#also i'm *kinda* having issues coming up with something for today's prompt anyway

[galaxyseclipse]

kinda sucks it's not from screaminktober today, but like

they look so cool...

[emmyrosee]

EMMY. EMMY. OH MY GOODNESS. I’M POPPING IN SUPER QUICKLY AFTER SEEING THE INBOX OPENING AGAIN TO GIVE U THIS ADORABLE THOUGHT I HAD!!!

(and ok Ik I said my next ramble would be Bakugou but I……. may or may not have lost the prompt I had written down to send in from back then……. I’M LOOKING FOR IT THO I SWEAR!!! I’ll make good on my promise, my memory is just bad and I can’t remember it for the life of me!!!)

ANYWAY!!!!!

I come to propose a question: how do you think the actual loml miya atsumu would deal with an incredibly needy s/o who is absolutely horrible at asking for affection even when you so desperately want it (me lmfao I can’t ask for shit without getting embarrassed)?? I’m talking giving him all the hints- tugging on his shirt, the pleading eyes, poking him until he’s annoyed enough to react, etc. Everything but outright asking for affection. I feel like at first he wouldn’t pick up on it but after he gets used to the habits? “Ohhhhh I see what you want baby”. Teases relentlessly until he finally gives in and gives you all the attention you could ever (not) ask for and THEN some. He’s always the one asking for affection, so when the roles are reversed why wouldn’t he make it worthwhile? He loves the smile and how happy and giggly you get after!!

maybe sometimes he’d even try a roundabout way of helping you get better at asking for things by being a little shit and doing something different from what you were hinting at until you finally ask, and he just gets the biggest smile on his face and cheers and :(((

…can you tell my love language is physical touch?? also that I’m lonely?? all I ever ramble on about is how badly I want to be on the receiving end of love and affection from these boys 🤪

anon <3

GOD. HANDS AND KNEES DAWG.

I feel like atsumu is the kinda boyfriend to be able to completely ask what he wants, and he left all of the being shy to osamu. He’s got no issue coming up to you and asking for some snuggles and affection, and while it’s not quite the same as him giving the affection to you, it’s enough contact where he’s on top of you or curled against you where you can scratch the need just a little bit.

But he doesn’t always need that level of babying. He doesn’t always have to be cuddled and have his hair carded and his arms gently rubbed, and sometimes, he completely bypasses attention all together because how is he supposed to know you need it when you can’t tell him?

Which, right now, it’s hard, because you just want to be coddled and loved, and he doesn’t seem to get it :(

So, you do start to rebel. Just slightly.

It starts small, you laying your legs across his lap on the couch in hopes he’ll tug you on top of him, but all he does is rub your shin with his thumb- when you poke him with your toes, he breaks out a tickle attack that has you screaming and giggling and satisfying a small part of you that needs him.

“Don’t poke me with your dogs, that’s nasty,” he snickers, placing a kiss on your cheek before gently moving your legs off of him, getting up and kissing you before heading to the kitchen.

When you follow him, he’s heating up some leftover pizza, and when you hoist yourself up and onto the counter in his way, he looks at you with beady eyes and pokes his tongue in the corner of his mouth.

“Must you sit right there?” He asks, motioning to the microwave just a few feet away. You giggle, and he rolls his eyes and gently places a few kisses along your neck and jawline and a final one on your lips. “Needy baby- go back to the couch, stay comfortable; I'm gonna bang out some of the chores.”

Your hands reach out to grip his shirt, and now the smile on his face slowly starts to fade. “Baby. I got shit to do. Let go.”

“No,” you whimper. And he’s getting annoyed, you can feel it, but you just...

You just want him so bad; he’s been so focused on other things today, things involving not you, and it’s making you antsy and honestly, a little frustrated.

Of course he's allowed to do other things through the day. But you just want ten minutes where you're his and his alone, and you don't have to share him with whatever stupid tasks cross his path.

With a roll of his eyes, he pulls out of your grip to eat the slice cold, mumbling a muffled "whatever" as he walks down the hall to the bedroom. You feel neglected, tossed aside, because you're not trying to be a force, you just need him to use his damn cognitive thinking for five damn seconds-

Against your better judgement perhaps, you get up and follow him to the bedroom, gnawing on your lip and fiddling with your fingers. there's a piece of pizza dangling from his teeth as he folds some of his laundry. Golden eyes flick to you, and you nod subtly as you make your way to the bed and pick up a clean shirt. It smells so clean, yet it lingers with the smell of his cologne and hair gel, and you clutch it close instead of folding it.

"Ya don't have to help," he says, using one of his hands to pull away the remaining bit of pizza. "But can I have that?"

"No."

"Babe-"

"I want it."

"Like... to have?" He pops the last of the pizza in his mouth.

You roll your eyes, "no... it just... smells like you."

"It shouldn't, I just washed it-"

"In a good way."

A brow raises, "well can't I just give you a hug so I can finish my laundry.

Before you can say anything else, his face softens, the cogs simply starting to turn at the sound of his own words. Maybe this did work...

“Oh.”

Maybe.

“Oh.”

Did it-

“I know what you want.”

Your heart races as he talks to you. A cocky smirk slowly spreads over his cheeks, and you whine softly in your throat as he wraps his thick hands under your knees, and yanks you towards him. You squeal, batting his hands away, but he’s quick to gather your torso in his arms and hoist you up and against his chest.

“You just want some lovin’s, don’t ya?” He asks, and when you don’t answer, he clicks his tongue and slowly rocks you both back and forth. “Just soooo blinded in your love and adoration for me that you can’t say that you needed me.”

"Shut up-"

"God forbid I do anything but cater to your every whim and need and desire!"

“You’re an ass,” you snicker.

He plants a kiss on your forehead with a smile, “it’s alright; I’ll always figure it out in the end, baby.”

And you just. Melt into him. It’s all you can do, this is all you’ve wanted all day, and now that you're completely enveloped in his arms, it's like every swimming thought you've had, and every insecurity about asking him for affection is stilled, and you're able to just focus on him, and his tight grip around you.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you, love," he mumbles, nosing your temple. You nod and curl closer, letting the smell of clean laundry lull you at ease.

and of course he's not just going to let this lay. because atsumu is cocky and hes annoying and all he wants is for his baby to be confident in asking for him :(

but rather than trying to move on with his day, he's trying to coax you to be more comfortable in letting him know you want him. he does these big, dramatic leaps of what you could possibly want from him when you swat and tug at him. anything that'll make you feel safer in talking to him and expressing your needs.

because ultimately, thats all atsumu wants- you to feel safe :(

[itsjaywalkers]

for the prompt game: ROSEKILLER 57 WITH BOXER AU IVE BEEN WAITING MY WHOLE LIFE FOR THIS MOMENT……….. (also i hope you’re having a fun day off laurie hi hi 🥺🤍)

HI HI SAINTS BELOVED <333 i actually didn't get the day off bc i'm an idiot and i couldn't say no when my coworker asked me to change shifts.. but at least i got home before 10pm which . is unusual for me lmao . and today's shift was actually kinda fun so !!

anyways, hope you're having a lovely day and that u enjoy this silly lil thing <3 first peek into boxer au rosekiller <3 (i went a bit overboard but they've been plaguing my mind and u don't deserve less)

57. "Teach me to fight."

It's been more than half an hour of hitting the punching bag nonstop when Barty finally decides to take a break. It's not even because he's actually tired, despite the sweat he can already feel dripping down his back and his face. It's because his bad shoulder—the right one—dislocated during the last combination he tried, and after Barty puts it back in place, he's gotta wait a little bit before going back to training.

