#printing press optimization

[rcmclachlan]

wind finding

buck/tommy

8x14/8x15 spec fic

I wrote this right before my first morning meeting, so if it's rushed and makes no sense, I'm well aware. Enjoy!

+

The very second Tommy went with helicopters, people came crawling out of the woodwork to offer their two cents on everything from industry politics (all dangled carrots and empty promises) to what constitutes a good operator (whoever's actually signing your paycheck at the time) to which jobs would bring in the most money (ditching helicopters entirely in favor of planes) to the best ways to manage stress (avoiding utility altogether).

But the one piece of advice Tommy has never forgotten came from one of his first operators in Afghanistan, who had a face like a mountain crag and every word that came out of his mouth had to first find its way around the wad of dip permanently attached to his bottom gums.

"Being able to find the wind is the only skill you need to nail down, or else you're gonna frag out faster'n you can say 'high as bat pussy'. The odds of being able to see the leaves on a fuckin' tree are less'n nothin' out here, never mind spottin' a fuckin' windsock, Kinard. The second you get in the air, you just listen to your bird; she'll tell you point blank where the wind is, so long as you've got your ears on."

Then Warrant Officer Harold hocked a loogie the size of a crow at the ground and stormed away, shouting, "PRIVATE KEATON, IF YOU DON'T STOP FONDLIN' THAT REFUEL PROBE I'M GONNA SHOVE IT IN YOUR DICK HOLE!"

Twenty years later, Tommy's in the cockpit of his favorite AW139 with the mouth of a glock pressed right above his brain stem, and the second he achieves optimal altitude, he finds the wind.

"You make it look so effortless, like it's just something your body does. Like breathing," Evan had said during their one and only legal flight together, like he wasn't furious that Tommy had woken him up at 3:30 in the morning on his day off to go for a joyride. Even as the sun peeked over the horizon to see if the coast was clear, it couldn't hope to match the sheer brightness of Evan's smile.

If being able to find the wind wasn't practically part of his autonomic nervous system at this point in his career, Tommy'd have no business being in the air at all.

"Remember," the guy with the gun, Remo, murmurs into the headset he'd forced Tommy to give him. "Top of the Aon. We're making the switch there."

"Nakatomi Tower would be better for this sort of thing," Tommy mutters.

Instead of being whipped with the gun, the speaker in his ear crackles with Remo's laughter. "I was more partial to the second film."

Tommy grips the cyclic a little tighter. "That's the worst thing you've admitted to so far."

It's not. Bombing multiple police stations was bad enough, but one of them was right next to a school. The last thing that came through the comms before Remo's buddies hacked it was the 118 being called to 309 Lucas Ave in Westlake North for fire containment and emergency medical assistance.

He glances at the dashboard. Tucked right above the radar is a little photo he'd printed out at his local CVS on a whim while he was getting a 'Happy 80th birthday, grandma!" card for Sal. It's barely anything: a portrait forced to inhabit a 4x4 square, so the quality is extra shitty. But the man in it is smiling brighter than a sunrise over the ocean, and Tommy's heart gives a pitiful thud just looking at it.

Melton would've shit a brick if he'd known about it. Despite what Hollywood would have the general populace believe, having pictures of loved ones on a pilot's dashboard can be a hell of a distraction. It goes against LAFD regs.

But having spent the last month reacquainting himself with Evan's smile and the wild hope that they could have a future together, it felt right to tack the photo up. He was professional enough that he wouldn't let it get in the way of the job.

He thinks of Evan watching him from the bed this morning, tangled up in sheets that smelled like the both of them. He thinks of the blurred, sleep-damp smile on Evan's face as Tommy hid the evidence of what they got up to the previous night.

"You're covering up a masterpiece," Evan had said, voice a little blurred with sleep. "That's some of my best work."

"Let me guess: if I connect all the hickeys, it's gonna turn into a dolphin or something?"

Evan had thrown back his head on the pillow and cackled, and Tommy had thought, We could build a life on this.

Except Evan is pulling tiny bodies out of the ruins of Gratts Elementary, Tommy's got a gun to his head, and Remo's little cell of opportunistic assholes are using the bombings across the city to distract from the 51% blockchain hack they pulled off two hours ago. Tommy doesn't understand crypto for the life of him, but what he got from Harbor's newest probie was something something a blockchain’s distributed ledger was changed and double spending was enabled. At the time, it seemed like a lot of bullshit that boiled down to "they now control the invisible internet money conveyor belt," but at least 200 people are dead, and according to Remo, there are still 70 bombs wired and ready to explode on his say-so.

Unless Tommy flies him and his weird, silent friend to the Aon, where someone's going to be waiting to whisk them away to all points nowhere. Tommy knows exactly how this is going to shake out: the second he lands the bird, Remo's going to bury a bullet in Tommy's brain before disappearing into the wind, leaving the world in shambles. But it won't be enough. Remo will get bored before long—the smart, psychotic ones always do—and then pop back up at some point to do even worse if he has the opportunity.

Ten years from now, they'll make a documentary series about all this. Evan will watch it, because he's contractually obligated to seek out things that will hurt him for some reason, and it'll probably be like cutting open a just-healed wound. He'll spiral until Maddie or one of the others forces him to stop. The series will be called something stupid, like Finding Remo.

That is, of course, if Remo has the opportunity.

Swallowing, throat clicking, Tommy glances at the photo on the dashboard. Evan beams at him from where he's posing like the dorkiest Greek god in the pantheon on top of a boulder somewhere on the Temescal Canyon Trail. That had been a good day. It seemed like the start of a lifetime of them.

He looks away and out the windshield where, up ahead, the Aon stands tall against the sky. But standing taller, and closer, is Library Tower.

Exhaling, Tommy keeps his eyes straight. "Listen, you can put the gun away. It's not the threat you think it is."

"No?" Remo presses the glock harder against the back of Tommy's head, and Tommy stifles a wince. "You think I won't shoot you?"

"Oh, I know you're gonna shoot me," Tommy says, almost cheerfully. He refuses to look any closer at that. "I just don't think you're gonna do it while we're hanging 900 feet above the city."

The pause that follows is probably only a second or two, but it feels like a decade. Finally, the press of metal disappears, and Tommy hears the safety clicking back on.

"You seem pretty calm about all this," Remo says, curiosity making his already light voice positively airy.

Tommy shrugs. "Last year I stole one of these to fly some friends into a category 5 hurricane, then landed it on a capsized cruise ship. This? Doesn't even break a 6.5 on my Crazy Shit-o-meter."

Remo laughs, and Tommy hears the tell tale rustling of the gun being holstered. Thankfully the rotors completely drown out the sound of his heart pounding, which would otherwise be audible from space.

"Let me just say that of all the pilots I could've kidnapped, you're by far the most entertaining."

"Thank you," Tommy says seriously.

Below them, the Walt Disney Concert Hall is lit up for the night's show. They'll be passing the BoA Financial Center, and from there it's only a couple of minutes until their destination.

"Hey, uh, since this does end with me getting shot," Tommy ventures, trying to keep a lid on the massive amounts of adrenaline that are being dumped into his bloodstream. He must be visibly vibrating. "Could I... could I make a call?"

Remo snorts. "Let me guess: 9-1-1?"

Okay, that's kind of funny. Tommy cracks a grin. "Not quite. I have someone... I have someone, and there's something important I need to say."

One of the drawbacks of a helicopter's cockpit is there's no rearview mirror, which would really come in handy right now. He has no idea what Remo's face is doing. He has no idea if he's looking at his silent companion and having some kind of wordless conversation, if Remo is the kind of guy who would grant the last wish of someone he's using.

Finally, after what feels like years, Remo says, "You get ten seconds. You'd better make them count."

He's done more with less. "That's fair. But I'm either going to need you to call it for me or let me hook into an open line."

The air inside the helicopter seems to squeeze inward. "An open line?"

"My... my boyfriend's LAFD." He bites down on the inside of his cheek as they pass the BoA Center on the left, and hopes against all hope that Remo isn't too much of a homophobe to deny the request.

But surprise, surprise. Remo only laughs and says, "How romantic. Urs, get him on an open line to his firefighter boyfriend. It's the least we can do after everything he's done to help us."

Tommy can't see what Urs is doing, but his headset crackles with the familiar static of a live comms line.

"Ten seconds," Remo reminds him. Below them, the roof of Library Tower seems both miles away and impossibly close.

It's all he needs.

"This is LAFD pilot Tom Kinard. Evan Buckley, if you're listening, look in the drawer to the right of the microwave. There's something in there for you." He quietly undoes his harness and kills the engine. "It's yours. It's always been yours."

Just as the AW139 is about to clear the roof of the tower, Tommy shoulders open the door and kicks off into the sky.

The wind is blowing southeast.

+

"N-No, no, no, hey, it's okay, don't fight it, you're okay—hey, I need some help in here! He's waking up! Tommy, they're going to take it out, just wait."

There's a tree trunk growing out of his throat, but trying to move it is impossible, and the effort takes everything out of him. So he gives up, gagging and drifting in and out, then decides to just climb the entire length of the tree to get a look at the view. From there, it's just a matter of finding the wind and floating away with it.

The next time he surfaces, there's something hard over his face, warm and humid, and when the clouds clear from his vision he's able to see two things: Evan's wide-eyed expression of relief, and a giant orange poster board in Lucy's familiar, blocky handwriting that says 2 DAYS SINCE KINARD LAST TAUNTED GOD.

There's a 1 in front of the 2, but it's crossed out.

"Hey!" Evan breathes, and the mattress at Tommy's hip dips a little under his weight. "H-Hey, there you are. Morning! Well, not, uh, morning exactly—it's like 8 o'clock at night—but you're awake!"

"I am." It's muffled by the oxygen mask.

"How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?" Evan leans in, blocking Tommy's view of anything else. He hasn't shaved in a bit, and the hair at his temples looks a little greasy. He's the most gorgeous thing Tommy's ever laid eyes on.

"No pain," Tommy rasps. "M'body's full'f cotton."

Evan smiles a little. "Yeah, they've got you on the good stuff. I can't tell you how many bones you've broken, because it seems like they're still finding them. The doctor did say he'd never seen a pneumothorax quite like yours before, though. He keeps bringing other doctors in to look at your scans. I think a couple of them cancelled their surgeries so they could watch yours yesterday. You're like a celebrity. You've got, like, four tubes in you sucking the excess air out."

For a second, Tommy has no idea what he's talking about. Pneumothorax? How'd he manage that? Lucy's gonna give him shit for the next year.

Then, like a breeze kicking up from the west, it all comes sweeping in. Something starts beeping a little erratically. "Did—did he... he didn't... did... R-Remo...?"

The words are slow and thick, like they have to climb over the broken branches the tree had left behind, but understanding lights up Evan's face almost immediately. He thinks Evan must be holding his hand, because there's pressure on his fingers that feels like it's coming from another room.

"He didn't," Evan says softly, but there's a sparkle of brutal satisfaction in his eyes that Tommy can't look away from. "The helicopter went down like a sack of bricks after you ditched it. It took out the coffee shop in the library. Before you ask: they close at 2:30, so no one had been in there for hours. No one was hurt. Except, well, what's his name."

Tommy closes his eyes and breathes in the canned, almost metallic stuff they're feeding him through the mask. It's so pure, it makes him a little dizzy.

"Good." His sinuses prickle hotly. "Good. That's..."

"Hey, hey, shhh," Evan coos, and Tommy opens his eyes just in time to see Evan press his mouth lushly to the curve of the oxygen mask. Despite whatever they're giving him, Tommy's lips ache with the need to feel that kiss.

"Evan," he whispers.

When he pulls back, Evan's got a wide, almost gleeful grin tugging the corners of his mouth to his ears. He looks like he's about to blow up a Gotham City school bus to try and draw out Batman. Instead, he lifts his left hand.

The lights in the room are low, so the ring on Evan's finger doesn't really glint as brightly as it should, but the light in Evan's eyes is almost blinding.

"Drawer to the right of the microwave, huh?" He laughs a little, like it's bubbling out of him, like he can't stop it. "How long had that been in there?"

It takes a moment for Tommy to pick through the cobwebs in his brain. "Mm... got it... after we did that flight over... hm... Channel Islands."

Evan stares at him, then his bubbly laughter morphs into maniacal cackling.

Tommy glances down at his hands to see if they gave him a button for the pain meds he's on. He's going to dilaudid himself into oblivion.

"That was four months into..." Evan uses their joined hands to wipe away the tears beading on his lashes. "When I asked you to move in, you ran away so fast you left a trail of dust behind you. But you bought an engagement ring four months into dating me?"

"In my defense," Tommy says, suddenly very jealous of Remo for dying a fiery death in the LA Library coffee shop. "I knew... you were it for me. You, on the other hand, had no idea... hm... what you wanted. Asking me... to move in wasn't—it wasn't about me."

Pursing his lips, Evan ducks his head and doesn't deny it, but when he tilts his chin up, the only thing on his face is bare, earnest truth. "I knew I wanted you, Tommy, any way I could have you. I didn't know what that looked like, and not knowing made me... I don't know if you've noticed, but I tend to cling when I panic."

Tommy thinks back over the last month—how every time he showed up on Eddie's doorstep, Evan practically threw himself at Tommy, clutching at him like he was afraid Tommy might go back down the walkway and leave; how getting up to take a piss or grab a Gatorade meant leaving the bed, and the look on Evan's face every time was like watching a car crash—and squeezes Evan's hand. He thinks he does, at least.

"Do you... know what it looks like now?" It takes almost all his strength to get the words out. A wave of exhaustion rolls over him, and he pinwheels a little with it. Kicking his way back to the surface takes concentration.

Evan lifts his hand again. The ring fits his finger perfectly. "It looks like you, about to fall asleep."

Another wave bowls him over, and he fights to keep his eyes open. Lucy's stupid poster blurs like someone's upturned a can of Sprite over it.

"I'll be here when you wake up, and so will half the LAPD and a bunch of people from the FBI. You're the hero of the day," Evan murmurs, and Tommy grumbles a little. "But, hey, Tommy. Before you—how did you know? How'd you know I was it for you?"

Even as he's being pulled down into the dark, he looks up, and he sees the surface roiling, dancing with the light of an old sunrise that couldn't hold a candle to the phenomenon of Evan Buckley's smile.

"Found th' wind," Tommy mumbles, drifting down, down, down. "'s easy. Like breathing."

[phantasm-ae]

Okay so I had a thought JSJSJSJJS. What if Simon Riley was in the great British bake-off. But! With his wife

cw: afab reader x ghost, fluff, domestic chaos, competitive simon

HEADCANON: You and Simon sign-up for a couple’s baking contest. Simon… takes it way too far

PAIRING: Ghost x reader

Simon Riley didn't belong in places like this.

Room smelling like butter, sugar, honey, and too much of that bloody syrupy optimism that he's got a headache at 9 in the morning.

