Post War Touya Todoroki - Part XI

When the war ended, Midoriya Izuku had proven one thing: That Villains did not need to be killed to be defeated. That you could make friends from enemies.

Touya Todoroki, formerly known as Dabi, had been one of those taken into the rehabilitation program. After one year of intense physical and psychological therapy, he's got the chance to prove himself. To prove that he can be a part of this world.

Complete fic length: 30.600 words - Masterlist

Warnings: poor mental health and resentment against past actions is mentioned, burn scars etc. as well. There is angst but this is mostly soft Touya coming back to his family...

64.media.tumblr.com

Part 11: (2,3k words) - I apologize for the chapter ahead...

Rico surprises him one morning when they load his car with flowers.

“There’s this new movie I really want to see.” He tells him. “About this guy who got bitten by a spider and has a spider quirk now? My nephew got me into the Hero Movies and says it’s really good but it’s always awkward to go alone. Do you want to come with me?”

He’s speechless for a long moment and it’s to Rico’s credit that the other man does not waver in his confidence.

“You don’t have any other friends to ask?” Touya asks and Rico snorts.

“Sure do, but it’s a Hero Movie. Your boss thought you’d be into it.” 

“Fine.” He huffs, planning to ask you all about it when he gets back to the shop.

It’s been a few weeks now that he’s allowed to buy the flowers by himself and he’s fully aware of the responsibility he holds. The heating went out last week, and the price for repairs was substantial, eating up what you had saved in the last few months due to increasing sales.

The holidays are almost over now, too, which means that there’s a rough stretch ahead where they have to rely on the sales they make from the agencies buying weekly Bouquets. 

They skip the coffee break and drive back, Rico chatting away as usual while he makes comments whenever he feels like it.

Rico’s nice, never pushy even though he must know that something’s going on between Touya and you, and his chattiness eases his mind when he starts thinking too much.

About Toga, who’s appeared twice in the last weeks, Mari, who still refuses to speak to him when not absolutely necessary, how the healing of his piercings goes about as slow as the healing of Shouto’s broken heart, or the fact that he’s not sure what his quirk is going to be when the authorities decide to take off his quirk canceling anklet.

-

It’s still too early to open the shop when Rico drives off so he closes the door and turns the key again, shutting off the lights, and slips into the back room to make coffee.

He’s not been in there for long when you step in through the other door, holding a back of baked goods in your hand.

“Good morning.” Your smile is big as if you’d expected him to be back early. “How did it go?”

“Good. Kibe-san was almost nice today. And the Bonsai guy gave me some seeds.” He drops the little packet in your eagerly outstretched hands.

“Amazing. I got a call yesterday, a friend recommended my work to someone who just inherited an old house, and the garden is absolutely wrecked. He asked if we could get to work on it to make it more presentable before spring so that he could sell it. He’ll send us some pictures later but it would be a great opportunity to get a foot in the door for you. Who knows, you could retake your high school exams and become a landscape architect.”

“And leave the shop?” He hands you your coffee, filled to the brim with cream and a mix of sweet somethings. “Never.”

Your smile is sweet but a little bashful as if you’re not quite believing him.

“I’d never leave you behind, you know that, right?” He asks, his heart beating double time as he waits for your answer.

“Just leaving the door open.” You tell him quietly and take a sip from your coffee, no doubt to busy yourself.

Had you been talking instead, he might not have heard it through the thick door.

But there’s the sound of glass crashing and he freezes.

Then, again. And it comes from the shop.

“Touya?” You ask but he’s at the door, open it gingerly to look through, not risking to make known that they are here.

He smells the fire before he sees it. 

“Touya?” You ask again, doubt seeping into your voice when he doesn’t answer right way.

“The shop’s under attack.” He says, his breath coming too fast now, but his mind is calm, high on adrenaline. “Stay in here, don’t come after me. Get yourself to safety.”

“No, Touya.” Your coffee cup explodes on the floor, your hands in his shirt but he pushes you back, one last look at your frightened face. “Stay back. You gotta stay safe.” He slips through the door, slams it shut, and turns the key they never use. For good measure.

Behind him, fire has built a wall of heat. 

-

He hadn’t known flowers could burn so well but whatever crashed through the window - possibly a molotow cocktail - had hit the dried eucalyptus that’s now burning bright, the flames licking at the wooden wall behind it. He grabs a bucket of roses, pulls them out and throws them to the side, pouring the water over the fire as far as he can reach. It’s not enough.

Smoke’s stinging in his eyes, his nose, his throat and there’s ice cold panic crawling up his back, but he works methodically, grabs one bucket after the other and pours it over the fire. He can feel blisters forming on his hands from the buckets that have grown hot from the fire, not caring that his vision is going hazy - from the smoke, or his panic, he doesn’t know.

He can hear voices but he could just as well be imagining it, as he coughs and gags against the smoke filling his mouth and his lungs, pulling off his shirt to smother more flames, grabbing plants to bring to relative safety in the back of the shop.

Half of the blossoms of his plant, the holiday cactus, have burned away. The Bonsai you’d been so proud of is nothing but a stem anymore. Bob’s children aren’t bobbing anymore as he lifts them up, the roughness of the pot digging into his already blistered skin.

Something grabs and pulls him into the other direction.

He fights, claws at whatever it is, but it is stronger than him and suddenly, he’s faced with cold, fresh air and the dawning morning outside.

“Stay here.” Someone snaps at him and he can barely see the uniform of a firefighter before he sees you, on the ground, lifeless.

If he thought he’d felt panic before, it had been nothing compared to what he feels now, the horror imploding in his chest. He staggers forward, trying to get to you, but someone grabs him again.

He can see Mari lurching forward, toward you, and he might be barely able to hear anything about the thrumming of his heart, but he can hear her voice, read her lips, as she wails.

“It was him! He set the fire! I saw it all!”

She takes one more step forward, pointing her finger at him. She bends as if to touch you and something in him snaps so violently he gasps, flinging his arms forward as if he’s about to push her away from you - and somehow he does.

A wall of ice, the height and width of a grown man, surges forward, pushing Mari back, but circling you, protecting you.

That’s the last thing he sees before he goes down and everything goes blissfully dark.

-

His eyes snap open and he’s on high alert, trying to gain a sense of direction.

Where is he and when is it? Where are you?

“Easy there!” Someone presses him down and a face appears in his vision. It’s Hawks, surprisingly.

Touya chokes out your name and Hawks nods.

“She’s safe. Used her powers too much and fell asleep right there on the street. You gave us much more of a freight there. Half burned up, choking from the smoke and then the ice… didn’t know you could do that.”

“That happened?” He asks. “I thought I was hallucinating from the smoke.”

“Oh no, boy, that really happened. Still out there even, they need it as evidence. Have a look if you want to, but be careful, you took quite a beating from that fire.”

He gets up carefully, surprised to see his hands in bandages and a thick blanket slung around him.

He’s inside an ambulance, the doors open. Just outside he can see the wall of ice, police and firemen discussing something. Behind them, he can see a corner of the window, the glass black from smoke.

And there, right next to that window, are you. 

He walks straight toward you, like a compass needle pulled north.

You’re huddled up in a blanket as well, clutching the ends to your chest as you look down at the ground. A woman in a police uniform is standing next to you, one hand on your shoulder.

She says something and you look up, catch sight of him - and go flying.