This happens way too often for comfort, but it's not really painful anymore—it never really was, or maybe Barty has simply dealt with much worse. Besides, the longer he ignores it, the more serious it'll get, which means he'll have an excuse to go get another check-up.

His manager already warned him when he first got the injury after that stupid fight with stupid Potter. Barty began to grow restless during recovery time, and then decided his shoulder was fine when it stopped hurting.

Obviously, he was wrong. Except, it only dislocates when he goes too hard, and he's learnt how to put it back in place without issue, so really, technically, he was sort of right. What does his manager know, anyway? As long as Barty continues winning and putting money in that fucker's pocket, there shouldn't be any complaints.

He pulls up his tank top and dries off some of the sweat on his neck and the side of his face, while rolling his shoulder gently, testing the waters before he goes back to punching, when the hairs at his nape begin to stand up.

There's no noise, no sudden sounds. Barty doesn't hear the door opening, or closing, and yet, when he turns around, smirk already pulling at his lips, he isn't surprised to find someone standing right behind him.

"Hey, Rosie," he greets the other man, who blinks at him, completely deadpan. "I didn't know you were still around. Long shift today?"

"Yes, you did," Evan responds, that cool tone of his sending a pleasing chill down Barty's spine. "Know, that is. I'm pretty sure you've got my schedule memorised."

Barty takes a few moments to drop the hem of his shirt, because he notices the way in which Evan's gaze drops to his stomach and stays there for a handful of seconds. His expression doesn't change, there isn't even a flicker of something in his face, but the attention is more than enough for him.

"Well, you left your email open and your laptop in my near vicinity." Barty shrugs, eyes running up and down Evan's body. He's still wearing that sexy white coat of his, the shirt underneath it perfectly buttoned and tucked inside his jeans.

There's barely any skin showing, because Evan is a little weirdo, but there's some ankle peeking, since the pants are ridiculously tight on him and the legs keep riding up slightly.

Honestly, it's like he's doing it on purpose. Barty can't be blamed if he ends up hard under his sweats. He can already feel some blood rushing south just at the sight of that tiny sliver of soft brown skin.

"And you downloaded my rotas?" Evan guesses, tilting his head to the side.

"Nah," Barty says, crossing his arms over his chest, flexing a little. "Didn't have to. I've got a damn good memory. I read over them for a couple of minutes until they stuck."

Evan nods, not fazed in the slightest.

"That's why you only come in when I'm on shift," Evan states, and it's not a question. He doesn't seem surprised, or freaked out, but then again, he barely shows any emotions. Apart from irritation, that is, and that one's reserved for when Barty is being especially pushy. Or especially horny.

"I don't think I've ever seen any of the other nurses a single time in my life," Barty tells him with a chuckle.

"You have," Evan retorts, and his eyes narrow the tiniest bit. Barty feels a pull in his stomach. "You were talking to Betty three weeks ago, after your match against Black. The bad one. You let her check your shoulder."

Barty lets out an incredulous laugh, not sure on where to focus first, going dizzy with how badly he wants this freak of a man.

He's obsessed with the way in which Evan always seems to get the urge to clarify which Black he's talking about, as if it's not obvious, considering only one of them fights. How he's always so precise, never allowing any ambiguity into his sentences. How almost nothing seems to hold his focus apart from his experiments and medicine and his patients' injuries, and yet, here he is, remembering when Barty talked to someone else momentarily.

"Did I?" Barty asks innocently, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his shit-eating grin at bay.

"Yes," Evan responds, a little furrow appearing between his eyebrows. "She was touching you."

"Was she?" The corners of Barty's mouth are twitching so much he's sure he must look like an absolute maniac.

"Yes," Evan repeats, some exasperation slipping into his voice. "She wasn't even doing it right. She kept kneading the muscle in the same place, instead of checking the ligament, and she did this for more than five minutes, even though it takes seconds to find out about a dislocation—"

"Rosie," Barty cuts him off gently, watching, with no little amount of delight, how Evan's frown worsens. "I didn't even know her fucking name. I couldn't give less of a fuck about stupid Betty, or whatever the hell she's called."

Evan blinks slowly. "But you—"

"I was tired and sore after that match, my shoulder was bothering me, and she was there. My manager told her to check my shoulder, just in case I had fucked it up beyond solution, but if I had known you were around she wouldn't have laid a single finger on me."

There's a beat of silence, Evan's dead eyes searching all over Barty's face, assessing and determined. He smirks at him, which results in Evan huffing and looking away.

"Don't do it again," it's what he ends up mumbling, and if Barty didn't know any better, he'd dare to say Evan is close to pouting. "You're my patient."

Barty raises both eyebrows, a deranged smile splitting his face while he perks up like a goddamn dog. "Is that jealousy I'm hearing, Rosie?"

"No," Evan drawls, straightening up. "It's just the truth. You're not my only patient, you know? But if you're getting treated by me, then you're not allowed to see any other nurses."

"Damn, way to make a man feel special," Barty scoffs, but he does actually kind of mean it. Which he's aware might be a bit pathetic, but, well, he'll be whatever the fuck Evan wants him to. "Wasn't interested in seeing any other nurses, anyway."

"Good." Evan nods, almost to himself, and Barty has to make an active effort not to coo. "Are you done training?"

Barty blinks a couple of times, slightly taken aback, both by the sudden change of topic and by Evan entertaining conversation. Normally, talking to the other boy feels like pulling teeth—oh, man, Rosie would fucking love this comparison—which Barty doesn't mind because he finds it incredibly fun. Unless Evan is going on one of his medical rants, and yeah, Barty shouldn't find it as attractive as he does, but it's not like he's ever worked like he's supposed to.

But this? This is new.

"Not really," Barty answers, still feeling off-kilter. He shakes his head, forcibly pulling himself out of his mind. "Why? You wanna join me, Rosie?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

Barty snorts, assuming that it's a joke, even though he's more than aware that Evan doesn't do jokes, because his humour is way too dark, and rarely finds funny what others do. But Evan's expression doesn't change, and Barty nearly chokes on his own spit.

"Wait, you're serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You've never been interested in boxing," Barty points out.

"That's a lie. I watch every match," Evan argues, lips pursed.

"Because you're job kind of forces you to."

"Also a lie. I need to be there when I'm on shift, in case they call for me, but I'm not required to actually watch."

"Yeah, but you still do, because your pretty little morbid head goes absolutely feral at the prospect of seeing some blood."

Evan scrunches his nose, as if disgusted.

"You're wrong," Evan lies, expression giving absolutely nothing away. Really, if Barty didn't already know the truth, he'd be inclined to believe him. "It's got nothing to do with that. I like boxing."

Barty huffs, the noise filled with amusement. "Sure you do, Rosie."

"I really do," Evan insists, always so ridiculously stubborn.

"I don't know who you're trying to convince, but—"

"Teach me to fight."

Barty sputters, brows almost reaching his hairline, and he gapes at Evan, who's still staring at him. He seems unaffacted by Barty's dramatics, but then again, he's unaffected by almost everything.

"The fuck?" he manages to spit out at some point.

"Teach me to fight," Evan says again, a lot slower, as if Barty is some kind of idiot. God, he wans to fucking devour him.

Barty isn't sure of what's going on right now. Evan barely interacts with him outside of their appointments, it's always him reaching out, so he doesn't understand what prompted this. What Evan is hoping to achieve.

"Why?"

"I told you, I like boxing."