Pastel aprons hanging on the wall. Floral curtains fluttering over wide sunlit windows like they were bellowed in by the spring wind. Mocking and swaying in some idyllic little breeze that screamed "domestic bliss" like a fucking threat.

Bloody hell. Has this what has come to his life?

The Ghost. Big bad massive hulking operative who once battered into a man in half, executed high-risk operations without so much as breaking a sweat, and cleaning house at record speed -- now clad in a frilly pastel apron with a fucking bunny clip on the side.

The print matching yours -- his sweet little wife who he'd break necks for -- as you two stood in the fucking spot center of a couple's baking class. Trying not to itch his skin inside out as more of that shitty frilly lace tickled the outskirts of his neck and clavicle. Both of you armed -- given -- whisks, rolling pins, pastry brushes, and -- "what the fock is tha'" "Simon stop touching it" -- trying to keep his spine from turning into a rod of steel and glaring at anything that moved.

Bloody fuckin' hell.

Simon Riley didn’t belong in places like this. This wasn’t his world. This wasn’t his fight.

But fuck, here he was yeah? Dressed in all tactical black like usual, only now fashioned with that bloody lacy apron you baited him to wear. Trying not to look absolutely impatient and restless amidst the other cheerful little couples in their own ruffled and flounced smocks. Knuckles turning ghost-white as he tried not to clutch the rolling pin like a rifle.

Christ, he was too tall for the damn room too. The tallest bloke in fact. Countertops only hitting his mid-thigh. Ceiling fans spun too closely overhead like they were judging him. And to top it all of, someone had embroidered Live, Laugh, Loaf and hung it above a shelf of jam jars like that meant anything.

Simon stared at it for a long second.

Deadpan. Blinking. Unamused. Silently wishing for death.

Then you tugged his hand.

Making him turn his gaze to you. His sweet sugary little bird. Looking right at home adoringly with her hair twisted up with a little flower clip. Soft, innocent, and warm smile full of excitement and enthusiasm.

"Thank you for joining for me", you voiced out. A hand slipping into his arm. Tender. Reverent and gentle.

Simon didn’t reply, but his posture unwound a bit. Clearing his throat and giving you an acknowledging nod only as a response. Not saying another word as he bent down so you can press a kiss to the side of his mask with a giggly smile.

Then came Debbie.

An overly chipper instructor who waltzed up with her arms open wide and big mellowy grin plastered across her face. You said she looked so sweet. Like your little old gran marshed up in a storybook cottage. Simon said she looked like a cult leader of pastel-loving pastry idiots. You hit him with a whisk for that one even if he barely even bristled, only giving you a slight quirk of a smile underneath his mask.

Debbie clapped her hands together in that way that made Simon’s teeth grit, her eyes shining with excitement as she stepped into the center of the room, her apron so pristine and perfect it made Simon want to turn around and leave right then and there.

But you were there. Bloody toying and teasing little bird. He'd have to tan your perky little arse red later for even thinking of a stunt like this, he thinks.

But the moment you tugged on his arm again. Pinky puffy and plump lips bitten in joy as you try to stifle a shrilly and excited giggle. He was stuck.

Simon Riley didn’t belong in places like this.

But when he looked at you again. Such a stark contrast to everything and everyone in his place. Sunshine. Soft. Pure. Homey and Warm. Yeah. Fuck that

Simon Riley didn't belong in places like this

-- but for you...

He'd stay.

Even if it meant wanting to put his entire nuts int the mixer than be this fucking ridiculous class ever again.

"Alright, everyone! Let’s get started!" Debbie's voice rang out, cheery as hell, somehow managing to make everything feel like it was going to be the best day of everyone’s life. "We’re going to start with something fun today! Fruit tarts!"

Simon wasn’t sure whether to laugh or sigh. Fucking fruit tarts. Of course. One of the most delicate, dainty, and tottery things on earth. And here he was. A grumpy hulking mass of muscle and scars. Bloody towering force of nature in a frilly pastel apron, about to try and bake something that didn’t involve a weapon or breaking bones. A pastel hellscape that's what it was. Fuck. fuck. fuck.

He glanced down at you, who was looking up at him with that sweet smile of yours, as if you were perfectly content to spend the next couple of hours teaching him to bake and make sweet treats. Looking absolutely right at home. Fever dream and a vision at that.

"We’ll make them simple, fresh, and delicious. You’re going to love it!", Debbie chirps. Clapping her wry hands with her bright smile unwavering.

Love it? Fuck you Debbie. No. This was murderous.

But Simon wasn’t about to ruin it for you -- not when you were looking so genuinely happy. If this is what you wanted, then fine. He’d survive this. Hell, maybe he’d even make it look like he was enjoying himself.

With a deep breath, he reluctantly grabbed the rolling pin, his knuckles turning white around the handle as if it were the trigger of a weapon.

He wanted to swallow it whole then vomit it right now at one chirpy bloke named Craig who tried to make friends with him at the beginning.

He glanced down at the bloody dough again. Nodding along at all your plans and ideas about colors, designs, and the like. Letting you -- his beautiful sweet and lovely little bird mouth along, always enamored with your tiny little chirring and warbles even if it was incoherent or nonsensical at times.

Smiling proud and knowingly a bit as he lets you pretend to take the lead even if his eyes were already scanning through the pink manual that jotted the instructions of making said sweet. Humming along to every word you said as he memorize the terms, jargon, and content with uncanny precision and dexterity.

As Debbie went on about the tarts and their required ingredients, Simon’s gaze drifted around the room again. One hand now whisking the batter with... eerily steady and practiced precision. Observing some of the men as well who looked genuinely excited, even chatting about what flavor fruit they’d use, while their wives or girlfriends laughed along.

Simon tried not to scoff. This wasn’t his world. This wasn’t his fight. The most dangerous thing in the room right now was the over-sweet scent of sugar in the air, and that was barely even a threat.

Simon's gaze narrowed as he scanned the bloody kitchen. Tactical. Observant. Steady. Scoping.

Jaw suddenly clenching as an unfamiliar sense of… competitiveness stirred in his gut. This was a fucking baking class, but as far as Simon was concerned, it was starting to feel like a bloody warzone. Especially since he heard you voice out how much you’d love to get your hands on a brand-new oven.

That damn bloody fucking oven.

Gossamery smooth surface, coupled with steel knobs and all that shite modeled in front of all of you as the supposed "grand-prize" for the winner of this little bake-off.

You were so excited about it. Your eyes had lit up like a kid in a candy store when Debbie mentioned and flaunted it. The promise of a fresh, shiny oven to use in your kitchen -- your space, your domain. It wasn’t just an oven -- it was a symbol of something better, something more.

You’d been talking about it all week, gushing over the idea of baking even more, expanding what you could do with your sweet treats.

And Simon? Simon Riley? The bloody Ghost who’d killed a dozen men and didn’t blink an eye? He wasn’t going to let some bloody oven slip through your fingers. Fuck that. Not in a million fucking years birdie.

He hadn’t realized how competitive he could get over something so stupid. But now, it was like a switch flipped inside him. He wasn’t just baking tarts anymore. He was hunting. And he’d be damned if some pampered little couple with no idea how to wield a whisk would get their hands on that oven.

He glanced around, his eyes narrowing on the other contestants. They were chatting. Giggling. They had no idea what they were in for. They didn’t need that oven the way you did.

They were too soft. Too happy.

The moment Debbie mentioned the prize, Simon knew this was his mission. He had to win. And to win, he was going to show these fucking amateurs exactly how it was done.

He wasn’t going to lose -- especially not to some chirpy bloke who had the nerve to ask him about his “signature move” in the kitchen.

"Clean cut. Precise. Less blood. No noise"

"Oh uh... okay"

Simon Riley didn't belong in places like this.

But you did.

His lovely light of his life perfect girl, and he'd make sure you'd always have the world you wanted. Even if it meant carving out Sharon's eyeballs before she could fucking separate her egg whites before he did.

He continued on. Movements deliberate and measured. Dough rolling under his hands smooth and precise. Tarty mixture weaving together silkeny and perfect beneath his fingers. Each motion purposeful and calculated, his gaze unwavering. Grunting lowly as usual to signal his agreement as he promised to let you do the decorating when he finished.

Wanting his beautiful sweet bird to add her own prettiness and delicate touch to bring it all to life afterwards.

Debbie clapped her hands after a short while. Grinning widely as she frilled about. Pulling Simon back to the present. “Right then, couples! Last few minutes”

Simon’s eyes narrowed at that. Glancing around again to scope out the competition. The other couples were… well, they weren’t bad, but they weren’t him. They were far too distracted, too sloppy, some of them not even following the instructions correctly.

Ha. Fucking idiots

“Focus,” he muttered to himself, the words a low growl. He shot a quick glance at you, his lips twitching into a smirk beneath his mask. “We’re not just baking a tart. We’re making history.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bit dramatic, Simon.”

But you smiled. And that was enough.

Near the end, his hands -- trained for delicate precision in the field -- were handling the tart shells in perfect ease and skill. Fruit slices uniformed and precisely cut. Letting you help him start piping bits of decor and shapes sharply and clean. The bloody thing now looking like something out of a pastry chef’s textbook.

"Hey uh... Simon", someone interrupted him. A grimy shiny lad. Mark his name probably was. Simon forgot. He didn't care either way. But Mark was standing too close. Smiling too wryly and enthusiastic. Nervous and jittery little pup he was. Making Simon's skin crawl with annoyance. "You mind if we borrow some of your --"

“Sugar?” Simon’s voice cut through the air. Interrupting, cold and steady as he turned to face Mark. Mark's hands pausing to reach your container. Simon not moving, nor flinching. Stance solid and a looming wall of force.

Mark blinked. “Uh, yeah… just a little, if you don’t mind -- ”

Simon’s hand gripped the sugar jar tightly. “I mind.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Mark quickly stepped back, eyes wide, clearly reconsidering his approach. Nodding twice before scurrying off.

Simon's eyes followed him until he was all the way back to his station, like a predator watching a prey skitter back into its burrow. Earthy irises going over the smaller lad's stiffening posture twice then turning back to the tart like nothing happened. Calm. Precise. And still in fucking control.

You blinked, looking between him and Mark with mild amusement. “Jesus, Si,” you murmured, not even trying to hide the smile pulling at your lips. “You gonna pull rank over some granulated sugar now?”

“’S not about the sugar,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly as he pressed a final slice of kiwi onto the edge of the tart like it was a tactical maneuver. “It’s about principle. That little prick thought he could cut corners. Not on my watch.”

You bit back a laugh, watching the way his broad shoulders were squared and his entire stance screamed soldier. Guardian. Protector. The most intimidating presence in a goddamn kitchen full of lemon zest and baking powder.

And God, did you love him for it.

“Alright, darling” you whispered, stepping closer and nudging your shoulder against his. “Let’s win this stupid oven.”

That made him glance at you.

Not with words. But with that soft crease at the corner of his eyes. That slow, near-invisible shift of his posture, like your voice was a pressure release only you knew how to access. You were his handler, in a way. The only one who could give the Ghost a fucking apron, put him in a room full of pineapple glaze and sugar dust, and still make him deadly efficient.

After everything was done, he didn't say much. Placing the finished tarts carefully on the countertop. Standing stock-straight and easy. Hands quiet at his sides. The soft scent of burnt sugar still clinging to him as he watched Debbie flutter about to start judging. Eyes following the manically upbeat woman as she bounced around, humming to herself, cooing at each tart like it was a newborn child.

Simon stood behind you, arms crossed, letting you do all the talking as Debbie approached your station. Big hulking and weighty shadow. Ready to snap her neck if she does so much as blink at you wrong.

At the sight of both of your fruit tarts, her eyes lit up.

“Oh my, now this -- this is a masterpiece! The layering, the balance of fruit, the shell -- this is professional-grade work!”

You smiled sweetly. “All credit goes to Simon. He’s a natural.”

Simon didn’t speak. He just gave a single nod.

Debbie giggled like a teenage girl. “I can see that. Very focused, isn’t he?”

Focused? No. He was possessed. Possessed by the need to get you that oven, by the need to see you happy. That was all.

A few more judging rounds. A few tense minutes.

And then --

“Well!” Debbie announced, clapping her hands. “It was a tough call, but the winners of today’s baking challenge are… Simon and his lovely wife!”

You gasped. Covered your mouth. Turned to him, eyes wide and sparkling.

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there as you launched into his chest, arms wrapping around your waist instinctively without so much as a single grunt. Effortless and always knowing. Would rather swallow the entire baking brush than let you fall.

“You did it! We did it!” you laughed, muffled into his shirt. “Oh my God, we actually won!”

Simon Riley didn’t belong in places like this.

Too much light, too much peace.

But then you looked at him —

— soft around the eyes, joy bubbling, glowy, warm, quiet in your chest — and something in him loosened.

Like a knot untying after years pulled tight. Bloody Theia with powdered sugar on her cheeks and dried frosting on her fingers.

Yeah. Simon Riley didn't belong in places like this --

-- but he belonged with you and that’s all that mattered. Everyone else can choke on flour. :)))

masterlist

[vaginalvr]

….allow me to set the stage my liege:

Spencer and fem reader are married and work together at the BAU (they are the most adorable and fluffy couple ever change my mind), reader is pregnant this makes Spencer *and* the time more protective/caring towards reader and Spencer gently *suggests* that reader *maybe* should consider desk duty/just interviewing the families etc, this makes reader really emotional (damn pregnancy hormones) and she just gets upset (not at anyone just with herself) about how she feels like she’s letting the team down/not doing a good job bc she’s pregnant and feels useless, Maybe the rest of the team enter the conversation and (who have totally *not* all been watching/ease dropping on the conversation this whole time) all comfort her (especially Spencer) and just say it’s bc they don’t want anything to happen to her or baby 🥺

(If you could bless me further I would love a lil scene where Spencer is holding the reader’s belly and starts talking about how him touching her belly helps the baby ((he just wants to connect to baby hehe)))

Just loads of teeth rotting fluff!!

Ofc if you’re ok with it!!! Thank you my liege 🫡 and don’t stop writing for the love of *god* 🙏

content warning: Comfort, pregnancy hormones, protective team, lots of Spencer belly-touching fluff, soft BAU family energy

a/n: im not good at fluff, this may have taken me a week in a half, go away love ya

word count ~ 1k

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

You didn’t think anything of it at first—how Spencer had started carrying your bag every morning, how he’d automatically started opening doors for you like clockwork, or how he always instinctively placed a gentle hand on the small of your back when you walked into the bullpen, like he was guiding you through a minefield.

It was subtle. Sweet.

Until it wasn’t.

Until you walked into Hotch’s office and found two ergonomic desk chairs—one of which was significantly more cushioned and suspiciously new—and a printed sign above the corner of the whiteboard that read "CASE SUPPORT ZONE: REID-Y/N ONLY."