He barely manages to catch you when you fling yourself at him, arms around his shoulders as you press your face into his shoulders, sobbing.

“I’m so glad you’re alive.” You choke out and he understands deeply how you feel. 

“You know me,” he jokes against the feelings raging in his chest, “Nothing a little fire could kill.”

-

As it turns out, Mari had set the fire, planning to blame it on him.

She didn’t expect him to be there earlier, not knowing about the agreement that had him buying the flowers in the morning.

Nor did she expect him to be with you as it happened.

You, who’d called the police the moment he had closed the door in your face. Who ran around the block to help him from the other side, not knowing what to expect.

Now, a tree is growing into the shop, it’s thick trunk stabilising the building further.

He didn’t have to wonder why you fell asleep instantly. The tree is massive, winding itself around and through the burnt wood, a living and breathing thing holding up the apartments above the shop. 

It takes hours to clear everything up. 

Mari isn’t one to reveal her secrets easily and the police don’t take his innocence for granted, even with an alibi.

He’s questioned again and again, repeating himself over and over until his voice gives out, his throat still raw from the smoke.

They don’t understand how he could be able to produce ice until they manage to get a hold of one of the guys who designed his anklets.

As it turns out, the anklets are either low impact on all quirks or high impact on a specific quirk. No one could have known he would suddenly develop an ice quirk and had he still been able to speak, they’d have wrung him through another round of questioning to find out if he’d been aware of the chance.

He wasn’t. He still isn’t really, the events of today feel more like a nightmare than reality.

Around five p.m. he’s allowed to leave the police station.

His father, having been by his side since the moment he’d been brought there, pulls him into an awkward hug.

“Where do you want to go?” He asks. “Hospital? Pharmacy? Home?”

Touya forms a flower with his hands and Enji nods as if that had to be expected.

“Alright. There’s a drugstore next door, I’ll get you something for your throat there.”

-

Touya’s not surprised to find you in the shop as well, tending to the flowers and plants amidst people in hard hats and suits.

“You shouldn’t be here.” You tell him when he enters, but still wrap your hands around his lower arms, carefully avoiding the bandages on his hands. “I’m so glad you’re safe.”

He nods and points towards the plants at the back of the shop, drawing a question mark into the air.

“One of Bob’s kids did not make it but the others are still alive.” You tell him. “Most of the cut flowers are done for as well. The insurance company and city surveyor are currently doing an inspection. They’re not sure we can keep working in here.”

At your words, a small man with a button nose - a literal button nose, steps forward. He’s so small that he has to put his head back to look up at you.

“I am afraid we don’t have good news.” He says, his voice a little tinny but full of empathy. “Your quick thinking kept the building from collapsing but the building structure is already damaged and we cannot risk that you keep working in here. We’re advising evacuation.”

“But I live here.” You stutter out and the man nods.

“I understand. We have a team of movers that can safely transport all your belongings without upsetting the damaged structure, therefore one apartment after the other will be emptied out in the next week. After that, we’ll rebuild the apartment block and you should be able to move in again.”

“How long will that take? I can’t close the shop for long, it’s my only income.”

“It shouldn’t take more than three months, tops. If we can get building team three on this, we could be done in a month, they have some very handy quirks. But for today, you should go home, I mean, go home to a friend or family, and rest. Everything will look a little brighter tomorrow.”

You open your mouth to speak but he bids himself goodbye and leaves.

Touya puts his hand on your arm now and you turn, confusion, hurt, and bubbling panic visible in your eyes.

He points at himself, then draws the shape of a house into the air.

“You want me to come to your house?” You ask and he cocks his head to the side, hoping you’ll understand.

“No,” you sigh, “I don’t have any other friends I could ask right now.”

taglist: @misfit-megumi @shoulmate @pixiesavvy @the2ndl @neko-my-cat @chelseaquake @tiredslepz @frozen-phoenix17 @spltbtch @touyasprettydoll @dream-girl-stuff

taglist is open, if you want to join, just mention it in a comment or send me a message.

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#my writing #passing peonies #touya todoroki #dabi #Touya x reader #Dabi x reader #soft dabi #dabi fluff #soft touya #touya fluff #todoroki family #happy todoroki #angst to happy end

[andmaybegayer]

Hello it's me with another very naive computer question!

One of the really common complaints you see about modern software (from Adobe, Microsoft, etc.) is the move from the single-purchase model to a subscription-based model. While I understand that people are upset about paying more money over time, this also feels like the only viable option for shipping products that work with modern OSes, especially Windows (I don't have any experience with MacOS). Windows pretty regularly updates, and if you want your product to continue to work, you have to continue paying your engineers to maintain compatibility through time.

Obviously I understand that there are lots of FOSS options out there, but for the companies that are built on making money from these sorts of software products, I don't see another way. Am I way off the mark here?

This is a really good question. I don't have a great answer, but the model I have in my head is that "traditional software distribution" is partially an artifact of an era where companies were starting to use computers but internet use was still spotty so providing support for software was just a very different ballgame. A lot of what I'm saying here is not like. Fact as much as it is my understanding of The Software Business from the side of someone who is a little involved in that but mostly not in that.

(This is mostly about "business software", that is to say, accounting packages, creative suites, design packages, modelling tools, etc. This model does not explain like. Spotify. But that's much easier to explain.)

You're not wrong that the subscription model really make sense given modern software development, where patches come out continuously and you get upgraded to the latest version every time something changes, but there has been a significant change in how software is developed and sold that makes it noticeably different. I think that the cause of this is mostly because it's finally practical to do contract-style deals with hundreds of thousands of customers instead of doing one-off sales like we used to do.

In the Traditional model you charge a pretty sizeable upfront cost for a specific version of the software, you buy Windows XP or Jasc Paint Shop 7 or whatever and then you get That Version until we release The Next Version, plus a couple years of security and support. When the next version hits, we stop adding any new features to your version, and when that hits end of life, you maybe get offered a discount to buy licensing for the latest version, or you drop out of support.

Traditional software with robust support typically costs an awful lot, Photoshop CS2 was $600 new in 2005, or $150 to upgrade from CS, because you're paying for support and engineering time in advance. A current subscription for just Photoshop is $20/mo, and that's after twenty years of inflation. Photoshop is also cheap, a seat for something like SolidWorks 2003 could probably have run you $3000-4000 easy. I can't even give you a better guess there because SolidWorks still doesn't sell single commercial licenses online, you have to talk to their salespeople.

The interesting thing to me about Traditional pricing was that I think it was typically offered to medium to small businesses or individuals, because it's an easy way to sell to smaller customers, especially if it's the 90's and you're maybe selling your software through an intermediary reseller who works with local businesses or just a store shelf.

Independent software resellers were a big business back in the day, they served as a go-between for the software company and smaller businesses, they sold prepared packages in a few sizes and handled the personal relationship of phoning you up and saying "Hey there's a patch for your accounting software so that it doesn't crash when someone's surname is Zero, we'll send you a floppy disk in the mail with some instructions on how to install it." Versioned standard releases are a thing you can put in a box and give to resellers along with a spec sheet and sales talking points. This business still exists but it's much smaller than it once was, it's largely gone upmarket.

If you were bigger, say, if you were a publishing house that needed fifty seats of editing software you'd probably call the sales department of Jasc or whoever and get a volume deal along with a support contract.