"Yeah, okay. And the real reason?"

Evan's tongue pushes against the inside of his cheek, and it's so, so hard for Barty, not to make a very inappropriate joke.

"I'm testing something," he admits, albeit bedgrugingly.

"Ah, so you want me to be your guinea pig," Barty sighs a bit dreamily. "That sounds more like it."

"Sure," Evan agrees with unsurprising ease. "Will you?"

"All you had to do was ask, Rosie."

They get to work right after that. Barty doesn't even bother with suggesting a change of clothes, because he's aware of how well that'd be received. The fact that Evan chooses to take the white coat off is already more than Barty expected.

He tries to show him how to stand, how to do a basic punch. Evan knows most of the basic theory, mostly due to how often he deals with boxing injuries, but he's absolutely helpless when he has to act it out himself.

It doesn't matter how often Barty corrects him; he keeps slouching, stance all wonky. He lacks strength, and he takes a bit too long to protect his face after doing a jab.

The main issue, though, is his obvious lack of interest.

Evan seems to be distracted by something, too inside his own head, and when Barty is about to point this out, poke some fun at him in hopes of getting Evan to snap, the other man speaks again.

"That's enough," he declares, tone leaving no place for argument. "Let's spar."

Barty chuckles, disbelieving, but then Evan is sending a glare his way, and he raises both hands in mock surrender, giving in immediately.

He'll do pretty much whatever the fuck Evan wants him to, really.

They both get into position, and regardless of how much Barty is holding back, trying to give the other man a chance, is actually kind of laughable, how easily he overcomes him.

One moment they're exchanging soft blows, and the next Barty has Evan pinned to the floor, his legs and arms completely immobilised as Barty grins maniacally from above.

"Happy now, Rosie?" he teases.

Evan presses his mouth in a tight line. "Not quite."

"Oh, really? Because I'm starting to think this was all a ruse to get me on top of you."

Evan rolls his eyes so hard Barty worries they might get stuck inside his skull. "I'm afraid that's more your style. And anyway, I don't think it's wise to understimate your opponent like this."

"It's nothing personal, Rosie, but when victory is already mine, I—"

Barty never gets to finish. Evan raises his head so quickly his brain barely registers it, and then he's sinking his teeth hard where Barty's neck meets his shoulder. Until he breaks skin, until he draws blood, until Barty lets out a pained groan and his body goes slack, more in surprise than actual hurt.

A moment later, their positions are reversed. Evan is straddling him, mouth still attached to his skin, and Barty is lying on the cold ground, dizzy and a little bit breathless.

He doesn't know how long they stay like this—definitely not enough—but after a while, Evan lets go and sits up a little, lips stained red. It's dripping down his chin, and when he parts his mouth a little, panting softly, Barty finds out that his teeth are also crimson with blood. With his blood.

Barty groans again.

"You're hard," Evan comments, painfully nonchalant. It's that same casualness he used the first time Barty had an erection during an appointment, after Evan had pulled at the stitches on his leg and stuck his fingers inside Barty's wound.

"Yeah," he breathes out, half-delirious. "Yeah, no shit."

Evan hums, cocking his head to the side, analytical gaze running up and down Barty's body and making him twitch in his pants. The fact that Evan can feel it right under him, between his legs, forces Barty to swallow down a moan.

Barty is about to say something incredibly stupid to maybe, hopefully, alleviate the tension, when Evan leans down once more; this time, slower, more careful.

He's prepared to feel the sting of a bite again, toes curling in excitement, but it never comes. Instead, there's something wet and tentative and soft lapping at the open wound, gathering all the blood there that is still coming out.

It takes Barty a moment to realise it's Evan's tongue.

The knowledge hits Barty like a motherfucking bus. He can't stop a low moan from coming out now, or his hips from thrusting up, searching for something, anything, that Evan might give him.

Surprisingly, and instead of pulling away, the other man makes an odd noise against his skin, and Barty thinks he's imagining it when Evan presses down on him.

He freezes up after that, but only for a second, Evan's licking never stopping. But then Barty moves again, more purposefully, rubbing his erection against the apex of Evan's thighs.

The response is immediate, although definitely unconscious. Evan grinds back experimentally, with no coordination or finesse, dropping another sound into Barty's bleeding wound.

His eyes widen when his brain finally catches up properly, hands coming up to grab at Evan's hips and halt his movements.

"Rosie, are you..." Barty stops, swallows harshly. "Are you turned on right now?"

Evan laps at the blood a few more times before straightening up again, staring down at Barty with unblinking eyes and red all over his face.

"Fuck, are you—?" A laugh, strained and bordering on hysterical. "Are you wet?" He doesn't even need to check to know the answer.

Evans nods, almost imperceptibly. "Apparently so."

He has half a mind to turn them over and fuck Evan into the floor. Until Evan is a whimpering mess. Until he's crying, begging, unable to do anything but fucking take it. Until he's sore, and hurt, and full, but still asking for more. Until he can't say anything else apart from Barty's name, until he's—

"Bloody hell," Barty whispers, shutting his eyes tight and letting out another cackle.

Oh, he's going to die. He's absolutely going to fucking die.

[baskeigh-ball]

Ignoring the fact that ibis had the ai paint feature a couple years before this whole ai fiasco, after seeing your post, I decided to try it out to see if it really held up. I already knew what you said made no sense, as even stuff like ai painting requires heavy human input that isn't just someone typing a prompt in a thing and looking through thousands of images and somehow still calling it 'art'. Really, it's just some weird advanced bucket.

The ibis ai paint... really sucks. I'm pretty sure it hasn't even been touched since it was added. No matter what I did, I got random colours and whatever colours I had put there looked like it were from a filter, not to mention how my lineart bled everywhere like it was blurred out.

Ibis isn't problematic for adding that feature as not only was it added ages ago, but it was also just a gimmick only added because a few more popular paid programs added them, like Clip Studio Paint. I highly doubt even the company took it seriously considering how poorly built it is. This is actually the one time I'm glad some feature in an app sucks so much.

Another reason why ibis isn't problematic by the mere feature alone is that, when you look at the artists making content during the time of that update, it was received with humour. It was something fun to try, but ultimately dismissed for actual artwork, as nobody would use it to fully paint their works. Nowadays we see something slapped with the words 'ai' and think that it's instantly bad due to the latest issues with it and big corperations/ certain production companies but it isn't. It's just a lot of people abusing what was previously some fun gimmick, which it can still be, and for certain apps, still is. Nobody throws pitchforks at character ai, after all.

You can tell just by the size of this that I'm procrastinating on something. Ima go and let this rot away in your askbox now lol

You really thought this would fade away in my ask box, mwahahaha /j

I wanna start off by saying thank you for holding me accountable, I will admit that I got buzzworded pretty hard in this situation lmao

This information came as a surprise to me-- I was seeing posts pop up within the past week complaining about the ai feature on ibis, so I assumed it was recent. As it turns out, after reading your ask, I discovered that I got a few wires crossed! Because yes, the auto paint feature I referred to in my post has been around for years now, and was never taken seriously anyways

So that was my bad (and yea ur right it's completely unusable, lmao)

But as it turns out, the feature that people have been complaining about DID come out recently. It was called the AI Example feature, I think the idea was that you make a simple drawing and the AI adds 99% of the detail and color, which I've seen a bunch of other programs do.

...and then it was immediately removed due to some pretty major backlash, which, duh

^ This is the only evidence I can find of the 11.2.0 update that included the AI feature on the actual site; their update history stops at 11.1.0. But there's also the news page about the removal of the update, so it's not like they're trying to pretend it never happened.