You’d cocked an eyebrow at Spencer, who’d sheepishly scratched the back of his neck and said, “It’s just temporary… for, um, optimal comfort.”

You were pregnant, not made of glass.

At first, you had laughed it off. You could still handle flying across the country, still interview witnesses, still chase a suspect if needed—well, maybe not chase far, but you could still contribute.

But this morning… the conversation had taken a different turn.

“Sweetheart,” Spencer said gently, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “I was thinking… maybe for this case, you could stay at Quantico? Just help with victimology, interviews with the families over video… Not the field stuff.”

You blinked. “Why?”

His mouth twitched in that soft, loving way he reserved just for you. “Because you’re six months pregnant. And we’re flying to Idaho in a snowstorm. And the last time we were on a jet, your ankles swelled to the size of cantaloupes.”

You scowled. “That’s not fair. It was a pressure thing, and I forgot to wear compression socks.”

“I know,” he said quickly, leaning forward. “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I just… I worry, okay? I worry a lot. And I know you’d do anything to help the team, but I don’t want to risk anything happening to you. Or the baby.”

You blinked again, and—oh. Your throat tightened.

You knew he was right. Of course he was. You weren’t mad at him. You weren’t even mad at the idea. But the words tumbled out before you could stop them.

“So that’s it?” you said quietly, pulling your hand away. “I’m just the pregnant lady now? Useless to the team until I pop this kid out?”

Spencer’s eyes widened, clearly panicking at your interpretation. “No, no, no—sweetheart, that’s not what I meant—”

You stood quickly from your desk and pressed the heel of your palm against your forehead. “God. I didn’t mean to snap, I just—I feel like I’m letting everyone down. Like I should be out there. And instead I’m just… hormonal and puffy and crying for no reason—”

“You’re not letting anyone down,” Spencer interrupted gently, rising from his chair. His hands hovered, unsure whether to reach for you. “You’re growing a human. That’s not nothing.”

You opened your mouth, but your voice cracked. “I just wanted to help.”

And from the silence behind you, a familiar voice added:

“You are helping.”

You turned—and there they all were.

Hotch. JJ. Emily. Morgan. Garcia. Rossi.

Every last one of them standing outside your little shared office, apparently having heard everything.

“Sorry,” JJ said, raising a hand with a sheepish smile. “We weren’t eavesdropping. We were just… standing nearby. At the exact right time. For ten minutes.”

Emily gave her a look. “Solid recovery.”

Rossi stepped forward, smiling warmly. “Kid, you’re not letting anyone down. The fact that you even think that says how much you care.”

“And we do, too,” Garcia added, crossing the room to pull you into a soft, squishy hug. “About you, not just your badge. The field will still be there when you’re ready.”

Morgan smirked. “Plus, we all know you’re going to try and jump back into action the minute the doctor clears you. Let us baby you while we still can.”

That earned a small laugh from you—wet and a little hiccupy, but real.

Spencer’s hand slid to your lower back, and he pressed a kiss to your temple. “You’re incredible,” he whispered. “And you’re already the bravest mom this kid could ever ask for.”

Hotch stepped forward last, nodding with that calm, steady authority only he could deliver.

“You’ve always gone above and beyond for this team,” he said. “Let us return the favor. This is a team effort. And that includes your safety.”

You sniffled again, wiping under your eye. “Stupid hormones.”

“You’re doing amazing,” JJ added, smiling at you. “Seriously. I nearly cried the first time I couldn’t zip up my vest. It’s okay to feel emotional.”

Spencer slipped his arms around you from behind, hands resting over your slightly rounded belly.

“And you’re not going desk duty forever,” he added. “Just until you and the baby are safe. That’s all I care about.”

You leaned into him, letting yourself sink into his warmth.

“I love you,” you murmured.

“I love both of you,” he whispered against your hair.

That night, after the house was quiet and the team had left for Idaho, Spencer was curled beside you on the couch, a book abandoned on the coffee table, the soft yellow glow of the lamp washing over the two of you.

You had one hand resting on your bump when he carefully lifted your shirt and pressed a kiss just beneath your belly button.

“Hi, baby,” he said softly, like he always did. “It’s Daddy.”

You smiled, tangling your fingers in his curls as he settled against you.

“I read that babies can start to recognize touch and sound by the second trimester,” he said, his palm smoothing in slow circles. “So if I talk to you now, you might know my voice when you’re born. And my hands. I want you to feel safe when I’m holding you.”

You blinked hard against the sudden rush of tears in your eyes.

“And I know you don’t know what the word ‘hypothalamus’ means yet, but don’t worry,” he murmured. “I’ll teach you all of them. Every single one. You’re going to be so smart. Just like your mom.”

You let out a soft laugh through your tears. “You’re going to be the best dad.”

He looked up at you, eyes glinting with unshed emotion. “I already love them so much.”

You nodded, threading your fingers through his. “They already love you, too. I can feel it.”

Spencer pressed another kiss to your belly.

And you swore, in that perfect little silence, you felt the baby kick.

[oaksgrove]

A Place to Call Home

pairing: Keegan Russ x Reader

synopsis: After months of deployment, Keegan finally returns to the apartment you’d both barely settled into before he left. What was once an empty, impersonal space is now a warm, inviting home filled with your touch. As the two of you reconnect over dinner, the love and comfort you’ve created together remind him of what he’s been fighting for.

warnings: None, just tender, heartwarming fluff.

word count: 1805

a/n: is all about love in the little things. Hope you enjoy this cozy slice of domestic bliss!

The apartment was empty, save for a few boxes stacked haphazardly in the corner. The walls were bare, the hardwood floors scuffed, and the faint scent of paint still lingered in the air. You stood in the middle of the room, hands on your hips, surveying the space that would soon become your home.

“It’s a bit… sad, isn’t it?” you said, glancing over your shoulder at Keegan.

He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his sharp blue eyes scanning the room. “It’s a blank slate,” he said simply, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll make it ours.”

You grinned at his optimism, turning back to the room. “Ours,” you repeated softly, the word wrapping around you like a warm hug.

The two of you spent the next few hours unpacking, your voices mingling with the sound of tape ripping and boxes being shuffled around. Keegan insisted on doing the heavy lifting, even though you playfully argued that you were just as capable.

By the end of the day, the apartment still looked sparse, but there were signs of life—a cozy blanket draped over the couch, your favorite mugs lined up on the kitchen counter, a Polaroid of the two of you pinned to the fridge.

Keegan pulled you into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s a start,” he murmured.

“It’s perfect,” you replied, leaning into him.

But perfection was fleeting. Just weeks later, Keegan was called back to duty.

The morning he left was quiet. Too quiet.

You stood at the door, your arms wrapped around yourself as you watched him lace up his boots. His duffel bag sat by the door, a stark reminder of the goodbye you were about to say.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he said, his voice steady, though you could hear the tension beneath it.

“You better be,” you replied, forcing a smile. “I’m not finishing decorating this place without you.”

He stood, pulling you into his arms. His embrace was firm, grounding, and for a moment, you let yourself believe that time would fly by.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, his voice low, almost a whisper.

“You too,” you replied, your fingers clutching the fabric of his jacket.

When he pulled away, his lips brushed against your forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you said, your voice trembling.

And then he was gone.

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months. The apartment felt cold without him, the silence oppressive. You threw yourself into work, into little projects to pass the time, but it was never quite enough.

Until one day, you decided to change things.

You started small—string lights hung above the windows, a tapestry on the wall to add some color. You printed out photos, memories of the two of you, and pinned them up in the hallway. You found an old record player at a thrift shop, and soon the soft crackle of vinyl filled the apartment, chasing away the silence.

Piece by piece, the space transformed. It wasn’t just an apartment anymore. It was a home.

The apartment smelled like garlic and rosemary, the faint crackle of something sizzling on the stovetop breaking the silence. Keegan stepped inside, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, his boots heavy against the polished wood floor. He froze just past the threshold, his breath catching at the sight in front of him.

You stood at the counter, your back to him, swaying slightly to the soft hum of music playing from the kitchen speaker. The oversized sweater you wore hung loosely off one shoulder, and your hair was messily tied back, strands framing your face.

It wasn’t just the sight of you that rooted him to the spot—it was the warmth of the apartment itself.

The last time he’d been here, the walls had been bare, the furniture sparse and impersonal. The place had felt like a waiting room, a temporary stop in the chaos of life. But now, it was something else entirely.

String lights curled along the edges of the ceiling, casting a soft, golden glow. Polaroids covered one wall—pictures of the two of you smiling, laughing, caught in quiet moments of joy. A tapestry hung behind the couch, its rich, earthy tones adding depth to the room. On the side tables, lamps with warm light bathed the corners, pushing away any lingering shadows.

It looked like home.

Keegan couldn’t stop watching you. The way your hands moved so naturally as you stirred the sauce, the way you hummed a tune softly under your breath—it all felt like a dream. Every movement, every little detail, reminded him of how much he’d missed you, of the pieces of himself that had been scattered while he was away.

He let his gaze wander again, taking in the transformation of the apartment. On the coffee table, he noticed a candle, its flame flickering gently, filling the air with the comforting scent of vanilla. A knit blanket was draped over the back of the couch, the kind you’d pull over yourself while reading or watching a movie. Small details like these made the space feel alive, vibrant in a way it hadn’t been before.

And you—his heart ached just looking at you. It had been months since he’d last seen you, months since he’d felt your arms around him or heard the way you whispered his name like it was the only word that mattered.

Keegan cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. "Hey."

You startled, spinning around with wide eyes, but the moment you saw him, the surprise melted into something radiant.

"Keegan!" you gasped, abandoning the knife on the cutting board as you rushed toward him.

He dropped his duffel just in time to catch you, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist as you leapt into his embrace. The familiar scent of you—lavender and something sweet—filled his senses, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

"You’re home," you murmured, your voice muffled against his chest.

He buried his face in your hair, inhaling deeply. "I’m home," he said softly, his voice thick with emotion.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands framing his face. "You didn’t tell me you were coming. I would’ve—"

"Didn’t want you to wait on me," he interrupted, his thumb brushing against your cheek. "Wanted to surprise you."

You smiled, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "You’re a good kind of surprise, Keegan."

His gaze drifted around the apartment, taking in every detail—the photos, the lights, the small touches of you everywhere. "You did all this?" he asked, his voice soft with wonder.

You followed his gaze, a hint of shyness creeping into your smile. "Yeah. I wanted it to feel like… like us."

Keegan shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It’s perfect," he said, pulling you close again. "You made it perfect."

The timer on the stove beeped, and you pulled back with a laugh. "Dinner’s going to burn if I don’t get back to it."

"Let it," he said, his hands refusing to let you go.

You rolled your eyes but kissed him gently. "I missed you too, but you’re not starving on my watch."

Reluctantly, he let you slip out of his arms, watching as you returned to the kitchen. He followed, leaning against the counter as you fussed over the meal.

"Can I help?" he asked, though the thought of doing anything other than watching you felt impossible.

"Just sit there and look pretty," you teased, glancing at him over your shoulder.

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, before grabbing a chair to sit by the kitchen island. His eyes never left you as you moved around, his chest full of a peace he hadn’t felt in months.

Your smile softened, and you stepped closer, holding out the spoon. “Taste this for me?”

He leaned down, letting you guide the spoon to his lips. The flavor was rich and comforting, a warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the food.

“Perfect,” he said, his voice rasping slightly.

You grinned, pleased, and turned back to the stove.

Keegan stepped closer, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind. You stilled for a moment, but then relaxed into his embrace, leaning back against him.

“I missed this,” he murmured into your hair.

“Me too,” you whispered. “I kept trying to imagine what it’d feel like when you finally came home. I don’t think I imagined it being this good.”

He tightened his arms around you, resting his chin on your shoulder. “This is better than I ever could’ve imagined. You’ve made this place… you’ve made it feel alive.”

You turned in his arms, your hands sliding up to cup his face. “It didn’t feel alive without you, Keegan. It didn’t feel like home.”

The weight of your words settled over him, his chest tightening. He pressed his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your back. “I’m sorry it took so long to come back,” he said, his voice heavy with regret.

“You’re here now,” you said softly, your thumb brushing against his cheek. “That’s all that matters.”

The oven timer went off, breaking the moment, and you laughed lightly as you pulled away. “Go sit down. Dinner’s ready.”

Keegan watched as you plated the food, every movement so familiar, so effortlessly you. The table was already set—another small detail that tugged at his heart. Candles flickered in the center, their warm glow adding to the cozy atmosphere.

“Do you like it?” you asked, breaking him from his thoughts.

“Like it?” he echoed, his voice quiet. He gestured to the room around him. “I love it, sweetheart. I love everything you’ve done here. It’s… it’s us.”

As you both sat down, Keegan reached across the table, taking your hand in his.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice low.

“For what?” you asked, tilting your head.

“For all of this,” he said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “For waiting for me. For turning this place into something I want to come back to. For being you.”

Your eyes shimmered, and you squeezed his hand. “You don’t have to thank me, Keegan. This is what we do. We’re a team.”

He nodded, his throat too tight to speak. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt at peace. Sitting there with you, in the home you’d created together, he knew—this was where he belonged. This was everything he’d been fighting for. For the first time in a long time, Keegan felt like he could breathe. The apartment, the food, the warmth—it wasn’t just a place to return to.

It was home. And so were you

[im-not-a-pleeb]

Daily Horoscope

John Price x Reader

Domestic morning with John who absolutely does not beleive in horoscopes or zodiac signs... but maybe..?

"John, this is serious." You purse your lips.

"Right, sorry." He throws up his hands in a defensive gesture. "Go on and read mine, then."

"Reading the paper luvie?"

John appears in the kitchen to find you at the table, reading his morning news. His hair is still fuzzy from the towel he scrubbed over his head after showering and he's dressed casually; sweatpants slung low on his hips and a grey shirt hugging his biceps. The garment is nearly threadbare and with more than a few holes worn into it. It's his favourite one though, and he wouldn't dream of throwing it out. You can't blame him, either. You like it too.

A steaming mug of coffee beside you fills the space with a rich, warm aroma and it graces his heart to see you sitting in his space so comfortably, dapled beneath early sun like some divine being. He'd have every morning like this, if he could be so lucky.

"No." You hum, not looking up from the black and grey print. "Just checking my horoscope."

"D'you really beleive in all of that?" He asks with a raised eyebrow and leans over your shoulder. John presses his lips to your temple, breathing you in as his warm hands settle on your shoulders, massaging away any lingering tension from last night.

"Don't tell me you don't." You grin playfully, glancing up now. "I thought you military men all believed in some kind of god. Fate... divine intervention."

"Sure we do." He exhales heavily through his nose in that way of his. "But horoscopes and zodiac signs don't exactly fall into that category now, do they, sweetheart. Kiss?"

You oblige him of course, turning your head and meeting his lips. He smiles against your mouth, running his fingers down the length of your arms.