Nowadays why would you bother going through resellers and making this whole complicated pricing model when you could just sell subscriptions with well-established e-commerce tools. You can make contract support deals with individuals at scale, all online, without hiring thousands of salespeople. You can even provide varying support levels at multiple cost brackets directly, so you don't need to cultivate a direct business relationship with all your customers in order to meet their needs. Your salespeople handle the really big megacorp and government deals and you let everyone else administer themselves.

It also makes development easier. You can also deploy patches over the net, you just do it in software. You can obsolete older versions faster, since you can make sure most people are using the latest version, and significantly cut down on engineering time spent backporting fixes to older versions. I think a lot of this is straightforwardly desirable on most software.

Now, there are still packages sold by the version, and there are even companies selling eternal licenses.

Fruity Loops Studio is still a "Buy once forever" type deal.

MatLab can be purchased as a subscription or as a perpetual one-version license.

Windows is still sold like this, but also direct to customer sales of Windows are minimal, Windows is primarily sold to OEM's who preinstall it on everything.

But it's a dying breed, your bigger customers are going to want current support and while there are industries where people want to hang around on older versions, for a lot of software your customer wants the latest thing with all the features and patches, and they'd rather hold on to their money until later using a subscription rather than spend it all upfront. Businesses love subscriptions, they make accounts books balance well, they're the opposite of debt.

Personal/private users who might just want the features of Photoshop CS2 and that's fine forever don't matter to you. They're not your major customers. This kind of person is not a person who your business cares to service, so you don't really care if you annoy them.

Even in the Open Source business world, subscriptions are how the money is made, just on support rather than for the software itself. You can jump through relatively few hoops to run Ubuntu Enterprise or SUSE Enterprise Linux on your own systems for free, but really there's not much benefit to that unless you pay for the dedicated support subscription.

In many ways I think a lot of things have changed in this way, I have a whole thing about the way medium-scale industrial manufacturing has changed in the past thirty years somewhere around here.

While there are valid reasons you might want to buy a single snapshot of some software and run that forever, the reality is that that's a pretty rare desire, or at least that desire is rarely backed by money. If you want to do that you either need access to the source code so that you can maintain it yourself, or you need to strike a deal with someone who will, or it needs to be software so limited that it (and the system it runs on!) never need updates. Very few useful programs are this simple. As a result subscription models make sense, but until recently you couldn't really sell a subscription to small businesses and individuals. Changes in e-commerce and banking have enabled such contracts to be made, and hey presto, it's subscription world.

#kelp-of-discontent #ask #computer stuff #economics thunderdome

[chiriwritesstuff]

Meet Me at the Farmers Market! 2. - Wager

Farmers Market! Joel Miller x Confident! Plus Sized F! Florist Reader

Previous Chapter │ Series Masterlist

Series Summary: What does a Contractor do in his spare time? Sell his wood carvings at the Saturday Farmers Market, of course! A Grumpy x Sunshine Joel Miller series collective of one shots, Updates every Saturday!

Rating: M

Warnings: Jealous! Joel Miller, Tommy is a meddling little shit, Reader likes to ogle her too-hot market neighbor (I mean, who wouldn't?!) no outbreak! Verse Joel Miller, Friendly wagers between vendors

Summary: When it's a slow day at the market, Tommy suggests a wager between Joel and Sunflower. Which of our two idiots makes a move first?

A/N: Another day in the life of Joel and Sunflower a few days early? YES PLEASE! Hope y'all enjoy!

This story takes place before the events of Pt. 1 - Jealousy, Jealousy.

Banner & Dividers by @saradika

"It's been real quiet today. How are you holding up, Miller?" you ask, your voice laced with genuine concern.

"Not great," he grumbles, his frustration almost tangible.

You gaze at your table of carefully arranged flowers, a hint of disappointment flickering across your face. "I was hoping to have sold at least half of these by now," you admit, absently tweaking a vase.

A scoff echoes from across the way. "That's a tad optimistic," he teases with a playful smirk.

You shoot back with a playful glare, your eyes twinkling mischievously. "Oh, like you're doing any better, Miller. I don't see your woodland critters flying off your table this morning."

Joel grumbles, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. "Well, they do eventually find their way home," he drawls, a hint of defensiveness in his tone. "Today's just not our lucky day, that's all."

You can't help but laugh, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. "Right, keep telling yourself that, Miller. Maybe the critters need a bit more of your southern charm today."

"Right, it's not like you use your…" he gives you a pointed look, "assets to give you a leg up in sales," he replies, a playful glint in his eye. "I haven't seen someone wink so damn much at the farmers' market."

You roll your eyes dramatically, unable to suppress a teasing grin. "Oh, please, Miller. A little charm never hurt anyone. Besides, a wink here and there adds some flair to the whole flower-selling business. You should try it sometime."

He lets out a mock sigh, shaking his head in mock disapproval. "I'll leave the winking to you, flower whisperer. Maybe those woodland critters need a secret handshake."

You both share a laugh, the tension from the slow day momentarily forgotten as the playful banter lightens the mood in the market.

"Well, well, well," Tommy suddenly interjects, breaking through the tension as he puts his arm around your shoulders, casting a mischievous grin at his brother. "Seems like today's been a bit lackluster, huh? Sunflower's table barely made a dent, and she would have been mostly sold out by now."

You playfully nudge Tommy, a smile tugging at your lips. "Easy there, Tommy. We're all feeling the slow vibes today, aren't we?"

Joel grumbles in agreement, a hint of grumpiness in his voice. "Yeah, it's been unusually quiet. Even the critters seem to be taking a snooze on the job."

Tommy's eyes light up with an idea. "I've got it! How about a little friendly competition? A wager on who can sell out first—Sunflower's beautiful blooms or Joel's charming critters. Winner gets bragging rights and a week of free lattes on the loser!"

You exchange a knowing glance with Joel, a competitive spirit rising within you. "You're on, Tommy. Get ready to be buying those lattes," you declare, a playful determination in your voice.

Joel grumbles, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "You better start practicing your sales pitch, Sunflower. Those lattes are going to be mine."

As the challenge intensifies, you notice Joel maintaining his grumpy demeanor, even as he turns on his charm with the ladies passing by. A pang of jealousy tugs at your heart, but you can't help but find his attitude endearing.

Joel grumbles at Tommy's playful antics, shooting a grumpy glare at his brother. He then turns his attention back to you, a hint of mischief in his voice. "Seems like you're getting quite cozy with my brother there, Sunflower. I might have to step up my game."

You feel a blush rising to your cheeks as you retort, "Oh please, Joel. You're the one who can't resist winking at every customer. I think you're just worried your charm might not work on everyone."

The banter continues as the friendly competition fuels a vibrant energy in the market, drawing more attention to both your stalls.

Joel grumbles playfully, a glint of competitiveness flickering in his eyes. However, as the day goes on, it becomes increasingly clear that Joel is not trying as hard as he could be. He finds himself unable to maintain his grumpy facade, particularly as he admires your dedication and passion. A sense of warmth grows inside him despite his best efforts.

As the afternoon sun begins to dip, your table starts to see more traffic, with customers drawn in by your infectious enthusiasm. Joel, on the other hand, has only managed to sell a few of his critters.

With a knowing smile, Joel arranges his remaining critters with a touch of playful annoyance, giving you an opportunity to shine. As the market comes to a close, you find your table nearly empty, a clear victory in sight.