So tl;dr, I jumped on the hate train a little too quickly and never did enough research to figure out what the actual update was, and that it's been removed by now anyway (which I couldn't have known until today, ofc, but i did kinda post that thing about ibis today so it's still a pretty major oopsie)

I think I can say with confidence now that I agree, ibis paint isn't problematic to use-- they made a mistake with this update, but they actually listened to their users and removed it LITERALLY the next day. So, thanks for letting me know! I'll also edit my last post to prevent any misinformation, just in case people make the same mistake I did :]

[divinesouldariax]

"I'm tired of thinking, let's just make out or something" with Ashton/Milo bc I know we're both dying to get them to kiss

Send me prompts?

Thank u my friend, u know EXACTLY what i want :D Even if this fic kinda drove me nuts bc i am simply not very practiced with writing kisses. Also the prompt list was hurt/comfort and this turned out to be literally Just Fluff lmao. I promise to make up for that by being extra angsty in the other prompt u sent me. I hope u enjoy it! <3

Word count: 1,111

Content warnings: brief mentions of injuries/brain trauma and memory issues and struggling with school, brief discussion about boundaries and touch-averseness, kissing

*

It was a point of pride to Milo that when Ashton had decided to start taking classes again after the accident had forced them to stop a few years ago, they were the only person he would go to for help on their schoolwork. Ashton knew he would never have to explain or justify their memory problems or difficulty grasping new concepts to Milo, and Milo knew never to press Ashton when he said that he was done working. 

Milo wasn't the greatest teacher in the world, which they reminded Ashton of often, and Ashton always responded with something along the lines of "And I'm not the greatest fucking student, so it's a perfect arrangement." It seemed to work, anyway. Ashton was passing their classes, and Milo was honestly just happy to be spending time with him.

Today, they were sitting on the couch together talking about how to approach making a notes page for Ashton to use on tests reminding him which calculator functions to use for which stats problems. Ashton seemed distracted. They weren't closing their eyes or touching his temples like he did when a migraine was coming on, though, so Milo didn't ask if they wanted to stop.

After a little while, Ashton cleared his throat. "I'm tired of thinking," he announced abruptly. "Let's just make out or something."

Milo stared. Blinked a few times. Wondered if there was any possible way they had heard Ashton correctly. "...are you aware that you just said that out loud?" they asked genuinely.

Ashton was looking off into the distance over Milo's shoulder. "Mm-hmm. Fuck, I'm gonna fucking kill Anni if she was lying."

If she--ohhh, not if I kill her first. "Did Anni fucking tell you I was--" Milo could already feel their face heating up.

"Might have said something."

Milo groaned and dropped their calculator and notebook and pencil off the side of the couch to bury their face in their hands.

"We don't have to--I made this really weird, huh? Fuck. We can--rewind, say I had a little fuckin' brain moment and just move on with our lives," Ashton babbled. "I didn't really mean to say it like that, that was fucking out of nowhere. I hate--fucking talking. God damn it."

"No, it's fine!" Milo wasn't sure if it was actually fine, but they knew they didn't want Ashton to feel shitty about it. "I'm a little confused?! I think? Was that a...do you want to...or did Anni just tell you that I…"

"Actually what she told me was that if I didn't do something to show you how I feel sometime in the next week, she was gonna plug in her amp in the hallway by my door and play me an electric violin solo at five in the morning every day for a month because she's apparently tired of living in a house where everyone's pining," Ashton recounted. "Pretty much word for word. I actually remember the phrasing, it was that vivid."

Startled, Milo laughed. They would get back to the "show you how I feel" thing in a minute, but they needed to process how ridiculous this was first. "So you decided to suggest making out with absolutely no warning?!"

"I swear to fucking god, that was at least partially impulsive brain fuckery," Ashton said, half laughing and half defensively.

"I believe you. Holy shit," Milo exclaimed. "That's one way to do it. God. Okay. First of all, and we'll be circling back to feelings, don't worry, but Ashton, I have never heard you say that you want to make out with anyone. You hate being touched."

"That's not...necessarily true?"

Milo raised their eyebrows. "Ash, you once hissed at me when I tried to rub your back when you got sick after drinking too much on a new med."

"I don't remember that," Ashton admitted. "But--no, I mean, yeah, it tracks. I definitely hate being touched when I feel fucking awful. And by people I don't know. But not all the time by everybody."

"That's--how have I lived with you for three years without knowing that?" Milo said, bewildered. "I really thought you just hated being touched in general this whole time."

"To be fair, I never corrected you."

"Yeah! But I never asked. Anyway, I'm getting distracted." Milo knew that their cheeks were probably flushed quite a dark pink by now. "I gotta get something clear. You like me?" Fuckety fuck, they sounded like a fucking middle schooler. 

"Yeah, I didn't actually think I was being subtle about it? Anni sure seemed to think it was stupid that we hadn't figured it out yet."

"Am I just an entire dumbass then?" Milo couldn't help but laugh. Their heart was beating so quickly, but the absurdity of it all was keeping them from turning into a total flustered mess. It was a little bit perfect.

Ashton shrugged, a little too casually. “If you are, then I am. So, uh, Anni wasn’t lying, then? You’re into me, too?”

“Oh, I was, uh, not prepared for this conversation at three in the afternoon completely sober without a head’s up,” Milo stated. 

“You good? Like I said, we can forget this–”

“Absolutely fucking not.” Milo wanted to just surge forward and kiss him, but several years of friendship where their habit had been to avoid touching Ashton whenever possible so they didn’t make him uncomfortable was hard to overcome. “Yes. Yes, I’m…yes. This is ridiculous. Do you actually want to make out?”

“I mean, I definitely don’t want to be doing stats anymore,” Ashton said with a wry little grin.

“...was that a yes–”

“Yes, oh my god.”

“I feel like it’s something to be very, very sure of before starting!” Milo defended themself, feeling like Ashton was teasing them at least a little bit. “I don’t want to hurt you accidentally.”

“Which is why I’m very sure that it’s gonna be fine.” Ashton put out their hand. “C’mon, apparently we’ve been wasting time.”

God, it was that kind of confidence, even with the initial uncertainty, that made Milo find Ashton so incredibly attractive. They let Ashton take their hand and pull them close, almost into his lap. Before they could even really conceive of the fact that oh, fuck, Ashton really is letting me touch him, they were kissing. Ashton’s initial comment about not wanting to be thinking anymore was onto something, because every rational thought in Milo’s head began vanishing.

We’re definitely gonna have to have a conversation about this later, Milo thought faintly, but for now, they would just focus on Ashton’s hands against their waist and his lips on theirs.

Send me prompts?

[smilingperformer]

Discussing the good and bad of Pokémon Journeys: Part “Goh”

Oh boi... this part is gonna be a doozy. Because I have a lot to talk about Goh, or as I tend to call him, Gou.

TLDR; I like Gou as a character but I very, very much have issues with the way he's currently written in the show. And that frustrates me deeply as I'd love to feel more positively about him. More under the cut, with Journeys abverted as JN.

Where do I even begin... Maybe by how I first became a fan of Gou's character, by after some time started to go back to neutral ground.

Like, ever since the very first episode, we've got a very clear picture of what kind of character Gou is: a bookworm, loves Pokémon, loves to show his knowledge and isn't exactly good at making friends. His only friend before Satoshi (and before learning about Tokio/Horace's reasonings for not showing up to their meeting place) was Chloe/Koharu, and we still don't know how the two met. Thou my guess is that their childhood friendship bonded over their parents meeting during some job or by Koharu feeling the need to be Gou's friend. Who knows, it's something I want to learn about. But that's besides the point, cough.