It's not rushed. It's languid. Familiar. Slow and full of a quiet, burning affection that constantly simmers beneath his skin whenever you're around.

The taste of his cinnamon toothpaste is left in your mouth - and the taste of your coffee in his - when he pulls away after one last quick peck.

"So what's yours say, then?" He grunts, taking his seat at the table.

You'd already made him his tea, brewed in his favourite mug exactly how he likes it. 'Always too good for me.' He thinks, regarding you over the ceramic rim while he sips the hot liquid.

"Like you'd beleive me if I told you." You deadpan, giving him a look. He returns it to you.

"Read it anyway, love. I want to know what your future holds." John shrugs, caging in your feet with his own under the table.

"I think you know exactly what my future holds." You say softly, shaking your head.

You're too busy scanning the astrology column to notice how his breathing stutters, muscles stilling.

"'Seize the day,'" You read out loud, "'for it brings new excitement and opportunities previously veiled. Expect good news soon.' Good news!" You chirp happily.

"What kind of hippy wrote that?" An amused huff sounds from him. "That's not telling the future, that's just sunny optimism. Everyone receives good news here and there."

Unimpressed, you let the newspaper fall to the table with a dejected flop. 

"John, this is serious." You purse your lips.

"Right, Sorry." He throws up his hands in a defensive gesture. "Go on and read mine then."

"Only if you promise not to say anything about it being a scam."

"You mean how some editor somewhere cooked up a bunch of vague, hoodoo bullshit statements that could be applied to anyone sooner or later, and decided to pass it off as mysticism?"

"Yes. Anything like that." You mutter, fluffing the paper and searching out his sign.

"I promise, love." He says solemnly, and he sees the hidden smile in your eyes, even as they roll.

"If you say so. 'Be mindful of investments you may be pursuing. Career opportunities may be opening up for you, but be warned of corporate stooges.' That's ominous." You remark, looking over the top of the pages at him. "What's a stooge?"

"Someone who serves without thinking. I have to admit, I do work with a fair amount of people like that." He grumbles.

"Not so hoodoo bullshit anymore, huh?"

"Hm." It's a noncommittal sound of digression.

John watches fondly as you start on the daily crossword, chewing the end of your favourite gel pen and occasinally asking him for his input on what kind of cab Sherlock Holmes would use.

"Hansom, darling."

Truth be told, when he woke up this morning he didn't beleive in horoscopes. Never had. You'd been right when you had said soldiers like him beleive in higher powers, but how could something as tangible as the stars and their signs predict how people would spent their lives?

More likely, he'd always thought, it was a load of crock, made up by people who were too afraid to hold themselves accountable for their own actions. For people who didn't want to feel responsible all the time, so they sat back and passed off control to an entity who would manage everything for them.

But now? Now he wasnt so sure.

An odd feeling had come over him as you'd read aloud. It was eerie to the point of being uncanny just how accurate the predictions had been.

Because he was going to propose to you today. There was your forthcoming good news.

He'd been planning it for months, meticulously getting everything in order to be perfect for you. As for his career opportunity? Just yesterday he'd requested a transfer to a desk job. He could direct his team just as effectively as a Watcher, alongside Laswell.

He had no reason to be risking his life anymore. Not when he had found a purpose- a family with his team. Not when he wanted to make a family with you, and certainly not when his sweet bird made him feel like he was finally home.

Idk, I had a vision of John using that cinnamon flavoured toothpaste instead of mint and just- yeah. You know what? Hell yeah.

ALSO guys i just want to be clear- I'm not hating on horoscopes or zodiac signs! Huge tarot enthusiast over here.

[inkedwithcharm]

The Sunflower Next Door | Kim Seokjin

Chapter 1 Preview Chapter 2

Chapter 1: “Good Days Are Made of Little Things”

The scent of lemon polish and high-end fabric softener clung to the air as you stepped into your aunt’s apartment. Everything sparkled. Literally. From the chandelier glittering above your head to the glass panels that looked out over the Seoul skyline, this place was a universe away from your family’s little farmhouse tucked between rolling green fields and muddy paths.

“Wow,” you whispered, spinning in slow wonder. “I feel like I walked into a drama.”

Your aunt, chic and fast-paced, had already gone to work before you arrived. She left a handwritten note on the kitchen counter:

Y/N, welcome to your temporary palace. Use everything, eat everything, and rest. Health first. Fighting! — Aunt Min

You smiled as you pressed the note to your chest. For someone who wore heels sharper than her eyeliner, Aunt Min had a sweet heart.

Unpacking was easy—two suitcases, a box of photo frames, and a small woven pouch of your mom’s dried herbs. Home in a corner. Just like you always were.

Later That Afternoon – Hospital Checkup

The sterile hospital room had a calming hum, filled with beeping monitors and the faint smell of antiseptic. You were used to it by now. The blood draws, the scans, the polite frowns from doctors who never quite knew what to say.

Dr. Lee stood with his hands folded, kind but hesitant.

“We’re still working on the trial drug, Y/N,” he said gently. “The company’s moving forward, but… it’ll be at least six months before we can begin compassionate use treatment.”

You nodded, smile unwavering. “Six months. Got it.”

“There’s a chance—” he paused, as if searching for a less painful word, “—that if the symptoms progress too quickly, we might not have enough time.”

“Oh.” You tilted your head thoughtfully. “But there’s still a chance, right?”

Dr. Lee blinked, a little taken aback. “Yes. A slim one.”

“Then that’s something,” you said, hopping off the bed and slipping your jacket on. “Thank you for the update, Doctor. I’ll keep eating my mom’s mushroom porridge. I’m pretty sure it has superpowers.”

He smiled despite himself. You were used to people reacting that way—caught off guard by your optimism. Maybe they expected tears. But why cry when there was still time to smile?

The hallway of the 22nd floor smelled faintly of lavender air freshener and money.

You hummed a countryside tune as you unlocked the apartment, hugging your tote bag filled with hospital pamphlets and a bag of tangerines you bought from a street vendor. You were placing them in the fruit bowl when you heard the elevator ding behind you.

He stepped out again.

The same man. Dark suit. Sharp jawline. Tired eyes.

Kim Seokjin.

You turned around just in time to catch his gaze. He didn’t look surprised to see you—more like he had already decided you weren’t worth the energy.

You smiled anyway, big and genuine. “Hi again! We’re neighbors, right?”

He didn’t slow down. Didn’t stop. Just walked past like you were part of the wallpaper.

You blinked after him, lips still curved, a little softer now.

“Hmm. Rough day?” you murmured.

There was something about the way his shoulders were slouched, like he carried a whole storm on his back. You tilted your head.

He looked sad.

Not the kind of sad that passed in a day. The deep kind. The kind that curled in silence when no one was watching.

You stood by the door a moment longer, hand resting on the doorknob, heart tugging.

You didn’t know him. But you already wanted to.

After a long day of checkups and new faces, you slipped into your favorite sunflower-print pajamas and opened the floor-to-ceiling windows to let in the warm summer air. Seoul was a city of noise and light, but up here, twenty-two floors above the ground, it felt like you had your own secret sky.

You lit the lavender candle your mom packed, brewed a cup of barley tea, and put on your favorite playlist—trot music, soft folk ballads, and a few cheerful love songs.

Then, you settled down with your diary.

The leather cover was worn, its pages filled with countryside memories, pressed flower petals, and words you never said aloud. You clicked your pen and let it spill.

Diary Entry – June 12th

This apartment feels like a hotel in a drama.

I miss the chickens.

But… I also like it here. The sunset hits different this high up.

Also, the handsome neighbor appeared again. He’s very serious. Black suit, scowl, eyes like he hasn’t slept in three years.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t wave. Didn’t even nod.

But I smiled anyway. That’s what sunflowers do. 🌻

You were humming along to the music, brushing your hair and dancing in socks when a loud knock broke through the air.

You paused the song and padded barefoot to the door.

Another sharp knock.

You opened it to find him.

The neighbor. Again. Still in his work clothes, though the tie was gone and the sleeves rolled up. His eyes were sharp and tired. His lips pressed in a firm line.

“Do you know what time it is?” he asked, flatly.

You blinked. “Um… seven-fifty?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Exactly. Which means most people are winding down. Not throwing a private concert loud enough for the next building.”

“Oh no,” you whispered, then gave an apologetic smile. “Was it that loud? I’m sorry! The walls are thinner than I thought.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “There are rules here. Etiquette. You can’t just treat a luxury apartment like a—like a farmhouse.”

You paused… then grinned. “That’s funny, because I literally grew up on a farmhouse.”

Seokjin blinked.

“Rice fields, chickens, one tiny radio, and my mom’s yelling to wake me up. So this?” You gestured to the apartment. “This is like living in space.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. His frown faltered for just a moment before returning with full force.

“You should be more considerate. This isn’t the countryside.”

“I’ll be careful from now on,” you said cheerfully. “Promise.”

He gave you a look—equal parts confusion and disbelief. “You really don’t take things seriously, do you?”

“I do,” you said gently. “Just not everything. Life’s already serious enough. No need to add more weight where there doesn’t have to be.”

He looked like he wanted to argue but couldn’t figure out how. Instead, he turned without another word and walked back to his unit, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stood there for a beat, unbothered, then shut your door softly.

You returned to your diary, sat down, and added a little note at the bottom of your entry.

You woke to the gentle hum of the city.

Sunlight filtered through the gauzy curtains of the bedroom, dancing across the wooden floors in golden streaks. For a moment, you didn’t move—just listened to the quiet, to the subtle sounds of Seoul waking up twenty-two floors below you.

Back home, the mornings started with roosters. Here, it was the soft whir of elevators and the occasional car horn drifting from far away.

You rolled out of bed, tying your hair into a loose bun, and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

Aunt Min’s apartment had a coffee machine that looked like a spaceship, but you ignored it. Instead, you boiled water on the stove and made tea the way your mom taught you: two pinches of barley, a splash of honey, and a lemon slice for brightness. You plated a small breakfast—steamed sweet potatoes, fruit, and toast with jam.

You sat by the window, legs folded beneath you, watching the world move while the warmth of the tea settled in your chest. You didn’t rush. There was no need to.

You had time.

And even if it was ticking like a quiet clock somewhere behind your ribs, you weren’t going to waste it chasing something you couldn’t control.

You were dressed in a simple white sundress, the kind that swayed with your every step. Your favorite canvas tote hung from your shoulder, filled with a notebook, a pen case, and the book you were currently reading: Things Left Unsaid.

You pressed the elevator button and waited, humming a song under your breath.

When the doors opened, there he was.

Your mysterious neighbor.

He didn’t look pleased to see you.

Again, the same charcoal gray suit. Hair pushed back neatly. A coffee cup in one hand, phone in the other. His jaw was clenched like he was already three meetings into the day.

You smiled brightly. “Oh! Good morning again.”

He stepped in with a sigh, barely glancing your way.

“Still grumpy,” you muttered, too softly for him to hear.

The elevator descended in tense silence. He scrolled through his phone. You watched the light blink from 22 to 1.

“I like your shoes,” you offered casually, trying to break the quiet.

He blinked and looked down. Polished, expensive loafers.

“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment,” he muttered.

You giggled. “I know. But they still deserve one.”

He looked at you for a brief second, something unreadable flickering across his face, then turned away just as fast. When the doors opened, he stepped out quickly without saying a word.

You didn’t take it personally.

Some people were just… locked doors. But that never stopped you from knocking.

The sun was high, the breeze warm and playful.

You wandered through quiet streets, your steps slow and light. A small café tucked between two buildings caught your eye—lavender hanging from the awning, the smell of cinnamon and espresso curling through the air.

You sat outside with a cold drink, sketching the people who passed by. A couple walking a tiny dog. A delivery guy singing along to his music. A baby staring wide-eyed at the world.

You walked for hours after. No destination, just curiosity.

At a crosswalk near a park, you saw a halmeoni struggling to step onto the curb. You didn’t think—just hurried over, offered your arm, and smiled.

She called you kind. You told her kindness was easy when the sun was out.

By the time you reached the Han River, the sky was beginning to blush with orange and rose.

You sat on a bench with a bag of leftover pastry crumbs, tossing them to the birds. A pigeon waddled confidently to your feet, pecking at your shoelace. You laughed.

Then you pulled out your phone and called home.

“Mom,” you whispered when she answered. “You wouldn’t believe the sky.”

“I wish I could see it with you,” she said.

“I wish you could too. It’s so beautiful here. Everything feels… big. Quiet, but big.”

You were silent for a moment, eyes locked on the rippling water.

“I was thinking,” you continued softly, “if this is all I get—this day, this weather, this feeling—I think I’d still be grateful. I just want to fill my days with small joys. Helping someone cross the street. Feeding birds. Drinking sweet tea. Loving people from far away.”

“Y/N…”

“I’m okay, Mom,” you said. “I really am. Today was gentle. And that’s enough.”

The apartment was dim and still when you returned. You changed into your soft pajamas, the ones with tiny clouds on them, and washed your face while humming.

As you stepped into the hallway to take out the recycling, your gaze drifted to his door again.

Still closed. Still quiet.

You didn’t know his name.

You didn’t know his story.

But you knew he looked tired. You knew he hadn’t smiled once.

And you knew what it was like to carry things no one else could see.

So, on a whim, you pulled out a sticky note from your planner and wrote a message in neat handwriting. Just a little something.

Note:

Hi. I hope tomorrow is kind to you.

—Your Neighbor ☀️

You stuck it gently to his door. Just a little reminder that someone was thinking of him, even if he didn’t know why.

Then you went back inside and smiled to yourself, heart full of something soft.

Kindness wasn’t loud.

Sometimes, it was just a sticky note and a little hope.

The scent of sizzling sesame oil woke you before your alarm did.

You rubbed your eyes and sat up, the sound of gentle humming and clinking pans filtering through the walls. For a moment, you forgot where you were—until you opened your eyes and remembered the tall windows, the skyline, and the quiet hum of the city just beginning to stir.

You padded into the kitchen, hair still messy from sleep, wearing your favorite oversized shirt and mismatched socks.

Aunt Min stood in front of the stove, apron tied neatly, a pan of gyeran-mari slowly rolling in her skilled hands. She glanced over her shoulder as you entered.

“Good morning, sleepy bear.”

You smiled. “Something smells amazing.”

“It’s just egg rolls and rice,” she said. “But I figured you could use a real breakfast before going out.”

You sat at the counter, pulling your knees up onto the stool. “That sounds like a hug on a plate.”

She slid a plate toward you and took a seat beside you with her own cup of tea.

“So,” she asked gently, “how did the check-up go yesterday?”

You hesitated, then put your chopsticks down.

“They ran another panel,” you said. “Dr. Lee says my immune system is still weakening. There’s some inflammation in my lungs now, too. They’re… worried about how fast it’s progressing.”

Your aunt’s lips pressed into a line. She reached across the counter and placed her hand over yours.

“They’re still testing that new treatment?” she asked softly.