"Congratulations, Sunflower. Looks like you've won," Joel says, offering you a genuine smile. "You deserve it. Seems like your… assets,” he motions to your unbuttoned flannel, a tease of your cleavage peeking out, you thank the stars god decided to bless you with your curves, “Really worked in your favor," he teases as he openly looks at your chest, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

You feel a rush of joy and relief, realizing Joel's subtle gesture. "Thank you, Joel. Your critters are amazing too, you know. We make quite the team, don't we?"

As the market comes to a close, the two of you share a quiet moment, the lingering warmth in Joel's gaze making your heart flutter with newfound hope. You notice a subtle shift in Joel's demeanor, as if he's holding onto something unsaid.

With a playful smile, you begin to pack up your remaining flowers, unable to shake off the feeling that Joel had been taking it easy on you. As you glance over at him, you raise an eyebrow and ask, "So, Joel, feeling generous today or just letting the lady have her moment of glory?"

Joel lets out a grumpy chuckle, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Well, Sunflower, a gentleman always knows when to let a lady shine. It's all in the spirit of chivalry, you see."

You feign a dramatic gasp, a playful glint in your eyes. "Oh, chivalry, huh? Well, I'll have you know, I'm not one to shy away from a fair competition. Next time, you won't be so lucky!"

Joel grins, a teasing glimmer in his gaze. "I'll be ready for you, Sunflower. No more Mr. Nice Guy. You'll have to earn that victory fair and square, just you wait."

You chuckle, a newfound lightness filling the air between you. "Oh, I'll be ready, Joel. And when I win, I expect you to be the one buying those celebratory lattes. Deal?"

Joel's grumpy laughter joins yours, the sound of it carrying a newfound sense of camaraderie and something more. "You've got yourself a deal, Sunflower. But don't be too confident. I might surprise you yet."

As the two of you pack up your stalls and the market starts to empty, Joel approaches you, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Say, Sunflower, how about we celebrate your victory with a dinner at the barbecue joint in town? My treat, of course."

You can't help but grin at his invitation, feeling a rush of excitement at the prospect of spending more time with him. "I'd love that, Joel. It'll be the perfect way to end this eventful day."

With a nod and a wider smile, Joel tips his hat and heads off to fetch his truck, leaving you with a fluttering heart and anticipation for the evening ahead.

#joel miller fanfiction #joel miller #joel miller x you #pedro pascal #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel the last of us #joel miller x plus size reader #joel miller fic #the last of us hbo #tlou hbo #tlou fic #joel tlou #tlou fanfiction

[mimisempai]

I'll find you at the end of the road - Chap 8/8 - Complete

Chapter summary - As long as hope remains

Sometimes you just have to wait for the dots to connect...

On Ao3

Rating G -  3929 words

Chap 1 - Chap 2 - Chap 3 - Chap 4 - Chap 5 - Chap 6 - Chap 7 - Last chapter

Months and seasons passed.

Aziraphale moved out of the lake house and into his old apartment above the store. After the death of HH's CEO, Muriel was no longer interested in staying there, and Aziraphale offered them a sales position in his shop. He preferred restoring and tinkering with his old pieces, and Muriel was good at selling. Aziraphale wasn't a tyrannical boss, and thanks to Muriel, the shop now had regular opening hours without restricting the antiquarian's freedom.

Arthur had remained friends with Aziraphale and was now also Muriel's friend, and more than once they'd come to end the day with coffee at Nina's after picking up Maggie from her shop.

However, all of Aziraphale's friends could see that the antiquarian's gaze sometimes seemed lost. His face wore a melancholy expression. But he never said anything, just smiled, and they pretended they hadn't seen anything, just pampering him a little more than usual.

On New Year's Eve, they partied together, and when the fireworks went off to celebrate 2024, Aziraphale couldn't help but think with nostalgia of other fireworks, wondering what Crowley was doing, where, and with whom. 

A.Z. Fell, M & Co - January 2024

It was already late and Aziraphale was hunched over his drawing table, looking concentrated, when Muriel poked their head through the door.

They said softly, "Aziraphale, I'm leaving now. I've locked everything, so all you have to do is close the front door and draw the blinds."

Aziraphale, concentrating on what he was doing, replied with a hum.

Muriel, seeing that he wasn't listening, approached and looked over Aziraphale's shoulder to see what he was working on.

"A new project?"

Aziraphale looked up and replied, a little embarrassed, "Oh. No. It's just... a personal thing. "

Muriel shifted to get a better look at Aziraphale's work, but the antiquarian tried to hide it. 

His friend insisted and asked coaxingly, "Aziraphale, let me see."

"No, it's nothing."

"Come on. Please."

Aziraphale relented and removed his hands from his work surface. Muriel leaned over and gasped as their eyes widened.

It was the lake house, but reimagined. 

There was a patio at the back and a staircase leading down to the water - the stairs Aziraphale had described to Crowley. There were trees planted along the path and lights shining in the trees. The house was just as extraordinary as before, but much less austere, much warmer, almost romantic, transcended by the changes.

Muriel said quietly, "I like it. "

Aziraphale asked, somewhat anxiously, "You really like it?"

Muriel nodded enthusiastically and replied, "Before, it looked like a place you'd go to be alone. Now I can imagine taking someone there, a family, friends. I can almost envision happiness there."

Aziraphale nodded, his eyes glistening slightly. 

Muriel looked at him with piercing eyes and asked softly, "Who is it?"

Aziraphale replied without hesitation, "Crowley. His name was Crowley."

"When you lived there?"

Aziraphale nodded and Muriel continued, "I knew there was something or rather someone there. What happened? "

The antique dealer replied simply, "I lost him."

"How?"

Aziraphale replied in a hesitant voice, "It's hard to explain. It's mostly... it was... bad timing."

"Do you miss him?"

Aziraphale couldn't deny it and answered with emotion, "Every day."

"Make him come back. "

Aziraphale ran a hand over his face before answering, "It's too late. Or too soon...Impossible."

"What?"

Aziraphale shook his head and replied, "Nothing. It's all so complicated. I don't even know where he is. And even if I did, I couldn't go up to him and say, 'Hey, I'm here, let's pick up where we left off.'"

Muriel asked him challengingly, "What do you have to lose?"

Aziraphale didn't answer, then resumed his drawing. Muriel, knowing when not to insist, looked at him with concern, sighed, and left.

January 2026

Crowley was still living in the same place, and the tree had continued to grow in front of the building. He spent a lot of time with Eric, who had apparently decided to take him under his wing. 

He was still single, but he had a friend, friends even, he could count on, and if sometimes one or the other tried to encourage him to date, they never insisted too much when he refused.

He devoted his life to his classes, the students liked him a lot, and Pepper who kept coming to see him after class had brought other members of the gang with her, and discussions around astronomy had turned into a science club. At least the Them were under supervision for their little experiments. 

Crowley's apartment - Early February 2026 

Crowley had decided to clean up, because in two years he had started to accumulate things, and it was time to sort them out.

He was organizing his clothes when he came across the outfit he hadn't worn since the missed date. His throat tightened as he was about to toss it into the discard pile, but he couldn't bring himself to do it and tucked it away in the back of the closet.

Later, while vacuuming, he noticed a squeaky floorboard. He bent down to examine it and found that it was easy to lift.