But like, from the very first episode on, it became clear that this show wants to focus on Gou, and telling his journey on becoming a Pokémon Trainer who wants to catch all of the Pokémon in the World, in order to get closer to catching Mew, the mythical Pokémon who's said to contain DNA of all existing Pokémon. He had a very strong introduction arc, with showing his dynamic with Koharu, having him meet Satoshi on top of Lugia, first getting to know Satoshi (and Rockets) and then catching his first partner Pokémon in Hibunny. However, as time went on and episodes started piling up, I started feeling like something about him was... off.

I feel like the first time I had an issue with the writing involving him was in JN006, where he went on his first catching spree. Where he kept catching Pokémon with ease. Small struggle at the start when trying to work together his dynamic with Hibunny, but the rest of the ep felt way too easy. Then again, Gou IS flat out Pokémon GO promotion. No one can deny that. His purpose is to promote GO's capture mechanic. It is the most successful Pokémon Mobile game of all time.

Anyway, the easy captures piled up on and on til JN010 when he finally had to use dozens of pokeballs to catch one. single. Dewgong. I loved this so much. It made me feel more at ease with his goal mechanic and I felt like I'd be fine with him from there on out. And I was. Til I started having new issues with him. All thanks to Satoshi's new goal in PWC finally having been established.

As time went on, it became clearer and clearer, that Gou was more focused on when it came to his goal progression, development in character level, and in what kind of quality his episodes would be.

Everyone knows how much I love JN032. Everyone does. It's one of my absolute fav episodes in the series. However, it also kinda is what first prompted me starting my worry that hasn't gone away since then: That Gou feels more like the protagonist than Satoshi does in this series, and not really an equal dual protag he was advertised to be.

Before the pitchforks are getting aimed at me, hear me out. I know, that based on some statistics, the focus is equal, with sliiiightly more inclinded towards Gou. However, that's where the issue is: Gou has, so far for me, had way better focus and way better episodes in this series, than Satoshi has, while also getting progress on his goal on other character's focus episodes. When Satoshi's episodes have been about PWC and training his Pokémon, Gou's had the kind of episodes that are more character exploring, developing him, evolving him in some way. And it, frustrates me. Because despite my better judgement, it gives me this feeling that Gou is stealing Satoshi's thunder, even when some type of statistics would suggest otherwise. It gives me this feeling that Gou is here to write Satoshi out. I do not like that I feel this way, I don't know how to get rid of this feeling and I hate it here.

Again, I like Gou's character, he's sweet, well developed, and I do enjoy seeing him in his own episodes. But I have come to noticed, than whenever he gets goal progression in an episode that's supposed to focus on Koharu or Satoshi, I feel so.... angry? And I've never, ever felt like this while watching other characters progress. And I know it's irrational.

Like, his main partner's already fully evolved, his secondary partner Sobble is already evolving soon despite only having one focus episode for itself before it, and he's caught all three of the Galar starters now, with some of his other not-that-important Pokémon making appearances every now and then with possible evolution showcases. And it's all done so fast. Same issue was with Satoshi's poketeam evolving in fast arcs, but I forgot to mention about it? But then again, I am somewhat fine with it as I get the writing style is to focus on one 'mon and then move on to another. Which is not to my taste completely but I digress. ANYWAY, back to Gou.

After seeing discussions and joining in on some on tumblr and twitter and elsewhere, it does appear that Gou's development speed and progression speed is incredibly fast. Like, seriously fast. He's caught a lot of Pokémon by now, and the show's already shown about 50% percent of all existing Pokémon in a bit over a year. About 30% being caught by Gou. (Statistics borrowed from EntityMays' Living Dex trackers, links in posts will disrupt showing in tag search so, google EntityMays's Living Dex, and you'll find the statistics there).

This is also very apparent when you think about how fast Gou suddenly became a good battler, when at the beginning he sucked. A lot. I get Satoshi could be a great example on learning how to battle with good strategy in mind, but we barely saw Gou struggle. We Satoshi struggle in OS, so I would have prefered more struggling by Gou. His first battle against a legendary ended up in Zapdos almost getting caught and uuuuuggh, while it's a pretty good episode it really should have been at later point, same with Suicune episode. Thou with the latter I have WAY more issues than just the placement but, I'm not gonna rant about that today.

And what should I say about his dynamics with other characters... They're good, I am a huge fan of how the dynamic between Koharu and Gou works, as their childhood friend dynamic is shown so, so well, and you can just tell the two have mutual respect as Gou gives Koharu the space she needed when she wasn't into Pokémon for a while, and when she then became partners with Eevee, Gou was so so SO darn supportive just, AGH. Love how these two work.

And everyone knows I fell for Gou x Tokio dynamic straight away. Like they had a friendship built up right away when they first met as little kids and Tokio missing out on their promised meeting due to being sick and not having any means of contacting him yes still considered Gou his friend after these years when Gou considered him a traitor of trust and Gou then forgives him for it and just aaaaaahhh-. KRHM. Excuse me.

Then there's Gou and Satoshi's dynamic and I already said in my post about Satoshi how I feel intimidated by the fans of their shipping and how it makes me feel.... kinda sad about not being able to like their dynamic for what it is. I LOVE it a ton. I have said it a countless times, they're a broTP to me. They're dynamic was very enjoyable for me to watch, and even Gou was. But like, on TOP of these issues I mentioned before this part, I also have another issue with Gou: his fanbase, or the crazier part of it.

Often times I feel like I'm unable to enjoy Gou's character without being reminded of the fans who constantly think of him as shipping fuel, or think he's flawless and anyone disagreering is in some form a negative trait filled human being, etc etc etc. In a way, I feel like I'd enjoy Gou and his dynamic with Satoshi way, way more, if I had never learned about this side of the fandom. Let people like their dynamic the way they want. Be it romantic or platonic. Neither is wrong, but pushing one side to push their own headcanon to other people's head is just, bad act. Having this feeling in me has actually made me wonder, whether I would have liked other characters I am such a huge fan of, if I had been watching their shows during their airing times (for example Serena).

Now what would I have done differently with Gou? Firstly, slow the fuck down. I would have prefered to see Hibunny way more. I would have prefered to have one Galar Starter, namely Grookey, go to Satoshi, as it would help me feel less like Gou's stealing his thunder. I would have prefered if Gou and Satoshi's goals were established around same time. I would have very much liked it, if Gou wouldn't be catching Pokémon each episode.

Now what COULD help me like him better from what we have by now? Well. Slow it down. Have him interact with Koharu more. Give him a rival to further make him shine on his own instead of seemingly relying on Satoshi to shine through. Hell, maybe make Tokio his friendly rival. And on top of that, please let him not catch Pokémon almost every single episode. I'd love an episode where he captures some Pokémon that prefers to be free, and he then would let it go. I think that would make his character be good on his own, and make me feel better about him once again.

Cough. I think I've got my point clear. As said, I like Gou, but very much dislike the way he's written in such fast pacing and in a way that, despite statistics stating otherwise, making him feel like he's the sole protag and not sharing spotlight as dual protag. And I hope to god I can get rid of this feeling as the series goes on. Because right now, I don't have high hopes :(

If you've read this far, thank you for reading, and I am so, so sorry this became a long long rant about the issues I have with Gou, but I hope I managed to bring out what I like about him as well. Hopefully next time's gonna be a more positive post, as I'll try writing about my full on feelings about the handling of Koharu, or as dub audience knows her, Chloe.