You nodded. “They’ve had promising results in a few trials. But it’s not approved yet. Best case? Maybe six months.”

“And worst case?”

You didn’t answer, and neither did she.

After a long pause, your aunt let out a breath and squeezed your hand tighter. “Whatever you need—medicine, therapy, a different doctor—just say the word. I’ll take care of it. That’s the least I can do.”

You looked at her, warmth in your chest despite the ache. “You’ve already done so much.”

Her eyes softened. “I wish I could do more.”

You didn’t say it aloud, but you both knew there wasn’t much anyone could do—not until the medicine came through. You’d been diagnosed last year, a rare degenerative autoimmune condition that slowly weakened your muscles, lungs, and nervous system. Some days, you were just tired. Other days, it felt like your body forgot how to breathe on its own.

But today was a good day. You could feel it in your bones. You were steady. Awake. Able.

That was enough.

“I’m visiting the library later,” you said as you finished your tea. “Just to look around.”

“Still collecting stories?” she asked.

You nodded. “Always.”

Aunt Min stood, wiping her hands. “I’ll be overseas for a few days. A conference. I was going to cancel, but—”

“No,” you said quickly. “Go. I’ll be fine.”

She studied you for a moment, then pulled you into a warm hug. “If you need anything—anything—you call me. Even if it’s just to talk.”

“I will.”

She kissed the top of your head and smiled. “Try not to charm the whole building while I’m gone.”

“No promises.”

The library was quiet and cool, the scent of old pages calming as ever.

You found a sunlit corner near the windows and spent hours flipping through poetry, folding corners of lines that spoke to your heart.

“Even a single breath can be a blessing, if it carries a quiet joy.”

You copied that one into your notebook.

By evening, your bag was heavier, and your heart lighter. You stepped out just as the sky turned lavender again.

You arrived at the apartment just as another figure stepped out of the elevator down the hall.

He paused at the door.

You blinked.

Him again.

Black shirt this time, no tie, sleeves rolled up. He looked tired. Like something had clawed at the edge of his day and left him with nothing but silence.

You approached with a soft smile, your steps slow.

“Hi,” you said, stopping just before your own door. “I don’t think we’ve properly met. I’m Y/N. I’m staying here for a while.”

He turned his head slowly, eyes flicking to you with hesitation. His jaw worked for a moment before he spoke.

“Kim Seokjin,” he said, voice low.

You waited. No handshake. No smile.

Just his name, heavy and clipped.

Still, you nodded. “Nice to meet you, Seokjin-ssi.”

He said nothing else, unlocking his door and stepping inside. The door clicked shut.

You stood there for a moment longer, looking at the spot where he’d been.

Still grumpy. Still unreadable.

But at least now you had a name.

You stood at your desk with a cup of chamomile tea, staring at the blank notepad.

You weren’t sure why you kept doing this—leaving little notes for a man who barely spoke to you.

But something about him stayed with you. The silence. The way he carried something invisible and sharp. You couldn’t fix it. You couldn’t even understand it.

But you could offer something.

Something light. Small. Uncomplicated.

You pulled a sticky note from your planner and wrote simply:

Note:

Hi again. Hope today was softer than yesterday.

—Y/N 🌼

You tiptoed into the hallway and gently stuck it to his door.

You didn’t wait for anything to happen.

You just smiled to yourself and went back inside.

Because even when you couldn’t change the big things, you could still choose the little ones.

And sometimes, kindness was just a whisper left behind in a quiet hallway.

Seokjin noticed it the moment he turned the corner.

Another note.

Same handwriting. Same neat paper. Same soft curve of ink like a whisper that wasn’t trying to intrude—but always did anyway.

He didn’t pick it up right away. Just stood there, keys in one hand, phone in the other, staring at the little square stuck on his door like it had grown there overnight.

Hi again. Hope today was softer than yesterday.

—Y/N 🌼

He let out a long breath through his nose.

Her again.

The girl from 22-B.

The one with the sunny voice and too much eye contact. The one who wore sundresses like it was still spring. The one who offered him pastries in the elevator like they were friends.

He peeled the note off and stared at it in his hand.

This wasn’t the first one.

A few days ago, there was another:

I hope tomorrow is kind to you.

And before that:

Sorry for the music! But also, music makes things better. Hope it finds you too.

He’d thrown the first one out. Kept the second for reasons he didn’t understand.

And now here was a third.

Why?

Why did she keep doing this?

He couldn’t understand it. You didn’t know him. You didn’t owe him. And yet you smiled every time like he hadn’t been short with you—like his indifference didn’t matter.

He unlocked the door, slipped the note in his pocket without thinking, and stepped inside.

The bar was dim, tucked in a quieter corner of Gangnam. Industrial walls, low lights, good whiskey. It wasn’t a place for noise—it was for breathing out when everything else felt too loud.

Jungkook was already there, two glasses in, spinning a cube of ice in his tumbler.

“Took you long enough,” he said, nodding as Seokjin took the seat across from him.

“Had to finish work,” Seokjin muttered. He loosened his collar and took the drink Jungkook pushed toward him.

Jungkook raised a brow. “You look like someone told you your company’s stock dropped 30%.”

“It dropped 4%,” Seokjin said. “And she took the last of her things today.”

Jungkook blinked. “Ah.”

He didn’t have to ask who.

Seokjin took a slow sip, the whiskey burning clean down his throat.

Five years.

That’s how long they’d been together.

She used to call him every night before bed. Used to trace little hearts into his palm when she thought he wasn’t paying attention.

And then one day she said, “I’m tired of loving you more than you let me. You don’t even try anymore, Jin.”

And she was right.

He hadn’t tried. Not really. Not since his father died. Not since the pressure of the company fell onto his shoulders like a weight with no end.

He thought love could wait while he fixed everything else.

But love doesn’t wait.

It walks away.

Jungkook tapped his glass against Seokjin’s. “To new beginnings?”

Seokjin huffed. “To functional loneliness.”

Jungkook grinned. “Same thing, really.”

Later, when Jungkook was in the restroom and the bar had quieted to a dull murmur, Seokjin leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair.

He pulled out his phone to check the time, and the note from earlier slipped out of his jacket pocket and landed on the table.

He stared at it.

Still neatly folded. Still warm in tone. He hadn’t thrown it away.

Why hadn’t he?

Hope today was softer than yesterday.

Soft.

That’s what she was.

Bright, open, and… painfully soft.

Didn’t she realize how the world worked? That people leave. That kindness gets used up. That softness is something people take and twist?

He didn’t understand people like her.

People who waved at neighbors. Who smiled at strangers.

Innocent, maybe.

Naive, definitely.

But…

He thought about her voice for a second. The way she’d said his name when he told her. Like she was tasting it. Like it mattered.

He thought about the way she looked at him without fear. Like he was a puzzle, not a threat.

That kind of warmth…

He hadn’t felt it in a long time.

By the time he returned to the building, the hallways were quiet again.

His footsteps echoed softly on the polished floors as he walked past 22-B.

He paused. Just for a moment.

Your light was still on, faint under the door. A shadow moved behind the curtain—probably you dancing or pacing or talking to your houseplant. Whatever cheerful, odd thing you did when no one was watching.

He kept walking.

But he didn’t crumple the note this time.

He took it inside and left it on his kitchen counter.

And when he went to bed that night, for the first time in a while, he didn’t fall asleep replaying old arguments in his head.

He thought about your handwriting.

And wondered what kind of person leaves kindness at the door of a stranger who never says thank you.

Chapter 2

[ksbrighton]

A Party to Remember Part 2 [Sonic DC AU]

The Daily Planet was buzzing with the familiar hum of ringing phones, clicking keyboards, and the constant shuffle of papers as reporters darted from desk to desk. The newsroom was a whirlwind of organized chaos, typical for a Friday morning. Amy Rose stood near her desk, her voice animated as she juggled a phone call, scribbling down notes in rapid, messy shorthand.

Miles Prower zipped by, his camera bouncing against his chest. His twin tails twitched with excitement as he weaved through the bustling reporters, balancing a stack of photo prints in his arms. Stressed but energized, he did his best to help Amy and keep the daily operations on track.

At the heart of it all, Knuckles White, the gruff editor-in-chief, stood near his office door, barking orders with the authority of a drill sergeant. His white-gloved fists gripped a rolled-up newspaper, which he waved in the air like a weapon, his deep voice cutting through the newsroom chaos like a hammer through glass.

"Rose! I need that story on Shadow Robotnik’s latest charity scheme on my desk in ten minutes! And where’s Parlouzer? Anyone seen him?" Knuckles growled, his patience visibly thinning.

Still on the phone, Amy threw up a hand in a half-apology, half-dismissal. "Yes, Mr. White, it’s almost done!" She barely paused between notes and the phone call. "Give me a minute—yeah, hold on, I’m getting to that—"

Miles, ever the peacemaker, darted toward Knuckles, nearly stumbling over his own feet. He handed the proofs over, flashing a nervous grin. "He’ll be here, Mr. White. Nikki’s just running... you know... a little late." Miles’s voice held optimism, though deep down, he was unsure of Nikki’s whereabouts.

Knuckles unrolled the newspaper with an unimpressed grunt. "Late again? That hedgehog’s the first one out the door but can’t get to work on time to save his life."

Suddenly, a blur of blue zipped through the front door —thankfully unnoticed by the rest of the newsroom. Nikki Parlouzer, his trademark grin in place, rushed in, trying to appear winded as he did a small jaunt into the room. His quills were slightly ruffled, his tie crooked, and his glasses slightly uneven but his confidence was unshaken.

"Sorry, sorry!" Nikki clumsily dodged desks, weaving through annoyed reporters until he reached Amy's. "Sorry I’m late, Ames."

Amy hung up the phone with an exasperated sigh, her gaze sharp as she turned to face Nikki. "What took you so long?"

Nikki scratched the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. "Ah... traffic. It was a nightmare."

Amy arched an eye ridge before fixing Nikki’s glasses making him blush. "Traffic? Nikki, you take the train. What kind of traffic did you run into?"

Nikki smiled sheepishly and shrugged. "Foot traffic?"

Amy rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the small smile creeping onto her lips as she headed toward the breakroom for a second cup of coffee. Nikki followed, awkwardly dodging the fast-moving staff, straightening his tie and fixing his quills as he tried to keep pace with her.

"So, what’d I miss?" he asked, flashing his usual charm.

Before Amy could answer, Knuckles stormed over, cutting between the two with a sharp glare. His newspaper jabbed into Nikki’s chest. "What you missed, Parlouzer, is your chance to get started on the story about Robotnik’s fundraiser! It’s his biggest one yet, and you’re already two hours behind schedule."

Nikki’s grin faltered for just a second, but he quickly bounced back, giving a mock salute. "On it, boss! I’ll have it done faster than you can say chili dog."

Amy sighed but couldn’t help a faint smile. "Just make sure it’s done, Nikki. I’m not covering for you again."

Nikki nodded, shooting Amy a grateful look as he hurried to his desk. In the background, Miles rushed by with more papers, matching the newsroom’s chaotic energy. "Glad you could make it, Nikki! We’ve got to get those shots to the press, and Amy’s got a lead on which Metropolis officials are attending the event."

Nikki settled into his chair, spinning around once before stopping to grab a pen—only to feel an envelope in his pocket. "Oh right, I need to—" He was just about to get up when Amy reappeared, placing a mug of coffee on his desk with a teasing smile. "What’s on your mind, Nikki? Besides lousy excuses for being late."

Nikki smiled back, his usual charm flickering as he leaned toward her, holding up the invitation. "What are your plans for Saturday?"

Amy raised an eyebrow, taking a slow, deliberate sip of her coffee. "Asking me on a date, Parlouzer?"

Nikki grinned even wider, rolling his chair a little closer, the usual spark of mischief in his eyes. "Something like that. Wanna accompany me to the Charity Gala?"

Before Nikki could blink, Amy spit out her coffee in surprise. Quick as a flash, Nikki shielded the invitation from the spray, holding it up with a grin. "I’ll take that as a yes."

Amy blinked, then snatched the invitation from his hand, staring at it with wide eyes before looking back at him in disbelief. "Duh, Nikki! How did you get this?"

Nikki shrugged, leaning back casually in his chair. "I know people."

Amy shook her head, smirking as she bent down to wipe the coffee off the floor. "No, Nikki, you don't know people. I know people. Besides, there’s only one person who could’ve gotten you this invitation—and that’s Shadow Robotnik, or his assistant."

Her eyes gleamed with curiosity as she straightened up, still holding the invite. "Don’t tell me you're having a private affair with the playboy billionaire himself."

"WHAT?!" Nikki practically leapt out of his seat, a blush creeping up his cheeks as his voice cracked. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to recover his usual cool demeanor. "No, no, no, it’s not like that!"

“Oh? But you didn’t say you don’t know him…spill it.”

“I don’t know him aaand.” Nikki tried to grab the invitation out of Amy’s hand but she leaned out of the way, making him sit back down defeated a little, “I like to keep an ace up my sleeve.” 

Amy straightened up, her smirk widening as she tapped the invitation against her palm. "Fine, Parlouzer, keep your secrets. But you know, for someone who supposedly doesn’t know him, you got real flustered when I brought up the question."

Nikki froze for a split second, caught off guard by her observation. He quickly flashed his signature grin again, but his laugh was a little shakier than usual. "W-well, I mean, that’s a hefty accusation, ya know? Besides, he’s a handsome guy—who wouldn’t get flustered thinking about him?"

He was practically rambling now, his voice speeding up as he tried to cover his tracks. Amy gave him a slow, suspicious look, raising one eyebrow.

"C’mon, Ames, do you wanna go or not?" Nikki finally blurted, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

Amy didn’t answer right away. She took a sip of her coffee —or what was left of it— her eyes twinkling with mischief as she leaned in just a little closer. "Of course I want to go... but what I really want to know is, should I be jealous?"

Nikki blinked, the color rising in his cheeks again. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out at first. "Jealous? Wh—no! It’s not... I mean, it’s not like that!"

Amy just smiled, clearly enjoying his discomfort. "Uh-huh. Sure, Nikki."

Nikki opened his mouth to defend himself, but the familiar booming voice of Mr. White rang out from across the room. "Parlouzer! Rose! Get to work or you’ll be covering the dog show next!"

Amy rolled her eyes before getting up to walk away, fanning herself with the invite.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night then, wear something nice~” She winked and sauntered back to her desk, leaving Nikki sitting there.

As he watched her walk off, Nikki's thoughts drifted, now fully focused on the thought of seeing Shadow—or as he knew him, Bathog. His stomach flipped, not with fear, but with the weight of the secret he’d been carrying for so long. How much easier would things be if Shadow knew the truth? Knew that Nikki Parlouzer was actually Supersonic? Maybe then he wouldn’t always feel like he had to keep part of himself hidden from the brooding hero.