Crowley pulled back the plank and to his surprise, there was an empty space underneath. He bent down further to examine it. Seeing that there was something there, he reached in and pulled out a package wrapped in a dusty plastic bag. 

He opened it and his heart leapt; it was his copy of Persuasion.

One page was marked with a rose, now dried and withered by time. He opened it to the marked page and saw that a sentence had been underlined.

“You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever.”

He stared at the words, stunned.

Rainbow Academy - February 13, 2026

Eric and Crowley, their classes finished, were about to leave the school and walked down the hallways together.

When they reached the entrance hall, Crowley gasped and looked around in amazement and exclaimed, "Ohhh this is beautiful! All these old tools. So well kept."

On display in the hall were ancient telescopes, astrolabes, and sundials, all in perfect condition despite their obvious age. 

Eric replied proudly, "Yes, this is my partner, Muriel, they run the antique shop, A. Z. Fell & Co. They had a lot of stuff like this and came up with the idea. It gives the shop some publicity and it looks cool, right?"

"A. Z. Fell & Co?"

"Yes! In fact, since they started working there, the name has become A. Z. Fell, M. & Co. M for Muriel. Great, right?"

Crowley squeezed Eric's arm and asked, "Can you take me there? I'd like to see the place."

Eric nodded and replied, "I have plans tonight, but how about tomorrow morning, before school, since we both start after 10?"

Crowley replied, "That works for me."

Maybe he still had a chance.

A.Z. Fell, M. and Co - February 14, 2024

Muriel and Aziraphale stepped out in their winter coats, but found the weather surprisingly warm. 

Aziraphale growled, "Honestly, what the hell?"

Muriel shrugged as they replied, "Global warming.

Aziraphale asked, "Would you like to come to my place for dinner tonight? We can invite the others."

Muriel replied with a happy expression, "I can't. I have a date tonight, it's Valentine's Day and some of us have..."

She paused, realizing the cruelty of what she was about to say, when Aziraphale stopped abruptly.

He exclaimed, "What?"

"What, is it so weird that I have a date on Valentine's Day?"

Aziraphale looked around. 

The day was really warm. People everywhere were enjoying the sun. 

He turned to Muriel with a strange look on his face.

He asked, "What day is it?"

Muriel looked at him in confusion, "Valentine's Day, I told you, so it's February 14."

Aziraphale repeated, "February 14, 2024."

"Yeah. What's wrong with you? You're weird, you know?"

Aziraphale, his eyes pensive, replied, "He told me about today. I remember the date."

"Who? You mean that guy? That guy? Your..."

Aziraphale excitedly replied, "Yes! There's a letter saying where he'll be!"

Muriel, understanding less and less, asked, "Did he write to you?"

Aziraphale nodded quickly, "Yes. I can see him today. You told me the other day...what have I got to lose?"

Muriel pushed him forward and said, "Well, what are you waiting for? Go on, you idiot!"

"I just need to find the letter!"

Aziraphale ran back to his apartment above the shop and rummaged through his old boxes until he remembered that Crowley's letters were still in the lake house, in the attic. He grabbed the spare keys to the lake house and ran to the Beetle at top speed.

A.Z. Fell, M & Co. - February 14, 2026 

"Hi Muriel!"

"Eric, you didn't tell me you were coming to see me at the boutique."

Eric said sheepishly, "I forgot to tell you that I had a friend and colleague Crowley who asked if he could see the shop."

He pushed himself forward and Muriel watched as Eric's friend entered the store.

"Hello Crowley, nice to meet you..."

But Muriel saw that the man looked frozen, staring at a point behind them.

They turned and their eyes fell on the sketch Aziraphale had made of the lake house with the changes. Framed and hanging on the wall.

Eric's friend murmured, "Who drew this?"

Muriel, looking surprised, replied, clearing their throat, tight as always when they thought of Aziraphale, "It's a friend, Az..... Aziraphale."

Crowley repeated, heart pounding, "Aziraphale... it's him."

Muriel replied in surprise, "Yes. Do you... do you know him? "

Crowley nodded, "Yes. He... where is he? Is he here? Is he working here today?"

Muriel suddenly looked very sad and said quietly, "I'm sorry. Don't you know?"

"What?"

Muriel replied emotionally, "He died. Two years ago." 

She swallowed before continuing, "Two years ago today, to be exact. Around noon, there was a bus accident in the city..."

Crowley, shocked, asked urgently, "Where in the city?"

Seconds later, Crowley was getting into his car as the rain began to fall, Eric behind him, confused, calling out, "Crowley! Wait up! What's going on?"

When he started, Crowley told him, "It's an emergency! I don't have time!"

Eric simply asked, "Is it?"

Crowley, buckling his seat belt, replied, "Yes!" 

Then, just as he was about to slam the car door, he heard his friend yell, "Go Crowley! Get him!"

Crowley drove out of town toward home, rain beating on his windshield. He weaved between lanes, passing cars, driving

Lake House - February 14, 2024 

Aziraphale stopped in front of the lake house. It was locked and apparently empty. He ran across the path and unlocked the front door.

Lake House - February 14, 2026 at the same time

Crowley arrived home and slid to a stop in the rain in front of the mailbox. He pulled out a notepad and began writing frantically.

Lake House - February 14, 2024 at the same time

Aziraphale hurried to the attic. 

Inside was the only box he'd left there when he moved out. He opened the box and searched feverishly. He found Crowley's bundle of letters. After a few moments, he found the one he was looking for and read it. 

Last February, I remember it was Valentine's Day, but it was really hot for a February day.

I was sitting on a bench at noon in Saint James Park, near the intersection of Spur Road and Birdcage Walk.

He read aloud, “Saint James Park, just off the intersection of Spur Road and Birdcage Walk.”

Lake House - February 14, 2026 at the same time

Crowley finished writing the note and stepped out of the car, unaffected by the rain, and with shaking hands placed the note in the box before raising the flag. 

He stayed there and fell to his knees in front of the box, drenched from the rain, staring anxiously at the flag. 

Lake House - February 14, 2024 at the same time

Aziraphale jumped into his car and sped away from the house.  

Saint James Park - February 14, 2024 - Noon

Aziraphale found a parking spot and parked the Beetle. He got out and ran up Birdcage Walk along Saint James Park.

In his hand he held a piece of paper, the words of which echoed in his head. 

My dear Aziraphale. 

I know now... it was you near the park that day. 

It was you at the crossroads. 

Please don't go there.

Something terrible will happen if you go there.

Aziraphale continued running toward the location indicated in the letter before stopping at the edge of the sidewalk, separated from the park by a busy street. He looked away, searching for Crowley beyond the noisy traffic, among the crowds in the park.

Please don't look for me.

Finally he saw him, a distant silhouette, eyes closed, enjoying the warmth of the sun. His unmistakable red hair caught the sunlight. Aziraphale smiled.

Don't try to meet me. Not right now.

They are now separated only by distance. No longer by time.

Don't run to me.

The traffic eased for a moment and Aziraphale could clearly see Crowley, straight ahead.

Do you understand? I beg you, please. You must wait.

Aziraphale stepped off the sidewalk to get closer to Crowley.

Forget everything I said before.

We both have to wait. 

Not just you.

Both of us. 

If you love me and if I love you.

Not if I love you, because I'm sure I do, I love you, it took me so long to say it, but I really do. 