Once again, thanks for reading, have a good evening or morning or whatever time it is by the time you've read this, and I hope you'll have a fantastic time ♥ And as a reminder, these are just my opinions, and if you disagree, you are totally valid.

Til next time! This was Smiling Performer aka Aleira, signing out!

[bigskydreaming]

Why do You dislike Scott Snyder? I mean I have my reasons.. like a lot of the Court of Owls stuff, his convoluted plots, making Dick a punching bag for the broody bats, horrible at writing the family as a family he literally wrote Death of the Family I mean....*kill bill sirens* ... Also the ''son of a Damian'' line from Black Mirror etc. But I'm curious if you have more reasons since I'm pretty new and I'm told that he likes Dick and wanted to write Dick focused books and I don't.. buy it.

LOL yeah, all of that for sure, and I mean.....tbh, I don’t pay enough attention to his interviews and stuff to even be aware that he’s said that about liking Dick and wanting to write Dick-centric books, but I’m with you on that....not necessarily meaning anything.

God knows I’ve lost track of how many fic writers in this fandom swear up and down they love Dick Grayson and yet I avoid their stories with extreme energy, lmao, because I’ve read enough of their takes on DG that I’m like hmmm, yeah, we are not the same, lol. I mean, there’s a certain couple fic writers who just are like....DETERMINED to mention Danny Chase every single time I make a post about why I’m annoyed by the focus on Dick’s allegedly infamous temper. And its always the exact same song on repeat, they’re like “OH-HO, so apparently you don’t remember the time Dick choked Danny, a literal CHILD, just because Danny had the nerve to tell him Jason died, cuz like, I do, and it was AWFUL and Danny could have died TOO y’know, that’s how mad Dick was.” 

And then I just kinda stare at these words that apparently mean things, and enter a fugue state where an unknown amount of time passes and by the end of it I feel 80 million epochs older, and its like....no, I absolutely do remember that time when Dick grabbed Danny by the shirt and yelled in his face because he just found out his brother died and Danny said “what’s the big deal, its not like it doesn’t happen all the time” and this was absolutely not an awesome and fun scene for anyone, no matter how understandable Dick’s upset was at the time. BUT, I also happen to remember, since y’know, it was in that literal exact same issue, how then Dick went to see Bruce, and due to BRUCE’S upset about Jason’s death, Bruce literally punched his remaining son to the ground, screams about how it was all Dick’s fault, and kicks him out of the house Dick grew up in and tells him to leave his keys with Alfred. 

And its like......the very same people who LOVE to throw around references to Danny Chase in order to puff up the claims about Dick Grayson being volatile and extreme and having a Dangerous Temper like, flat out REFUSE to ever even ACKNOWLEDGE that scene with Dick and Bruce, from the literal exact same issue, because they at the same time claim that THIS was bad writing and OOC and Bruce would never.....but apparently, the writing from ten pages before it was just fine and completely accurate and Dick absolutely would not only ever, he would always, and thus Dick’s Legendary Dangerous Temper is canon and its why Dick can’t have nice things or people being nice to him in these writers’ stories, its too Dangerous, he might get mad I guess.

And each time this comes up on this site, I’m always like....hey, science side of tumblr, is it possible that insisting on vilifying Dick for his reaction to someone in the wake of Jason’s death whilst simultaneously refusing to acknowledge the scene of Bruce’s reaction to Dick is canon or in-character despite existing in the exact same issue and written by the exact same writer.....like....could this be one of those double standards I’m always going on about? And isn’t it in fact reasonable to question just how much or how little someone actually means it when they say they love a character but want that character flogged in the middle of the town square for a Bad Reaction to something that also prompted a Bad Reaction from another character but this character, they’ll like, throw themselves in front of a moving train if it keeps someone from daring to even suggest that THEIR reaction was canon and in-character and might potentially say something damning about their temper or behavior with friends or family?

*heaves endless sigh of endlessness*

Sorry, that example was right there on the tip of my brain today because like....I literally just saw another post around this oft-deceased and resurrected and killed to death again dead horse like, five minutes ago and then came to dip into my ask box for the first time today and it was like.....destiny. Assuming destiny has some free time to kill and nothing better to do, which, I mean, hey, everyone’s allowed a hobby is all I’m saying.

LOL sooooooooooo, ANYWHO, its just like.....ugh, I’m so over being expected to take at face value any writers, whether professional or fan, saying “oh but I love this character or that character, and due to that being my preface to everything else I say or do in regards to this character, you have zero basis for claiming that you do not like or trust my depiction of this character because ummm, read much? I literally JUST said, I love them though? Wow. Insert scoffs of incredulity here, I don’t even know how to talk to someone who thinks I don’t like a character I claimed I like just because literally everything else I say or do about them paints an opposing picture to the contrary.”

LMAO. Sorry. Had to get that off my chest. But yeah, like, I think EVERY canon Batfam writer has made a similar claim in recent years about pretty much every Batfam character, and at a certain point it starts to be like....okay, if all of you are telling the truth here, shouldn’t we see more canon evidence of like....these characters that you’re writing, like....actually even LIKING each other? At what point are we allowed to question the legitimacy of you saying oh I totes love this character, that’s why I write their family as abusing them, that’s just love, baby, that’s what it looks like.

Personally, I’d like to see more of us at least using qualifiers? I mean, I do say I don’t hate Tim, or Bruce, or any of these characters, but I get how people could be dubious about that and be all, umm, you rant about them a lot, because like...yeah. Fair. That’s a valid critique. SO its a lot more accurate for me to be like, I love 90s Tim and I just have become increasingly less enchanted with the character over the past twenty years since then, enough so that my knee-jerk reactionism to people bashing Dick’s character BECAUSE of what Dick did or didn’t do to Tim in their eyes, is like.....disinclined to view the situation or his character these days through 90s-Tim rose-colored glasses. 

Similarly, I truly don’t hate Bruce, at least not when he’s not being written as physically and emotionally abusive and/or just plain neglectful, BUT I absolutely despise the abuse apologism rampant in most fandoms, but particularly in this one, where people will make like Cirque-de-Soilei contortionists in order to prove that Bruce beating this kid or that kid isn’t actually abuse, its cuz they made him do it....rather than people just being like, no, that’s abuse right there on the page and I don’t stand for it or stan that Batman, so I have zero desire to defend that scene or his actions there from his perspective, and am totally fine with taking a seat when someone speaks up about how much they hate what Bruce did to his kid there in that scene and how it affects their read of the characters as a whole.

Its like....that too, is a thing you can do, instead of just.....trying to explain why Bruce isn’t abusive see, because what happened there wasn’t actually abuse, since it couldn’t have been, because Bruce isn’t abusive, see, he would Never.

And yet so rarely do people actually do that, and we have people literally championing themselves as members of the Good Dad Bruce Protection Squad when the frank reality is there CAN BE NO GUARANTEE of him ever and always being a Good Dad, when like....his characterization, ultimately, is dependent on how he’s written by canon writers who ARE NOT US. Which makes that desire to see him as just a good dad and nothing but a good dad always, like....not quite as understandable as it otherwise might be, and instead just kinda....willful, an admission that a lot of fans in this fandom will just flat out ignore all evidence to the contrary of this stated claim about what Bruce inherently IS, when inherently all he is happens to be a character who manifests whatever those in creative control of him choose to manifest via him. Like.....there are ways to go about that kinda thing, its just....that isn’t it. Something like “Proud member of the Keep Bruce Wayne a Good Dad Squad’ or something along those lines? I’d have ZERO issue with, because that’s ACTIONABLE, not WILLFUL. It posits not that Bruce simply IS this way and there’s no ifs, ands or buts about it, but rather that just because he isn’t this way in some instances, that doesn’t mean we have to agree with it or condone that interpretation of him, y’know?