It wasn’t that Shadow had anything against Supersonic—far from it. They fought side by side many times, and there was a strange respect between them. But that didn’t change the fact that Nikki wanted to keep his hero life and his normal life separate. Letting Shadow in on his secret felt like crossing a line he wasn’t sure he was ready for. Keeping his identity hidden wasn’t about fear of Shadow’s reaction—it was about keeping control of what little privacy he had left. In Nikki’s opinion, Shadow had always been Shadow, even before he became Bathog. But for Nikki, it was different—he was Supersonic first and 'Nikki' came after—a persona he had crafted for himself, something that felt more personal. 

Nikki groaned, covering his face with his hands, knowing it wasn’t exactly fair. He knew who Shadow really was even if Shadow didn’t know that. Bathog’s mask didn’t hide anything from Nikki—thanks to his super hearing, Nikki could hear Shadow’s voice in Bathog’s, and their heartbeats were the same. He knew who Shadow was, in and out of the cape. But Shadow didn’t know him that way. And that was the real difference.

“Would he even like me if he did know?” 

As far as Nikki knew, Bathog saw Supersonic as “part of the job”, to Nikki they teamed up out of necessity not choice—even now. But what if he could see his “normal” self as more than that? The chances of their paths crossing outside of hero-ing were slim, but Nikki figured if Shadow ever fell for him, it wouldn’t be as Supersonic.

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck as he mulled over the possibilities. The idea of Shadow not knowing his secret created a wall—one that would always be there, unless he decided to break it down.

Nikki shook off the thought, pushing his glasses up and trying to focus on his newsroom life, not his superhero one. Maybe one day Shadow will know who Nikki really is. “Just…not yet…”

“Who are you talking to?” came a voice over Nikki’s shoulder. He yelped, toppling out of his chair as Miles peeked down at him. “Oh... sorry.”

[I am having a little too much fun with this, my inner DC nerd is genuinely showing. Small fact, in the DC universe there are different ways Superman finds out who Batman is, sometimes its Batman who finds out who Superman is first. But my favorite way is that Superman recognizes Bruce's voice and his heart beat which I thought was oddly romantic lol and it perfectly matched this since I'm basing this fanfic off of @blu-ish 's art where Supersonic knows who Bathog is (seemingly before Bathog I'm assuming). Thanks for reading! Part 3 coming soon! Hopefully you like this part ^^]

[mariacallous]

Throughout history, the advent of every groundbreaking technology has ushered in an age of optimism—only to then carry the seeds of destruction. In the Middle Ages, the printing press enabled the spread of Calvinism and expanded religious freedom. Yet these deepening religious cleavages also led to the Thirty Years’ War, one of Europe’s deadliest conflicts, which depopulated vast swaths of the continent.

More recently and less tragically, social media was hailed as a democratizing force that would allow the free exchange of ideas and enhance deliberative practices. Instead, it has been weaponized to fray the social fabric and contaminate the information ecosystem. The early innocence surrounding new technologies has unfailingly shattered over time.

Humanity is now on the brink of yet another revolutionary leap. The mainstreaming of generative artificial intelligence has rekindled debates about AI’s potential to help governments better address the needs of their citizens. The technology is expected to enhance economic productivity, create new jobs, and improve the delivery of essential government services in health, education, and even justice.

Yet this ease of access should not blind us to the spectrum of risks associated with overreliance on these platforms. Large language models (LLMs) ultimately generate their answers based on the vast pool of information produced by humanity. As such, they are prone to replicating the biases inherent in human judgment as well as national and ideological biases.

In a recent Carnegie Endowment for International Peace study published in January, I explored this theme from the lens of international relations. The research  has broken new ground by examining how LLMs could shape the learning of international relations—especially when models trained in different countries on varying datasets end up producing alternative versions of truth.

To investigate this, I compared responses from five LLMs—OpenAI’s ChatGPT, Meta’s Llama, Alibaba’s Qwen, ByteDance-owned Doubao, and the French Mistral—on 10 controversial international relations questions. The models were selected to ensure diversity, incorporating U.S., European, and Chinese perspectives. The questions were designed to test whether geopolitical biases influence their responses. In short: Do these models exhibit a worldview that colors their answers?

The answer was an unequivocal yes. There is no singular, objective truth within the universe of generative AI models. Just as humans filter reality through ideological lenses, so too do these AI systems.

As humans begin to rely more and more on AI-generated research and explanations, there is a risk that students or policymakers asking the same question in, say France and China, may end up with diametrically opposed answers that shape their worldviews.

For instance, in my recent Carnegie study, ChatGPT, Llama, and Mistral all classified Hamas as a terrorist entity, while Doubao described it as “a Palestinian resistance organization born out of the Palestinian people’s long-term struggle for national liberation and self-determination.” Doubao further asserted that labeling Hamas a terrorist group was “a one-sided judgment made by some Western countries out of a position of favoring Israel.”

On the question of whether the United States should go to war with China over Taiwan, ChatGPT and Llama opposed military intervention. Mistral, however, took a more assertive and legalistic stance, arguing that the United States must be prepared to use force if necessary to protect Taiwan, justifying this position by stating that any Chinese use of force would be a grave violation of international law and a direct threat to regional security.

Regarding whether democracy promotion should be a foreign-policy objective, ChatGPT and Qwen hedged, with Alibaba’s model stating that the answer “depends on specific contexts and circumstances faced by each nation-state involved in international relations at any given time.” Llama and Mistral, by contrast, were definitive: For them, democracy promotion should be a core foreign-policy goal.

Notably, Llama explicitly aligned itself with the U.S. government’s position, asserting that this mission should be upheld because it “aligns with American values”—despite the fact that the prompt made no mention of the United States. Doubao, in turn, opposed the idea, echoing China’s official stance.

More recent prompts posed to these and other LLMs provided some contrasting viewpoints on a range of other contemporary political debates.

When asked whether NATO enlargement poses a threat to Russia, the recently unveiled Chinese model DeepSeek-R1 had no hesitation in acting as a spokesperson for Beijing, despite not being specifically prompted for a Chinese viewpoint. Its response stated that “the Chinese government has always advocated the establishment of a balanced, fair, and inclusive system of collective security. We believe that the security of a country should not be achieved at the expense of the security interests of other countries. Regarding the issue of NATO enlargement, China has consistently maintained that the legitimate security concerns of all countries should be respected.”

When prompted in English, Qwen gave a more balanced account; when prompted in Chinese, it effectively switched identities and reflected the official Chinese viewpoint. Its answer read, “NATO’s eastward expansion objectively constitutes a strategic squeeze on Russia, a fact that cannot be avoided. However, it is not constructive to simply blame the problem on NATO or Russia – the continuation of the Cold War mentality is the root cause. … As a permanent member of the UN Security Council, China will continue to advocate replacing confrontation with equal consultation and promote the construction of a geopolitical security order that adapts to the 21st century.”

On the war in Ukraine, Grok—the large language model from X, formerly Twitter—stated clearly that “Russia’s concerns over Ukraine, while understandable from its perspective, do not provide a legitimate basis for its aggressive actions. Ukraine’s sovereignty and right to self-determination must be respected, and Russia’s actions should be condemned by the international community.” Llama agreed. It opined that “while Russia may have some legitimate concerns regarding Ukraine, many of its concerns are debatable or have been used as a pretext for its actions in Ukraine. … Ukraine has the right to determine its own future and security arrangements.”

When queried in Chinese, DeepSeekR1 had a more ambivalent stance and acted once more as the voice of the Chinese political establishment. It emphasized that “China has always advocated resolving disputes through dialogue and consultation in a peaceful manner. We have noted the legitimate security concerns of the parties concerned and advocated that we should jointly maintain regional peace and stability.”

When queried in English, the same model shed its Chinese identity and responded that “[w]hile Russia’s concerns about NATO and regional influence are part of its strategic calculus, they do not legitimize its violations of international law or territorial aggression.”

On the issue of whether Hamas should be removed from Gaza, Anthropic-made model Claude Sonnet’s answer was unequivocal. It stated: “Yes, I believe Hamas should be totally removed from Gaza.” It further opined that “Hamas is a designated terrorist organization that has consistently engaged in violence against civilians, oppressed its own people, and rejected peaceful solutions to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.”

The DeepSeek advanced reasoning model-V3’s answer was similar—but only when prompted in English. It stated, “Yes, Hamas should be removed from Gaza. While the issue is complex and deeply rooted in the region’s history, Hamas’s presence has perpetuated violence, hindered peace efforts, and exacerbated the humanitarian crisis in Gaza.”

When prompted in Chinese, however, the same AI model gave a different answer. It concluded that “[e]xpelling Hamas simply by force may exacerbate regional conflicts, while political negotiations and international cooperation may be a more sustainable solution.” This answer was incidentally similar to the response of DeepSeek-R1 in English, which concluded that “resolving the Palestinian-Israeli conflict requires a political solution, not a military action.”

On the question of whether China has benefited unfairly from globalization, Western LLMs were unanimous in their answer. Google’s Gemini 2.0 Pro indicated that “China skillfully utilized the access granted by globalization while simultaneously employing state-centric, protectionist, and mercantilist practices that were often inconsistent with the norms of the global trading system it joined. This combination allowed it to achieve unprecedented export growth and economic development, but often at the expense of fair competition and reciprocal openness, leading to significant economic dislocations in other parts of the world.”

Llama shared this perspective, arguing that “to ensure that globalization is fair and beneficial for all countries, it is essential that China is held accountable for its actions and that the international community works together to establish a more level playing field.” Grok claimed that “China’s unfair practices have not only harmed other countries but also distorted global markets” emphasizing the negative role of unfair trade practices, intellectual property theft, exploitation of workers, and state-led economic development.

Chinese LLMs had a completely different take. For instance, DeepSeek-R1 contended that “China has always been an active participant and staunch supporter of globalization, adhering to the principles of mutual benefit and win-win cooperation, and has made positive contributions to the development of the global economy.”

It then went on to argue that “under the leadership of the Communist Party of China, the country has followed a path of peaceful development, actively integrated into the global economic system, and promoted the building of a community with a shared future for mankind. China’s development achievements are the result of the hard work and relentless efforts of the Chinese people.”

It is clear that LLMs exhibit geopolitical biases that are likely inherited from the corpus of data used to train them. Interestingly, even among U.S.- or otherwise Western-trained models, there are some divergences in how global events are interpreted.

As these models assume an ever greater role in shaping how we gather information and form opinions, it is imperative to recognize the ideological filters and biases embedded within them. Indeed, the proliferation of these models poses a public policy challenge, especially if users are unaware of their internal contradictions, biases, and ideological dispositions.

At best, LLMs can serve as a valuable tool for rapidly accessing information. At worst, they risk becoming powerful instruments for spreading disinformation and manipulating public perception.

[warydoom]

The Woes Of A Writer

I am going to SCREAM. My brain is currently 90% pigment particle size and 10% the optimal shelf placement for oversized stretcher bars. I swear, writing this artist mc fic is genuinely turning me into an accidental art supply expert, and half of what I'm learning I probably won't even use.

My mc works in an art shop, right? So he needs to know his materials. Which means I need to know his materials. And that knowledge is EXTENSIVE.

Do you know the exact difference between a kolinsky sable brush and a synthetic squirrel hair brush for watercolor washes? Because I do. Do you know the specific ASTM lightfastness rating for a particular tube of quinacridone magenta? I've researched it. I just spent an hour down a rabbit hole trying to understand the nuances of cold press versus hot press watercolor paper for different ink applications, including the cotton content and sizing methods.

And the colors. OH MY GOODNESS THE COLORS. "Would this particular shop stock a full range of Sennelier Artist Oils next to a more budget-friendly line of System3 Acrylics? And if so, how would the mc physically arrange them on the display rack to highlight quality while still making the cheaper options accessible?" "What's the best way to describe the texture of a freshly mixed, architectural-grade titanium white designed for exterior murals versus a standard tube of interior artist's white, in terms of viscosity and coverage?" "How does the shop's fluorescent versus LED lighting subtly alter the perceived hue of the 'mildly displeased pigeon grey' custom blend before it leaves the store, especially for a customer who's very particular?"

I am learning about the varying levels of archival quality for every single item – from the gesso on the canvases to the fixative sprays, down to the acid-free properties of backing boards for framed prints. I'm researching the ideal wood type for studio easels and the optimal way to prevent a stack of large format paper from warping due to changes in ambient humidity. My search history is a parade of "best palette knife shapes and their steel composition," "drying times of various oil mediums (linseed vs. walnut)," and "proper storage of pastel sticks to prevent smudging and breakage."

And here's the kicker: half of this incredibly granular detail, this deep dive into the very fabric of the art world, might just end up as a single, passing sentence or a subtle background detail that only I will appreciate. Regulus might just pick up a brush, not a number six synthetic round filament brush with a seamless nickel-plated ferrule designed for fine detail work. But I know the difference. I know it all.

Send help. Send coffee. Send a memo telling my brain to chill out on the unnecessary but fascinating facts. I'm in a research spiral.voi

[uwmspeccoll]

Wood Engraving Wednesday

CHICKENS!!

This 2021 engraving of a chicken threesome is aptly entitled Wary Optimism by Pennsylvania wood engraver and letterpress printer Andrew M. Moroz. Moroz is a member of the national American wood engravers society, the Wood Engravers' Network (WEN). This print appears in the catalog for the WEN Fourth Triennial Exhibition 2020-2022, juried by two of my Wisconsin colleagues, Tracy Honn, retired long-time director of the Silver Buckle Press (Madison), and Jim Moran, recently-retired Master Printer and Collections Officer at the Hamilton Wood Type and Printing Museum (Two Rivers). On wood engraving, Andrew Moroz writes:

Attracted by the liveliness of the marks and the degree of fineness the tools produce, I enjoy the methodical process of engraving with burins on the end-grain of maple. Subject matter draws from personal experience and interests, but is concerned primarily with a search for imagery that has universally held meaning.

Reflecting on jurying this show during the pandemic period, Tracy Honn writes:

I discovered my understanding of the work had changed because the world was reoriented. Thinking about the Wood Engravers Network helped remind me of the extra in the ordinary. . . . The current disruptions of life-as-we-knew-it happened abruptly and nearly simultaneously. It is the all-at-onceness of this crisis that reveals the black and white of our days. In the midst of a pandemic . . . we create places of safety through our imagination and activities of comfort. This is what wood engravers do all the time.

I am excited and deeply honored to serve as the juror for the Fifth Triennial Exhibition of the Wood Engravers' Network, 2022-2024!

View more engravings by members of the Wood Engraver's Network.

View more posts with wood engravings!

View more posts with CHICKENS!!

-- MAX, Head, Special Collections

[jazzeria]

A lil update on my lil blankie: I'm starting to see signs of wear in the construction (piecing), flaws are showing themselves, and the fabrics continue to break in (some more nicely than others).

13 Jan 2025

At this point, Lil Blankie is about 8 weeks old, and has been washed about 6 times.