So if you love me too, wait for me.

Aziraphale saw Crowley straighten up and turn his head toward him, as if drawn in his direction. Even from a distance, Aziraphale could see his worried expression. 

Wait for me. 

Wait until time catches up with us and we can be together. Please wait. Just... wait.

Lake House - February 14, 2026

Crowley soaked, is in tears at the foot of the mailbox and whispers over and over, “Wait, wait. Don't go there. Please, please.”

The rain continued to fall. 

Crowley, finally, having lost all hope of seeing the flag move, tried to pull himself together and began, very slowly, to stand.

He looked at the box and was startled, the flag had come down.

Hands trembling, he didn't dare open the flap.

He took several breaths, and when he finally had the courage, he opened the box and saw that his letter had disappeared.

Saint James Park - February 14, 2024 - Noon

Aziraphale stood in the street, trying to see a little more of Crowley, and at the last second he backed up to the sidewalk. He kept looking at Crowley, desperately wanting to run to him, but he didn't; he folded the letter, put it in his pocket, and reluctantly turned and walked away. 

Safe and sound. 

Lake House - February 14, 2026

Crowley stared at the empty mailbox, his face soaked with tears and rain.

Suddenly, a hand came gently up from behind him and slowly closed the mailbox. 

Crowley gasped and turned slowly.

Aziraphale was standing silently in front of him, staring at him, holding in his hand the letter that Crowley had just put in the mailbox. Crumpled and worn, as if it had been read over and over again.

Crowley stared at him for a moment, trying to convince himself that this was all real. Then Aziraphale took a step toward him and smiled shyly before asking softly, "Have we waited long enough?"

Crowley, still in shock, his eyes filling with tears, murmured, "Yes...yes."

Aziraphale came even closer, smiling more openly this time, bringing his hand to Crowley's face and wiping away a tear with his thumb. Crowley leaned his cheek into his palm, closed his eyes, and murmured again, "Yes, we've waited long enough.

Then, finally, they wrapped their arms around each other, holding each other again and again, letting the embrace linger, pulling away to look at each other, making sure it was real, and embracing again.

Making sure they were both real, there and alive.

After a few moments, Crowley pulled away and, taking Aziraphale's face, now as drenched as his own, between his hands, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the other man's.

For long minutes, they parted only to catch their breath before kissing again, over and over, indifferent to the rain that continued to pour down on them.

Much later, when they parted again to catch their breath, Aziraphale took Crowley's hand in his to lead him home.

Crowley gasped as he looked at the lake house. 

The lake house had changed.

In the two years of Aziraphale's life, the life Crowley had saved, Aziraphale had transformed it.

He'd brought to life the project he'd shown Muriel two years ago, with the patio and the stairs to the water they'd talked about, and the trees planted along the path, lit and shimmering in the rain.

Crowley laughed in amazement and turned to Aziraphale, pulling him close and kissing him again.

Then they walked along the path together, stopping often to touch and kiss.

As they passed the door, Crowley grabbed Aziraphale's sleeve and said, "Wait."

Aziraphale turned and replied in a falsely pouty tone, "Haven't I waited long enough?"

Crowley grabbed his hand, intertwined his fingers with Aziraphale's, and said softly, "I don't want to wait to tell you for real this time. With my voice. My eyes in yours." 

He paused and, with a trembling smile and shining eyes, said to him, "I love you."

Aziraphale, his voice hoarse, immediately replied, "I love you."

They held each other again, enjoying the bliss of hearing those words from the beloved voice for the first time.

Then they entered their home, ready to begin a new life where all was yet to be discovered. 

Together.

The lake house - Summer 2027

"Arry! Arry!"

"Joel! Take it easy, sweetie, and wait for your little sister!" 

Bill and Frank followed their children a little farther behind, hand in hand, then watched fondly as they gave gentle caresses to a Harry who seemed to enjoy it.

"Joel, Ellie, stop spoiling Harry, he's going to keep coming to us for petting."

The two children stood up and grabbed the legs of the man who had just spoken.

"Uncle Zira!"

He lifted them both up, carrying each of them in one arm.

"Harry gets petted and I don't get a hello kiss?"

Each of the two children placed a sound kiss on Aziraphale's cheeks at the same time.

"Should I be jealous?" came a voice from behind Aziraphale.

"Uncle Crowley!"

Ellie was already reaching for Crowley, who didn't hesitate to take her in his arms. The little girl gave him a big kiss on the cheek and squirmed for him to put her back down.

Crowley and Aziraphale, side by side, greeted Frank and Bill.

"Bill, Frank, welcome!" 

They all hugged and then walked together to the patio overlooking the lake.

As Frank sat down in one of the garden chairs, he said with amazement, "I may have been here many times before, but I'll never get tired of this view."

Aziraphale motioned for Bill to sit next to Frank before sitting down himself.

Crowley was about to sit on the arm of Aziraphale's chair when he heard the unmistakable sound of a car pulling up to the house; Aziraphale started to get up, but Crowley motioned for him to remain seated. "Stay seated, angel, I'll go."

He walked down the path toward the oncoming cars. 

Eric was the first to move toward him, "Crowley!" before embracing him. Crowley was now used to his friend's outpouring of affection and allowed himself to be patted on the back. 

They were soon joined by Newt, Anathema, and Mrs. Tracy, and all followed Crowley into the house. When they reached the patio, everyone greeted each other and sat around the table chatting happily. Joel was in awe of Mrs. Tracy's red curls, and Ellie laughed out loud as Eric bounced her in his arms.

"Is this the way to the little party?" 

Heads turned to the source of the voice as Aziraphale exclaimed, "Muriel! I thought they lost you on the way."

Muriel laughed slightly and replied, "Arthur, Maggie and Nina got lost, so I had to direct them by phone. Where do I put this?" 

They pointed to the cake in their hands.

"I'll take it," Aziraphale replied. 

He went with the cake to the kitchen, where he was suddenly overcome with emotion. He waited a moment to compose himself before returning to the patio.

"Hey, angel, what are you doing out here all alone?"

Aziraphale looked up and smiled, murmuring, "Crowley."

Crowley, who after more than a year had learned to decipher his husband's expressions, noticed his emotional state and gently asked, "Hey, what's wrong with you?"

Aziraphale wanted to speak, but the emotion was too strong, so Crowley wrapped his arms around him and held him close until his husband was ready to speak.

After a few moments, Aziraphale stepped aside, a trembling smile under the tears, "I'm sorry, I don't know, I'm not sad, not at all, on the contrary, but I suddenly had this irrepressible urge to cry."

Crowley nodded in understanding and brushed Aziraphale's hair back before saying softly, "Just too much emotion, perhaps? What were you thinking?"

"I... I was putting the cake on the table and I thought, if I hadn't read your letter, none of this would be real. I wouldn't be here. There wouldn't be all these people on our patio. And it freaked me out for a moment to realize that we could have almost lost everything."

Crowley, visibly moved as well, pressed a tender kiss to d'Aziraphale's mouth, and when he pulled away, Aziraphale continued, "But on the contrary, you, or rather we, gained everything. You saved me, you gave me a new life, and in doing so, you gave us all a different and better life."

Crowley nodded, planted a light kiss on his husband's lips, then stepped aside to take Aziraphale's hand and lead him out onto the patio, a tender smile on his lips.

"Come on, let's party!"