But people are like....unwilling to make that distinction or hold that nuance a lot of the times, so my dislike of Bruce as he’s written in certain ways or by certain writers like....grows and evolves and mutates into Godzilla rampaging through downtown New York, until its understandable that people reading my blog intermittently and who don’t follow everything I say on the subject are like.....”Bold of you to claim you like lizards in this one post when I have here nine other posts where you’re just like, FEAR the murderous monster-lizard destroying New York for it is Dangerous and Fearsome. Cuz one of these things is not like the others, bud.”  

*Shrugs* Anyway, all of that’s just my allergy to Staying on Topic, so make of it what you will, hopefully you get what I mean though even if you don’t have like, the requisite Kalen-Garbled-Nonsense Secret Decoder Ring. Back to Snyder though....yeah, he can claim he likes Dick all he wants, because y’know what, Tynion says the same thing and its been well established by moi that my fondest wish for Tynion is that he be kept far, far away from Dick’s character whenever possible. And I’m pretty sure Tom King claims he loves all these characters and we’re all like HAHAHHAHA and we know Lobdell insists he loves Jason Todd and its like wow how curious then that hardly any other Jason Todd stans love you.

The ironic thing about my random bouts of ugh Snyder in a lot of posts however, is that......tbh, its not even his depiction of Dick that makes me dislike him as much as I do? LMAO. I mean, I’m not a fan of it personally, for a lot of the reasons you mentioned, but I don’t like a lot most canon writers’ depiction of Dick these days and haven’t for years. The thing I really dislike Snyder for, personally, is his depiction of Damian.

Its just.....its very Not Good, a lot of the time. Oh, there are moments here and there, but you could claim that for any writer, really, but for the most part, like.....ooof, I haven’t read Snyder’s work on Damian recently enough to really cite specific moments off the top of my head, because I’ve been avoiding anywhere he’s writing Damian for awhile now BECAUSE of it, but....a LOT of the ‘demon brat’ shit in regards to Damian comes from Snyder’s work, and like, I’m always kinda like “hey is making Demon anything the go-to nickname for a kid of Arab descent who is already compared to a terrorist enough as it is like....really the best we can do” to begin with, and Snyder absolutely 100% does not help with that.

To be fair, its not remotely like its all just on him, the stuff that has had a lot of us complaining for years about the blood son crap and the insistence on acting like there’s this stark divide between Bruce and Damian and the rest of the Bat siblings, I mean, see: Tom King again, its just. Ugh, okay, Im gonna have to get back to this in the near future with actually sourced gripes about why I think Snyder’s Damian in particular is absolute crap and could he just not, though. Because it really is my chief complaint with him, like I was never gonna be a fan of his in general just because he’s someone who's like DARK MULTIVERSE BATMAN FUCK YEAH and I’m someone who’s like DARK MULTIVERSE BATMAN UGH FUCK WHY.....lol....BUT like I mention in other posts.....its not like he’s incapable of doing decent stuff or that he’s never written anything I like, because ironically, he IS the biggest canon backer of Duke Thomas and pretty much single-handedly responsible for Duke retaining as much of a presence as he has in recent years instead of just appearing and blipping out of existence like a one-hit wonder, and that can’t be overlooked or considered inconsequential.

That just also kinda makes it all the more annoying that his Damian is so very.....objectionable to me, but yeah. Anyway, that’s the curious case of my very mixed feelings on Scott Snyder, with a side dish of generalized “lol oh, so you do in fact love this character? Well magically all my criticisms of your take on them have now disappeared!”

[fluidityandgiggles]

Sleep Is For The Weak - Chapter 10

Previous Chapters: Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 5, Last Chapter

Writing Masterlist - for previous chapters not otherwise linked, Read on AO3

Notes (I guess): It’s the moment you’ve been waiting for! Well... I hope so...

Yeah, it took me a month to get this chapter on the road, but... I can’t really be blamed. Well, I can, but let’s be fair, I’m in India right now, I have almost no wifi and I’m mostly relying on data (I ran out of data while writing this and now have to wait forty minutes to get data again... oops...), I managed to get The Schmuel Song from The Last Five Years stuck in my head out of boredom, and really I planned to update much earlier but sometimes... chapters get stuck.

I’m sorry I’m updating this late... I hope the fact that this is the longest chapter yet A N D that something y’all have been waiting for is going to happen will make it up!

As always, all the thanks to @broadwaytheanimatedseries​ for the original idea, to @whatwashernameagain​ for her original story and for being such a sweetheart, and to @winglessnymph​, @asleepybisexual​ and @anony-phangirl​ for all their help, even if it’s just listening to my ideas and giving feedback (you’re all wonderful and I love you so much!)

Tag list (sort of):  @bunny222​, @ab-artist​, @secretlyanxiouspersona​, @your-username-is-unavailable​, @virgilcrofters​, @why-things-go-boom​, @ilovemyspoopydad​, @violetblossem​, @maybe-i-like-the-misery​

(Wanna be tagged? Just lemme know!)

Trigger warning: period appropriate transphobia (the early 00s were not exactly trans-friendly). This chapter is a bit lighter, but keep this in mind.

—————

Saturday, December 21st, 2002

Christmas at the Harris shoebox was never that festive to begin with.

There was always some sort of rush hour-type boost in sales on and off-Broadway, or at least that's how David explained it to Remy when he was younger, so he would only really be home if he only had matinees or if, God forbid, Christmas (either eve or day) fell on a Monday. And Remy was always busy with school, at first with his program in Columbia and then his project at Bronx Science and now…

Well, now was no different. Christmas Eve was going to be on a Tuesday, next Tuesday to be exact, and Remy was too busy reading ahead in his psychology books.

India dropped him off in Manhattan on her way to Johns Hopkins. They got out a day early to go from Boston to Manhattan - Remy didn't have exams that day anyway - and stayed over at Remy's overnight before the second half of the ride. "They", of course, also included India's girlfriend Jenna, who was the one driving. She was a wonderful human being and Remy honestly couldn't believe he never met her before. It felt like they knew each other for ages! (David wasn't happy when two twenty-something year olds crashed on his couch that Sunday night, without warning, but Remy told him they're leaving first thing in the morning. He still wasn't very happy at that, but maybe going with it was the best option here.)

"You know who I ran into on my lunch break today?" Remy raised his head and took off his reading glasses (he was starting to need glasses for more than reading…) to look at his father, who - at eleven forty-five at night - finally got home from tonight's show. "Come on, ask."

"Who did you run into on your lunch break, dad?"

"Do you remember Michelle Tan?"

Of course Remy remembered Michelle Tan. She took chemistry and engineering and always looked down on him as if learning psychology made him less than her. Not to mention that when he showed up to graduation with short hair - his first step towards socially transitioning, really - she kept saying the nastiest things to him about how inappropriate it was.

"What about her?"

"Nothing, she just asked how you're doing." David threw himself on the couch next to Remy, taking off his shoes and opening his shirt in the process. "I said that you're doing alright and that your degree was going okay."

"Oh. Okay."