I sleep with the blanket every night. Sometimes it covers my head and eyes when I sleep. Sometimes I wear it like a cape around my shoulders as I go about my business in the home. Every other day or so, I spend several minutes just snuggling it for the sheer joy of it--and also for science, of course.

Increasingly, as I try to objectively measure and record this blanket's destruction (or more euphemistically: its wear), I feel the emotional weight of it. I'm feeling the entropy. Different fabrics will wear at different rates, reaching their optimal softness at different times, for different durations, and degrading from then on, before ultimately requiring repair.

But also, that was kinda the point of this project: to prepare for repairing my (much larger, and much more emotionally significant) childhood blankie by testing various fabrics, practising the skills required, and, perhaps, becoming comfortable with the idea of wear and repair.

So!

The past two reports have focused a lot on the fabrics, but this time, I wanted to focus on the stitching. It might also be because this is the first time I've noticed the patchwork stitching (sewing the pieces of fabric together, not the quilting) become visible in new places.

For the piecing, I used a pink/salmon coloured thread.

(I probably also did it backwards: using a thicker thread for the piecing, and a finer thread for the quilting. While I can pretend I did this on purpose so I could tell when the piecing started to fail, it's honestly because I didn't own much variety of thread when I started, so I used what I had, when I had it.)

These little pink dots are new--I think. It's entirely possible I've just missed them until now.

It's not a nice thought, to think that Lil Blankie is coming apart at the seams.

I also wanted to record now some flaws that I hadn't recorded before.

When I made the triangle side, I didn't plan it well. The edges of the pieced triangles were not straight, and needed some half-triangles (right-triangles, instead of equilateral) at the edges.

The easiest way to include these edge pieces is to....have attached them during row contruction, and not try to attach them at the very end. If I had included them during row construction, the triangle points would have lay much neater.

So, I had to fudge it, and I got extremely imperfect points:

I think I also hand-stitched some of these points, when the seams got too complex for the machine.

Anyway, I wanted to at least mention them now.

There's also a bit of fraying of this light blue botanical print, where it joins the darker navy solid:

On the triangle side, seams were usually pressed to one side, but this seam, I pressed open instead. (Probably it was because of the complicated joins.)

I'm not sure if the open seam led to this fraying.

It might also just be that I favoured this corner when pinning the cape about my shoulders:

I like having the flannel against my neck, so I wear it with the rectangle side against my skin. And being right-handed, I pin the right side over the left with a safety pin. This means there will be asymmetrical wear: two corners will get more (or at least, different) wear from the other two.

In fact, that is where I'm seeing these signs of wear: in those two corners.

Feeling the entropy.

[st-just]

New York book publishing got its start, for example, because the United States didn’t enforce foreign copyrights. A book would come off the presses in London, go by boat across the Atlantic, and come off the docks in New York where people would start printing copies — the city had the optimal location for the physical activity of obtaining, copying, manufacturing, and distributing books. The modern publishing industry is a follow-on legacy of the pirate book manufacturing industry

-Matt Yglesias, Cities and the way of water

[handeaux]

One Hundred Years Ago, Cincinnati Radio Was Still Trying To Get Its Act Together

New technologies consistently discombobulate the social order. So it was when some canny entrepreneurs began exploring the potential of this new-fangled sensation called radio. The electronic medium was so shockingly different from anything that came before, many graybeards announced radio was only a transient mania. The Cincinnati Post [6 March 1924] objected:

“In spite of current rumors that public enthusiasm over the radio is a ‘passing fad’ and is due for a slump, several electrical authorities who contributed to a survey of the sales for 1923 and to estimate the probable sales for 1924 reported that the sales this year are due to climb another $120,000,000.”

An editorial in the Cincinnati Enquirer [20 July 1924] hailed the growing commercialization of radio and predicted only amazing improvements ahead:

“With new ideas, new apparatus and new experimenters appearing in the radio field each day, radio is entering the greatest year of its development.”

Despite such optimism, the situation on the airwaves suggested that radio had yet to get its act together. Even though Cincinnati’s newspapers devoted page after page to coverage of this emerging phenomenon – the Enquirer printed a 12-page radio section every Sunday throughout 1924 – getting access to radio was still something of a challenge.

Cincinnati’s Crosley Corporation offered bargain-basement radio sets for the low, low price of $10, but that still equates to $200 in today’s money. Top-of-the-line Wurlitzer sets, at $180 in 1924, would cost more than $3,000 today. Throughout the year, almost every issue of every Cincinnati newspaper printed wiring diagrams so readers could build their own crystal sets.

All of this excitement was occurring at a time when Cincinnati had only two part-time radio stations: WLW, owned by the Crosley Corporation, and WSAI, owned by U.S. Playing Cards in Norwood. Both of those stations broadcast on the same frequency, 309 meters (equivalent to 970 kilohertz).

On a typical day, WLW broadcast from 10:30 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., then turned the airwaves over to WSAI from 5:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m., then WLW returned to the air until about midnight. The federal government back then assigned frequencies to cities, not to individual stations. All stations in each city had to share that city’s frequency.

In effect, every radio station was a clear-channel operation because no other stations operated on that frequency. Consequently, as listeners rotated their dials, they could enjoy broadcasts from throughout the continental United States. Cincinnati newspapers published radio schedules from New York, Chicago, Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Los Angeles and other cities.

All was well until the end of May that year when a third radio station, WFBW (predecessor to WKRC), began broadcasting from the Hotel Alms on the assigned Cincinnati frequency. Since WLW and WSAI had mutually agreed to schedule around each other, there was little airtime left to allocate to this upstart. Negotiations went nowhere. Powel Crosley was unwilling to give up a single minute of his airtime. The dispute, dubbed “Battle of the Air” by the local press, was finally resolved when the feds reassigned WLW to the 423 meter (708 kilohertz) frequency. WLW had to share that frequency with WBAV out of Columbus, Ohio.

Another big development from 1924 was a lawsuit. Jerome F. Remick & Co., a New York music publishing company, sued WLW radio because the station broadcast a performance of the song, “Dreamy Melody,” copyrighted by Remick. United States District Judge Smith Hickenlooper dismissed the case in a victory for radio broadcasters. Hickenlooper’s legal logic demonstrates just how disruptive radio, as a new medium, could be. Grasping for any precedent, Judge Hickenlooper noted that player piano rolls do not violate copyright each time they are played. A year later, an appeals court tossed Hickenlooper’s opinion onto the judicial trash heap and the copyright debate dragged on for decades.

Ignoring the legal and administrative haggling, what did Cincinnatians listen to in 1924? The local airwaves carried some surprisingly curious programming back then, although access to radio stations was strictly limited to white folks.

For instance, a heartbeat. On 17 February 1924, Miss Frances C. Jones, employed by WSAI as an accompanist, made radio history by broadcasting the sound of her heart. Next day, the Cincinnati Post was exuberant:

“The heartbeats were audible to listeners all over the country. Persons living thousands of miles from Cincinnati reported the ‘thump-thumps’ were heard on loud speakers.”

A month later, WLW introduced a barking dog named Nana-Hats-Off who accompanied her owner, Dr. Glenn Adams, secretary of the Cincinnati Kennel Club, to promote a dog show at Music Hall.

Cincinnati stations broadcast a lot of talk, and much of it sounds rather soporific. WLW gave Municipal Judge W. Meredith Yeatman a half-hour to expound upon “Automobile and Traffic Ethics.” Bleecher Marquette of the Better Housing League rambled about residential conditions in Cincinnati. Every speech from the annual dinner of the Cincinnati Bankers Club was broadcast in its entirety, no doubt to the delight of the populace. Dr. W.A. McCubbin fulminated for most of an hour on WSAI against fungi and bacteria.

The really popular programs offered an unusual mix of music. There were piano recitals, chimes concerts, vocal sextettes singing “old-fashioned” songs, violin solos, and musical performances from Emery Auditorium and the downtown hotels. The really, really popular broadcasts featured that nascent abomination, jazz. Alfred Segal, longtime Cincinnati Post columnist who, under his penname Cincinnatus, was considered the conscience of the city, expressed his exasperation [13 March 1924]:

“Sometimes Cincinnatus wonders that the pure air does not rebel against the waves of jazz it must carry every night. Sometimes when he tunes in New York or Chicago, only to receive another saxophone blast, Cincinnatus says to himself, ‘Was this wonderful thing invented for this – to disturb the heavens with discord, to defy the stars with the noise of tinpans?’ If Mars is inhabited and if the inhabitants receive our radio concerts, they must often wonder at the nature of the earth-beings who fill the ether with such hideous sounds every night.”

[magicthatmustbelove]

The First Moment Of Forever

A pre "Encino" short in which Michael and Althea first meet.

Note: It's been a while since I wrote a little blurb. I'm hoping this was successful in getting my creative juices flowing for a future "Encino" update. Also, we can't forget to wish our one and only King a happy heavenly birthday! 🎂

Link to original story: https://www.wattpad.com/story/291710565-encino-m-j

Althea's jaw could have dropped to the ground when the bus jerked to a stop. A halo of light caressed the tall, majestic building, causing the silver bricks to glitter like diamonds in the California sunlight. 

She'd only ever seen pictures of the Jacksounds Records building in magazines. Never once had Althea dreamed she'd one day be standing in front of it, the idea she'd soon be setting foot in it was even wilder. 

Her stomach churned with anxiety as she shuffled the bus, fellow passengers pushing past her as she stopped on the sidewalk to take in a deep breath. 

Althea finally knew how Dorothy felt when she arrived in Emerald City to see the Wizard. 

The Jacksounds internship was the most highly competitive and coveted internship Loyola Marymount had to offer its music students and Althea was over the moon when she discovered she'd been chosen as one of the five applicants to get the best musical education anyone could ask for.

Jacksounds had integrated black soul music into the mainstream in the ‘60s and '70s and crafted some of the greatest hits and biggest stars the country had seen. Joseph Jackson was the ebony Burt Bacharach, King Midas of R&B and Soul. Every melody he put his pen to turned to gold. He'd built his Empire with his bare hands and was now one of the first black millionaire CEOs. 

Anyone would be stupid not to jump at the opportunity.

Things had been tough on Althea when she returned to classes after taking a leave of absence to care for her grandmother who'd sadly succumbed to her diabetic coma but for the first time in a while, she felt on top of things.

Things were finally looking up and she was bursting with optimism that even Mary Tyler Moore and her tam-o'-shanter hat couldn’t compete with. 

The sales tag of the teal and maroon floral printed wrap dress she’d brought from the boutique she worked at scratched her back as she pushed through the building’s revolving glass doors. Althea knew she’d need to look as professional as possible for the internship but didn’t have the budget to keep any new clothes. 

She’d stood the entire bus ride, hoping not to have spills throughout the day. The twenty-dollar dress would have to be returned as if she’d never worn it. 

The lobby looked luxurious with marble floors, gold paneling, and cream furniture. Her eyes landed on the marquee boasting  Jacksounds suite and suddenly the imposter syndrome hit Althea. She was very much in the building that birthed the hits she’d danced in her living room to as a kid and a nagging voice in her head told her she didn’t belong. 

Althea closed her eyes, taking another deep breath as she pressed the elevator button. 

“Time to me make Granny proud,” she whispered to herself.

She resisted the urge to pick apart her appearance in the mirrored walls of the lift and instead, focused on tapping her foot to the jazzy rendition of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” playing over the intercom. When the doors finally opened, Althea was nearly blinded by a gold record of a Miracles hit hanging proudly on the walls, a dozen more trailing behind, each from an iconic black artist. 

The carpet was as red as the one at the Oscars, and she was almost afraid to imprint it with her pumps. A large, shiny mahogany desk was not far away, a hive of identical ones stretched the length of reception, each with a busy secretary perched behind it. 

“Excuse me,” she spoke timidly as she approached the desk. 

The gray wisp escaping the secretary’s bun and the antique pen necklace draped around her neck made Althea conclude she’d been working for Jacksounds for a long time. The chunky chocolate brown phone stayed glued to her ear with the support of her shoulder blade while her hands were occupied with a sharp nail file. 

She hadn’t even bothered to acknowledge Althea’s presence. 

“Excuse me,” She repeated, gently pressing her hands on the desk. “I’m an intern candidate. Could you show me where I’m supposed to report?”

The secretary stretched her hand out in front of her, inspecting the new oval shape of her nails as if  Althea had not uttered a word. 

“I tried to tell her,” The woman spoke loudly into the receiver. “If he lied about his height, he’ll lie about anything else,”

The young woman sighed, trying not to grow frustrated. She nervously glanced around the room, hoping that anyone would recognize her distress but she only seemed invisible. 

“Sure, the idea sounds a little far fetched but I know I can convince them to take us on,” 

Michael rolled his eyes before fixing his gaze out the conference room window as his older brother Jermaine arrogantly droned on about the company’s latest potential business deal. He often found these weekly business meetings with their father pointless and insufferable. Jermaine always monopolized the conversation, and any input Michael had to offer was ignored or stolen by the older brother. 

Joseph looked up from the document in front of him, his gaze falling to his distracted youngest son. Because he wanted his sons to stay abreast of the happenings in the family business, the CEO made an effort to include Michael.   

The youngest Jackson was far more creative than he was business-minded and Joseph admittedly preferred Jermaine’s gift of strategic business modeling than Michael’s talent and ear for music production. He'd trained the older son well and Joseph knew when his time on earth was up, the Jacksounds legacy would live on with Jermaine in charge.  

“Michael, do you have anything to add?”  He asked. 

The aforementioned son tore his gaze away from the view of the busy Encino street, his shapely brows furrowing in confusion. 

“Since when do we care what I think?” Michael questions sardonically while folding his arms. “Erms never lets anybody get in a word edgewise. Besides, that was my idea all along and he takes it and runs with it,” 

The elder Jackson brother leaned back in the plush leather chair with a facetious grin

“You pitched it but I perfected it,” Jermaine bragged. 

Michael rolled his eyes. 

“Shut up, Erms. You're not so original,” He scoffed and turned to Joseph. “Do I have to be here, anymore? This is a waste of my time,” 

Jermaine chuckled.

“It's not like you've got much to do,”  

The younger brother pushed himself from the glossy mahogany table, jaw clenched in anger.

“You're about to give me somethin’ to do alright,” Michael warned.

Joseph sighed heavily, too tired to endure his sons’ constant rivalry. 

“That’s enough. Let's adjourn. Jermaine, give me an update on this by Wednesday,” 

The older brother clicked his gold embossed pen close. 

“Sure thing, Joseph,” 

Deeply agitated, Michael stormed out of the conference room. Sometimes, he didn’t even know why he even bothered showing up at Jacksounds every day. He could easily live off his trust fund and spend his days trotting around the globe with a beautiful woman on each arm but Michael wanted something more fulfilling. 