As Aziraphale was pulled along and they crossed the living room, his eyes fell on his mother's book. His first family. His mother and father. Then his eyes slid to Crowley beside him, and by extension, everyone else on the patio. His new family. Their new family. Not by blood, but by heart. 

All because Crowley had sent a little letter one day.

Dear new tenant.

Hello and welcome to your new home and congratulations, blah blah blah. You've made an excellent choice, Ditchling is a wonderful place and this house is a gem, as you may have noticed.

I'm sure you're going to love living here as much as I have.

Crowley did not know that day that these words would be so prescient, even though they came from the future and were addressed to someone in the past.

Oh yes, Aziraphale loved living here, but not because of the house.

He loved living here because of the love that filled it. 

Because of Crowley.

“There could have never been two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved." 

Persuasion - Jane Austen.

_________ I hope you enjoyed the ride. I will probably come back to them in this universe, as always in form of oneshots. Thank you for having followed, liked and commented on this story! <3

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Ineffable Husbands masterlist : here

#good omens #aziracrow #ineffable husbands #ineffable boyfriends #aziraphale #crowley #good omens fanfiction #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #human au #alternate universe

[timeagainreviews]

In Space, Nobody Can Hear You Scream for Your Nappy Change

Few shows have had as many pilot episodes as Doctor Who. From “An Unearthly Child,” to the 1996 TV movie, to 2005’s “Rose,” and now “Space Babies.” However, one could argue that every new Doctor is essentially a pilot episode. There are notable shifts in the show’s dynamic to such a degree that it’s practically a reset. Any major personnel shift is a renewal. The transition from William Hartnell to Patrick Troughton, the transfer of power from Russell T Davies to Steven Moffat, and again, from Moffat to Chris Chibnall, for example. Even series ten began with the cheeky title “The Pilot,” where we find the Doctor earthbound as a college professor with his student, Bill, and his wife, Nardole. But “Space Babies,” is an odd one, for so many reasons. Mostly because it’s introducing us to characters we’ve been getting to know for a couple of episodes now. Then, of course, there’s everything else.

For some, an episode called “Space Babies” was always going to be a hard sale. Back in March when they revealed the new episode titles as a series of vignettes, Space Babies looked and sounded a lot like what we got. Sometimes a very literal title can be a bit of fun. “Snakes on a Plane,” tells you everything you need to know going in. While it may have benefitted from a bit of virality, you could argue that it does more with its premise than something like “Cocaine Bear,” which was little more than its title. I’ve complained in the past that my issue with the concept of the Timeless Child was that you could figure out the story by hearing the words. If I can watch a story in my head from its title, then in the words of Amy Pond- what is the point of you? My reaction to the title “Space Babies,” was very similar. Except in this case, I would say it was closer to a “Snakes On a Plane,” than a “Cocaine Bear.”

We’re off to a great start. I got to mention cocaine and babies in the same sentence. Speaking of awkward starts, why did Russell T Davies decide to open the show with the twee episode for the kiddies? Those types of stories are usually relegated to the mid-season point, after a really good one. I guess they needed a palette cleanser to put some space between “The Giggle,” and “The Devil’s Chord,” as they’re essentially the same story twice. But that’s for the next review. Though “Rose,” has its own brand of wacky weirdness with man-eating rubbish bins and plastic boyfriend doppelgangers with pizza peels for hands. Even still, it’s an odd choice for the “pilot.”

A lot of the episode’s enjoyment is predicated on how cute you think babies are. In my case, it’s not very much. If they had called the episode “Space Kittens,” it would have hooked me. But babies come with baggage. People are weird about babies. Babies are often politicised, which this episode definitely does, but more on that later. Another reason why babies were a hard sell for me is they’re not actors. Child actors are rarely good, so filtering their performances through the vacant faces of babies is like making a bad thing worse. Sure, they animated their mouths with cutting-edge technology straight from 1995’s “Babe,” but their faces gave us no range of emotion unless you count Eric, whose facial expression was that of one constantly bricking it in his diaper. I was reminded of the Gelflings in “The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance,” in that it takes some getting used to the look of their faces. Except in the case of the Gelflings, the Jim Henson Creature Workshop knew their limitations and used CGI where the puppets fell short. A furrowed brow would have gone a long way to sell the babies.

However, I’m not made of stone. I’m not so joyless that I can’t send my critical brain on a little vacay for 46 minutes. I also appreciate that Doctor Who still takes the time to do stories for children. It’s a family show, after all. I was even impressed that the episode was able to sell me on the concept of a booger man (or Bogeyman to be precise) when “Sleep No More,” had so utterly failed to sell me on the concept of eye booger men previously. Even more, I had never expected to feel an emotional connection to said Bogeyman. While a lot of it had to do with Ncuti Gatwa’s performance, I’ll admit I actually got a little choked up at the end of the episode. Even a snotty little freak of nature deserves a place in the world, and I identified with that. It’s nice when a Doctor Who episode ends and it was actually about something.

As mentioned before, Russell T Davies uses the baggage that comes along with babies to stoke the fire of his own story. Through the eyes of Jocylen, the ship’s reluctant nanny, we see the babies in another light- as a constant source of worry. Having never wanted the job in the first place, Jocylen’s part is one of necessity rather than vocation. No one working in the field of charity or crisis aid wants to be doing the work. Sure, it’s fulfilling, but the nature of its necessity is telling of the world at large, or in this case- star system. In a perfect star system, no child would go unhugged, unattended, or forgotten. Yet here she is, forced by circumstance and emboldened by compassion to rise to the occasion. She may not be nailing it, but seriously, who the hell else was taking care of the children they forced to exist? If “Kill the Moon,” was Doctor Who’s pro-life story, this episode stands in stark contrast as the pro-choice story.

An episode with a butt-shaped space station that farts its way to the shores of freedom seems like an odd choice to talk about refugees, but it’s also the episode that gave a booger a soul. While a lot of the tone aligns more with “Aliens of London/World War Three,” or “Love and Monsters,” the message aligns more with something like “Turn Left.” Russell T Davies is giving us a spoonful of sugar with our medicine, which seems the correct approach in a show where Christmas trees are capable of murder. Suffice it to say, seeing a Rwandan refugee playing a British icon on the BBC commenting on the conservative government’s Rwandan bill is better than anything the show could do on its own. You almost have to do it, and more than I’m glad RTD rose to the occasion, I’m glad it was Ncuti who got to do it.

Speaking of things only Ncuti Gatwa could do, I appreciate that his Doctor is emotionally available enough to offer a hug to a child while still being alien enough to scare the bejeezus out of them. I can’t really picture Tom Baker hugging anyone, though I can imagine him scaring the bejeezus out of someone. Maybe Matt Smith would do it. Jodie as well. But Gatwa’s Doctor is an interesting mixture of compassionate and completely aloof. It’s a mixture that is sometimes at odds with itself, but it works. You see it in brief moments like when Ruby’s caretaker instincts take over and she runs head-on into danger, while the Doctor takes a moment to pop around the corner and catch up to her. It’s the classic dynamic of the Doctor being reminded of human nature by his companion.