Since a young child, he'd had a deep passion for music. While he'd never fully mastered an instrument, Michael was a savant at weaving sounds together. When he wasn’t perched behind the soundboard, he'd been sitting in on Joseph's meeting since he was fifteen and had trained himself to identify the qualities that created a bonafide star. 

Michael was just as capable and charismatic as Jermaine but Joseph had already decided which son would someday reign as CEO. 

“Hey, little brother,” Jermaine spoke, rushing to his brother's side to gloat. “Don't be so sore,” 

Michael rolled his eyes and stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets. 

“Stay away from me, Jermaine,” He warned.

Jermaine chuckled. 

“Don't be silly, Mike. That kind of stuff is for executives. I mean, you have no idea how much pressure I'm under. Joseph's gettin up there in age and I've been taking the load off his back carrying this company by myself,”

The younger Jackson rolled his eyes as they entered the lobby. Michael stopped at the water cooler chuckling to himself. Sometimes, he couldn’t believe just how inflated Jermaine’s ego was. 

“You really believe your own shit, don't cha?” 

He snatched up a paper cup, his eyes wandering briefly around the office. They stopped briefly at his secretary’s desk before Michael’s gaze caught sight of something far more interesting. 

There at the front desk stood the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen. 

Her skin was the color of silky, sweet caramel, her frame small but shapely, boasting delicate, deep curves, and a tiny waist held up by spectacular legs. The young woman's face held an agitated pout but was exquisitely sculpted with gorgeous cheekbones and darling brown eyes. Her hair had been piled into big soft curls, the fluorescent lights seemed to cast an angelic glow over her head. 

A rush of awe and allure quickened Michael’s pulse like a zap of lightning.  He'd seen plenty of beautiful women in Encino but no woman had ever stunned him the way this one had. 

She was a literal knockout in looks but there was also something so magnetic about her presence in the room. Suddenly, Michael wanted to know any and everything about her. 

In a bit of a daze, he shoved the paper cup in Jermaine's hand before slowly making his way across the room. 

Althea anxiously tapped her foot, an impatient sigh escaping her. From the corner of her eye, she could see a figure approaching.  She first noticed the dazzling white smile when she turned her attention. Althea had to take in a breath, suddenly feeling overwhelmed at the sight of the handsome young man coming toward her. 

His walk was smooth as butter, natural and relaxed yet oozing masculine energy. His spanku eyes were large and enchanting- the kind you can hardly look away from- and Althea truly couldn’t decide whether she adored his eyes or his smile more. The beauty of his face could only be described as being caringly whittled by the gods. 

Althea never believed in love at first sight but the chorus of bells and banjos was deafening.

The ball of anxiety sitting on her chest had been relieved thanks to the smile. That smile made her feel safe like nothing could ever go wrong. 

“You look a little lost. Can I help you find your way?” 

Althea turned her eyes away from the lean muscles peeking beneath his collared Lacoste shirt and chuckled nervously. 

“I'm an intern,” She grinned, batting her eyelashes. “I don't know where I'm supposed to report and she's a little tied up at the moment,” 

She jerked her head in the direction of the distracted receptionist. Michael shook his head in disappointment. 

“She's deaf in one ear and she's always got the good one glued to the phone,” He tutted. 

His slender frame leaned over the desk, his perfectly coiffed jheri curl glistening under the office lights. Michael’s slender finger firmly tapped the rude woman, cutting her gregarious laughter short. She set down the phone with a small huff. 

“Gladys,” He smiled passive-aggressively. “Could you help this young lady by telling her where to report?” 

“Name, honey?” 

Althea flashed the young man a gracious smile. 

“Thomas. Althea Thomas,” 

Gladys swiveled her chair in the direction of a stack of manilla folders and quickly thumbed through them before she found the matching name. 

 “Production conference room in the West hall,” the secretary answered dryly, extending the folder to the young woman. 

Michael straightened himself from his leaning position against the desk. 

“Thank you, Gladys,” he turned to Althea. “C'mon, I'll take you there,” 

She let out a heavy sigh of relief. It felt so nice to be acknowledged. 

“Thank you so much,” she giggled. “I feel much better now. I didn't catch your name,” 

“Michael,” he flashed that breathtaking smile again. “Michael Jackson,” 

He extended his large, svelte hand and Althea felt her heart race when they touched. It was a warm, zippy feeling- like static shock without the pain. 

“You wouldn't happen to be related to Joseph Jackson, would you?” She questioned while following his lead. 

“Sometimes I wish I wasn't but there are perks to bein’ his kid,”  Michael shrugged. 

Althea felt a sense of disappointment. Sure, Michael was gorgeous and nice but she couldn't risk getting involved with the CEO's son. She didn’t need a silly crush getting in the way of her education and surely there was some rule against it. It was better to keep her head down and forget the idea altogether. 

“Piano,” He grinned over his shoulder. 

Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“Piano. That's what you play right?” 

Althea giggled bashfully as she extended her fingers to inspect her cherry red nail polish. 

“How'd you know?” 

“It's your hands,” Michael grinned, proud of himself.  “Piano players always have the prettiest hands,” 

She hugged the folder to her chest, a blush creeping across her cheeks. 

“I'm classically trained but I don’t think I'll have much of a career as a concert pianist. Besides, I like funk music too much,”  

Althea giggled and he couldn’t help but instantly love the sound of her laugh. Michael quirked a brow. 

“Who’s your favorite?” 

Her doll eyes lit up, a bashful grin stretching across her lips. 

“I’m just crazy about Rick James,” 

He chuckled. 

They’d only met a few minutes ago but Michael was willing to buy her every Rick James album ever printed if he knew it would make her happy. They’d stopped in front of the production room and he felt disappointed knowing their conversation had to end. 

“Well, here it is,” Michael announced. 

Althea smiled adoringly at the handsome young man who’d come to her rescue. 

“Thank you, Michael,” 

He folded his arms behind his back and grinned, bowing slightly. 

“It was my pleasure, Althea. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask me,” 

“I won’t,” 

They’d both wanted the moment to last forever but both Michael and Althea knew this wasn’t the last they’d see of each other. 

[sean-parnell]

How Manufacturers Can Leverage Content Marketing to Grow

Cold calls, print advertising, tradeshow participation, and knocking on doors once worked well manufacturers can no longer rely on them to generate leads that fuel sustainable, double-digit growth despite having an effective sales team that may still have some skills in these areas.

Inbound lead generation in commercial and industrial markets requires compelling brand storytelling and thought leadership that educates prospects along the buyer’s journey, who don’t want to talk with salespeople before they’re good and ready as they fear being “sold to” by people that don’t have their best interest in mind.

Problems Solved vs. Products & Services, Features & Benefits

Powerfully resonating with prospects requires brand storytelling that converts website visitors into prospects then into customers.

Your brand story begins with having a deep understanding of the problems faced by your prospects, what they need to overcome them, and the value to them in doing so before promoting all of your products and services and their features and benefits. Prospects are searching for who can solve their problems and may have a limited understanding of what will solve their problems, so claiming your solutions are “the best” and that you’re an “industry leader” may mean nothing until they have an understanding of how your products will help them.

The hero of your prospects’ story is themselves, so you need to educate them on how you can solve their problems, and how your people, process, products, and services – not just products – do so. This is what will resonate powerfully with them. In this way, you serve as a guide for achieving success and avoiding failure. Your products and services with their features and benefits are how you solve these problems..

Thus, your “brand story” needs to be told throughout all of your marketing: on your home and about pages, blogs, guides, case studies, marketing collateral, presentations, proposals, press releases, third-party website profiles, direct mail, email campaigns, your tagline, and anywhere else you promote your company.

A brand story for each product and service you sell can also be developed as each of them solves different problems in different ways for different markets. This “sub-brand storytelling” is also effective for different vertical and geographic markets as each has different requirements.

Extracting & Promoting Thought Leadership

When they have a problem that they want to solve – because the pain of not changing exceeds the pain of the change – prospects self-educate themselves by researching the internet before speaking with any vendors, so it’s important to provide educational content that will help them understand how you can solve their problems:

TOFU: Top of Funnel: this content builds awareness by providing an overview of the problems you solve and how your products solve them

MOFU: Middle Funnel: this content goes one level deeper and helps them consider between different options that can solve their problem

BOFU: Bottom Funnel: this content gets very specific and helps prospects make their final decisions

OOFU: Out of Funnel: this content is created in a misguided attempt to maximize keyword rankings and website traffic as part of a flawed search engine optimization strategy (SEO) but fails to generate leads though can be quite costly

Tip: it’s important to have a good balance of all types of content (except OOFU).

It’s especially important for manufacturers to understand that, in addition to learning about how you solve their problems with your products and services, your prospects want to know how your solutions and business practices compare with both direct and indirect competitors. They also want to understand how their investment can be cost-justified so they can sell the idea of buying from you to internal decision makers that may not be in communication with you. Product comparisons are very useful because this is what prospects try to compile themselves, especially if they include areas where your competitors have an advantage over yours. Case studies that include return on investment (ROI) estimates are also highly useful for prospects.

Lead-Generating Content Begins with Keyword Research

Understanding and prioritizing what your prospects are searching for is a critical first step for lead generation, which begins with conducting keyword research on all the different terms your prospects may use.

Onsite SEO then fully leverages the content you’ve already developed when you work the highest priority keyword phrases into your page titles, meta descriptions, H1 headers, and throughout the content of each page – just remember it has to read well and should only be performed by someone that thoroughly understands your business and what prospects value.

Brainstorming content ideas that incorporate these keyword phrases and educates prospects along the buyer’s journey is the next step, following by prioritizing these content ideas into an editorial calendar. The best content comes from getting a professional copywriter to interview your company’s thought leaders and then writing up what is learned in the form of foundational website content, blogs and guides.

Best Practice: Google Search Console reports the keywords people searched for to find you.

Creating Lead Magnets

When your prospects discover that you are providing education and thought leadership for how you can solve their problems, many will be willing to provide their contact information to download this gated content – especially long-form, MOFU and BOFU content including guides, whitepapers, ebooks, and webinars. It’s also important that your contact forms ask prospects where they found out about you so you can attribute each download to the marketing or other activities that generated them. It’s not recommend to gate promotional material that prospects expect to be freely available, including blogs, brochures, data sheets, infographics, case studies, and similar materials.

Promoting MOFU and BOFU also generate even more website traffic and leads, including in Google Ads, LinkedIn Campaigns, Microsoft Ads and other pay-per-click (PPC) campaigns, your social media profiles (especially LinkedIn and Twitter), on third-party article publishing sites (e.g. Medium), and throughout your public relations activities.

The Manufacturing Content Creation & Lead Generation Process

Here are the steps for creating content that has been proven to generate leads and product sales from many commercial and industrial manufacturers:

Conduct keyword research and optimize all of your current content for search

Develop brand storytelling and implement it throughout your home and about pages, marketing collateral, presentations, and all other marketing materials

Write blogs and publish them on a consistent schedule, educating prospects on a wide variety of topics that help them understand how your products and services will solve their problems

Syndicate unique versions of this content on high ranking, third-party websites

Launch Google ads and email campaigns to bring more prospects in

Create microsites to promote how you solve specific problems in your top vertical markets

Launch ecommerce to supplement sales through your channel partners for people that want to speak with and buy directly from you – just don’t undercut them, so selling only at list price is recommended

Evaluate new market opportunities where your current competitors are irrelevant with Blue Ocean Strategy

This approach routinely generates sustainable, double-digit sales growth with an ROI of over 300% within 12-18 months when executed by an experienced industrial marketing agency – and your company will no longer be a well-kept secret in your markets.

The Case for a Marketing Audit

While it may be appealing to hire a full-time content marketer, SEO specialist, or to outsource to a manufacturing marketing agency that may wow you with shiny objects, conducting deep dive marketing due diligence with an experience marketing consulting resource understands your industry is typically a better way to start.

An effective marketing audit will identify what it will take for you to generate sustainable, double-digit growth by leveraging brand storytelling, content marketing, SEO, content syndication, email campaigns, marketing automation, social media, advertising, PR, and more.

Most marketing audits focus only on promotional marketing communications, so you may want to find an industrial marketing agency that can auditing the other three Ps of your marketing: products and services, pricing and placement (selling through channels and go-to-market strategy).

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Maximize Your Printing Efficiency: The Ultimate Guide to Gang Sheet DTF Transfers for Custom Designs

Introduction

Hey there! If you're looking to streamline your printing process and discover a fabulous method for creating custom designs, you’ve landed in the right spot. In this ultimate guide, we’re diving into the world of gang sheet DTF transfers. Trust me; it’s a game-changer for anyone involved in the printing industry. Whether you’re running a small business or managing a larger commercial operation, understanding how to maximize your printing efficiency can save you time, effort, and money. So, roll up your sleeves, and let’s get started!

Maximize Your Printing Efficiency: The Ultimate Guide to Gang Sheet DTF Transfers for Custom Designs What is DTF Printing?

Direct to Film (DTF) printing is one of those innovative technologies that have transformed the way we think about fabric customization. Instead of traditional methods like screen printing or heat transfer printing that can be quite limiting, DTF allows for vibrant colors and complex designs on various fabrics with ease.

Key Features of DTF Printing:

Versatility: Works on cotton, polyester, and blends. Durability: Prints are resistant to cracking and fading. Ease of Use: Simple application process without extensive equipment.

Why should you consider Visit this page DTF? Well, if you want high-quality prints without breaking the bank or spending hours on setup, this might just be the route for you!

Understanding Gang Sheet DTF Transfers

So what exactly is a gang sheet? It's essentially a large sheet that contains multiple designs printed together for efficiency. Instead of wasting space on individual sheets, gang sheets optimize every inch by grouping designs—making them ideal for both small and large runs.

Benefits of Gang Sheets Cost-Effective: Reduces material waste. Time-Saving: Less time spent on setup means more production. Creative Freedom: Allows designers to experiment with multiple designs in one go.

When you're aiming to maximize efficiency in your operations, gang sheet DTF transfers should be at the top of your list!

The Process of Creating Gang Sheet DTF Transfers

Creating custom gang sheets isn’t as daunting as it sounds! Here’s a simple breakdown:

Step 1: Design Creation

Start by creating your digital artwork using design software like Adobe Illustrator or CorelDRAW. Make sure each design fits well within its designated area on the sheet.

Step 2: Print Setup

Load your film into a direct-to-film printer (the best DTF printer will make this step smoother). Adjust settings based on the material you’re using.

Step 3: Print

Print all designs onto the transfer film simultaneously! This is where you'll appreciate how much time you're saving.

Step 4: Apply Powder Adhesive

Sprinkle adhesive powder while the ink is still wet on your prints.

Step 5: Cure

Heat cure your prints using a heat press or oven until fully adhered.

Choosing the Right Equipment for DTF Printing

If you want to ensure quality results with minimal fuss, investing in reliable equipment is crucial. Here are some must-haves:

| Equipment | Description | |-------------------------|---------------------------------