I really like this selfless defender of the people streak in Ruby’s personality. It reminds me a lot of an ‘80s companion. She’s like a mixture of Nyssa and Ace. She puts herself in harm's way to protect others. She writes songs to cheer up lovesick lesbians. She’s got a very full personality that is palpable very early on. We got this level of character development with RTD’s earlier companions, and it’s nice to see it continue. What’s less nice is how he seems to have also taken a page from Steven Moffat’s book where the companion must also be needlessly complicated. What’s more is it feels less enticing and more like retreading familiar territory. It’s giving “The Impossible Girl,” vibes with an Amy Pond pregnancy body scan to bring it full circle. This is one of my biggest issues with the RTD2 era so far- it feels like a remix of past Doctor Who. That isn’t to say he’s added nothing new to the show, but it does feel a bit Clara 2.0. I’m just saying, it doesn’t always have to be some star-crossed destiny. If you do it every time, it loses its power.  Sometimes people just meet each other. Say what you will about Yaz’s characterisation, but at least she was allowed to be a person.

The story at the heart of “Space Babies,” is ultimately a bit thin. You could argue that there was never any real threat, but that happens sometimes on Doctor Who (take “Listen,” for example). I’ve seen some people online complaining that the Bogeyman doesn’t die, but what does it really do other than scare people? Sure, you see Eric’s pram toppled and find him characteristically bricking it in his diaper, but he’s not got a scratch on him. What if Eric went missing because the Bogeyman “ate” him. They could reveal that he actually was protecting Eric from the dangers of the malfunctioning bowels of the ship. Imagine the bogey bits tearing away out of the airlock, slowly revealing Eric inside. Not only would Jocylen have almost taken an innocent life, but two innocent lives. Pair that with the Doctor's brave rescue and blammo! It could have upped the tension and implied more danger, is all I’m saying.

I was a bit confused by the ship’s computer creating the Bogeyman in the first place. That entire aspect of the plot was skimmed over and very flimsy. I thought they were doing something with the show’s new magical premise, a “superstition of the Bogeyman made him exist,” sort of angle. But no, it was just something the ship did, for reasons. I also expected that to be the reason for Ruby's transformation into the weird scaly lizard woman. I expected it to suddenly be possible through superstition that stepping on a butterfly could change the course of history. But instead, the Doctor forgot to push the butterfly compensator on the TARDIS console. Kinda weird that RTD had two moments to further his own mythology but sided on technobabble. Not bad, just odd.

One aspect that bothered me was how long it took them to reveal the Bogeyman was made of snot. When they took the time to do this whole to do with the babies blowing their noses, I immediately looked over at my wife and said “The Bogeyman is made of baby boogers,’ to which she responded “I hate that you’re right.” They telegraphed it so hard that it made the Doctor seem slow on the uptake. If you recall from my review of "The Husbands of River Song," I felt like they did the same thing to River with how long it took her to recognise the Doctor. However, I imagine it's a bit of a balancing act to know when to reveal something. The Doctor doesn't necessarily have all of the information we have as an audience.

As pilots go, “Space Babies,” could have done better at introducing a new audience to Doctor Who. Much of the expository dialogue about who the Doctor is or where he came from felt rushed and unnatural. My friend Taryn said she enjoyed this aspect of the Doctor being less cryptic and more forthcoming with information. While I agree, I feel like the execution was clumsy, a word we’re starting to see more often in my reviews of the RTD2 era. For comparison, take Fallout, a show that came out only a month earlier. Both are technically first seasons of tv shows based on pre-existing properties with dense lore. Both have eight episodes to tell their stories. And yet with Fallout, we get a trickle of information as things happen. With Doctor Who we have the Doctor stopping his companion mid-sentence to say “Oh yeah, by the way, I have two hearts.” Look, I get it, I’m neurodivergent. I appreciate a good infodump. But there’s a big reason people are calling Fallout a triumph- it respects its audience enough to reveal things over time.

RTD said recently that young people won’t watch black and white. I don’t know if this is true as I am a cusp gen x/millennial. I don’t know much about what kids get up to these days, but I also don’t go around saying what they will and won’t do. It sounds a lot like “Those damn kids with their hip hop video games,” or like “Kids don’t like anything that isn’t Tik Tok or Roblox.” It feels like it misunderstands the appeal of storytelling in the first place. Studio executives have never fully understood what is good about Doctor Who. In the ‘70s and ‘80s, it was “Why can’t it be like Star Wars?” In the Chibnall era, the goal was to compete with Netflix. And now it’s “We need to meet the same standards of Marvel.” But if Doctor Who is always being compared to something else, you curse it into always being behind the curve. When I fell in love with Doctor Who, it was because it wasn’t like anything I had ever seen before. If I want to watch Iron Man, I’ll watch Iron Man.

Not all of the expository dialogue was without merit. I’ve been continually impressed by RTD’s handling of the Timeless Child storyline. As longtime readers know, I was not a fan of that story. Hell, first-time readers probably picked up on it in this article. But I don’t think it’s fair to discount the people who did enjoy that story. And I think it is far more interesting for the show to develop the idea as opposed to sweeping it under the rug. We learned that the Time Lord genocide was cellular, which helps the whole concept of the Master achieving what millions of Daleks couldn’t do make more sense. It’s amazing how much a single line of dialogue can overcome a lot of shoddy writing. I liked the Doctor stating that it doesn’t matter where he comes from, as I’ve been saying that the whole damn time. It’s also nice that despite everything, the Doctor is still a Time Lord in his hearts of hearts. We as fans kinda need those moments so we can collectively move on from what has been a rather ugly time in the fandom.

That’s not to say we aren’t still in an ugly culture battle within the fandom. Racism is still a very real aspect to the conversation. As are ableism, sexism, transphobia. And despite RTD meeting these things head-on with the grace of a fish out of water, we’ve still got some great points of intrigue. Who is this woman played by Susan Twist we keep seeing in the background? Who is the one who waits? Is Mrs Flood the White Guardian to Susan Twist’s Black Guardian? I would love to say it’s the Rani because it’s been 20 fucking years of it not being the Rani, which is also the exact reason I won’t say it’s the Rani. But god I wish it was the Rani. They even name-drop her! Give us this one, please. My point being, despite its daftness and its expressionless babies, “Space Babies,” still gives us a lot to go off of. If you didn’t like it, do what I did and watch it twice. The emotional resonance works better when it feels less like you’re watching a car accident.

Look, if you didn’t like “Space Babies,” I get it. Maybe it’s not for you. There are weird little problems with the episode. The expository dialogue I mentioned, for example. The babies are a bit much. The Bogeyman howling like a werewolf was batshit weird. I guess it was because they compared him to a dog. Even then, why not make it bark? You could ask things like “Why didn’t the Doctor use the TARDIS to fly them to safety instead of setting their space station on a crash course with the planet’s surface?” or "Why didn't the Doctor get sucked out of the airlock? It's air pressure, not gravity." Is the humour still falling a bit flat? Sure. It’s easy to pick stuff apart. But come on, the episode is called “Space Babies,” you knew ahead of time if that concept was going to work for you or not.

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Thanks for reading! I'm sorry these articles are taking a while. Having two episodes drop simultaneously doubles my workload! I'll have the review for "The Devil's Chord," up tomorrow! Hopefully next week will be more timely.

#Doctor Who #Space Babies #Ncuti Gatwa #Millie Gibson #Russel T Davies #Ruby Sunday #Fifteenth Doctor #Season one #RTD #RTD2 #Susan Twist #Bogeyman #TARDIS #BBC #timeagainreviews

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