"...that's all you're going to say? Oh okay?" Remy pulled his shoulders. What else was there to say, really? "Thought you'd be a bit happier that—"

"Dad, Michelle Tan is the one who came to me after graduation and told me that short hair is undignified and that just because I think it makes me more of a boy doesn't mean that I am. Do you really think I'd be that excited about you running into her on your lunch?"

"I didn't know. I had no idea."

"It's okay."

David was working on a new show by Tony Kushner. He promised Remy that he's not going to spoil anything to anyone this time (though let's be honest, he said that about Dancing At Lughnasa in 1991, and Rent in 1996, and…). He stayed out late for the workshop, and barely had any time to care for himself. He never did whenever a new show started.

Remy could forgive him for forgetting stuff.

However, this neglect was absolutely and utterly unacceptable.

"Can you take a day off tomorrow? I mean, it's just the workshop, I doubt Eliza would mind it if you didn't come." David hummed in agreement. "So it's decided. Tell Eliza you're not coming tomorrow. We're gonna, like… do absolutely nothing tomorrow. We'll go somewhere fancy, like that diner on—"

"Since when are pancakes fancy to you, Remy?"

"Since I don't get to eat them anymore because I don't have time and I'm not using boxed mixes, thank you very much!"

"We can go to Hard Rock Cafe."

"Dad, Hard Rock isn't fancy. Sorry to disappoint. I just want to go to Times Square, to be honest…"

And then he turned on the TV and put a recorded episode of South Park. And Remy gave up. He went back to his book, to remember the teacher who made them read Oedipus Rex in English class, to get pissed at Freud who said that all men secretly want to fuck their mothers and called it the Oedipus complex without even knowing (probably) that Oedipus didn't want to fuck his mother but the moment he found that out he stabbed his own eyes out and exiled himself, accompanied by his children, which prompted the start of Oedipus at Colonus and Antigone.

Remy always felt bad for Antigone. But that was a personal issue.

——

"Remy? Remy! Hey, Remy, I'm here, and you're here, and—"

These sort of calls have been going on since about five minutes after David paid for their lunch and he and Remy started making their way to the subway back home. They started right around the… Martin Beck theatre? Yeah, around there. Remy was kind of scared to turn around and look who that is, until his dad told him to, so he did.

Emile was dragging his older sister and her dog behind him and he was getting really close.

"I didn't know you'll be here right now!" Emile's face was flushed, hidden under the hood of his fluffy mustard yellow coat. His glasses were covered in raindrops and all fogged up.

He looked absolutely adorable.

"Sweetie, what are you doing here?" At the hurt face, Remy quickly added "I'm just curious, that's all. Did you bring Mycroft too?"

"Well… no, I didn't. Mycroft stayed home. I can't bring him on holiday vacations. Our neighbors are looking after him, though! They're very nice and they're technically his grandparents! Well, kinda. I got him from a litter their bunnies had. It's a long story. And we were at the Man of La Mancha matinee just now! Julie and I have tickets to The Lion King at seven, and my parents are going to The Full Monty. It's a holiday tradition!"

Well then… hmm…

"Oh, you haven't met my dad yet!" Emile almost started jumping. "You have to—"

Someone tapped on Remy's shoulder. "I thought we're going home, not talking to cute boys on the street?" David asked jokingly.

"Hello, sir! I'm—"

"That's Emile, Dad. He's a friend. I told you about him. And his sister Juliana."

"But she's buying books so we're going to wait for her!" The tiny blond said oh so excitedly. He could never not get excited, it seemed. Remy loved that about him.

"What did you say her name was?" At David's raised eyebrow, Emile started jumping even more.

"Juliana! Yoo-li-a-na. It's Dutch, not English. She's named after our great-grandmother who died in Auschwitz. It's a really sad story, if I do say so myself—"

"Munchkin, we gotta go." The aforementioned woman who just got out of the bookstore grabbed Emile's hand and gave it a short squeeze. Her accent was even harsher than Emile's, but… Remy couldn't complain. He heard her speak before. He met her before. "Remmington, nice to see you again."

"You too, Julie. And Ladybug." At the sound of her name, the dog started wagging her tail quite happily. Remy never got to see her off-duty, but he assumed that this was the closest he'll ever get to.

"Mom and Dad are waiting. You coming or what?"

As the three went away, Emile waving goodbye quite enthusiastically and lending his sister a shoulder to lean on (Remy only recently found out why he did), Remy struggled to find the words to explain to his dad what just happened.

Thankfully, he didn't ask. Instead, David said "so that's your boyfriend, huh?", took his hand and pulled him in the direction of the subway. They still had to get home today.

——

Monday, December 23rd

"So we're staying here until… I think the fifth," Emile rambled on the phone. Sure, it was eleven thirty already, but… free minutes were more important than proper sleep schedules. Not that either of them had any of those. "After that were going to Missouri, my dad is taking me to Glore, you know—"

"I have no idea what Glore is.”

"It's a psychiatric museum. And after that we're going to California! To Disneyland, and then the murder museum."

Emile kept rambling about his plans, and he was so loud, Remy could hear his dad tell him to quiet down a couple of times. He was just so excited, and it was always so endearing…

"So what I'm trying to say is," Emile rambled away. "Would you like to hang out sometime? We could go see a musical! Like, umm… Rent! We can go see Rent! I haven't seen the new cast yet… I heard that Jai Rodriguez is awesome though!"

"I don't know… I can't really afford that—"

"Nonsense! What do you have me for if not for this sort of thing?"

"Remy, either you hang up now and go to sleep so you can deal with your grandparents tomorrow," David grunted from the couch, where he tried to sleep, "or I do it for you."

"Alright, boo, how about the twenty-seventh?"

"Sounds good to me!"

"Okay. Good night, Em."

"Good night!"

Remy didn't tell Emile that he actually saw Rent off-Broadway before. And… didn't exactly like it. Maureen, the only bisexual, was presented as promiscuous and very selfish (though that might've just been her personality, he had no idea, Jonathan Larson died before he could ask him) and Angel, the only character he ever truly identified with - a gay, genderqueer drummer who is HIV+ - is really the only main character to die, leaving the most wonderful and wholesome relationship in the show broken and sad and with a bad ending, while the horribly dysfunctional Roger and Mimi - both also HIV+ - got to have a happy ending.

And really, what type of bullshit was that? Gays have already been so villainized in the media, Remy did not need another one.

But he'd go. Just to be with his best friend. He really wanted to.

"Are you ready for the ride to Jersey?" David asked jokingly. Neither of them was ever truly ready for the six-hour (at best) long ride on the interstate to Red Bank. David's parents were, to say the least, terribly nosy and had no tact. Adding to that the fact that his cousin Gilbert (his aunt and her husband had a terrible taste in names, Remy decided rather early in life) wasn't going to come home for Christmas from his boarding school in Nova Scotia, also known as the only sensible member of the family with whom Remy could actually hold a conversation would not be home for Christmas…

This holiday was going to be a disaster.

"Ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

——

Tuesday, December 31st, 2002; 9:54 p.m.

Christmas was horrible. But Emile made it better.

This was how Remy described the holiday on his call to India on the thirty-first.

"What I mean is… you know the feeling when your family is just so bigoted and— yeah, okay, I'm sure you know that feeling." India laughed on the other side of the phone. It made him feel… strangely better. "So, like… my family are horrible, okay. My grandparents are, like, the worst. My grandma can't stop sticking her nose in everyone's business, and like, usually it's fine, it's not that bad, but last week my cousin wasn't home so she had more criticism to give to everyone else so she chose to pick on my sexuality, and like—"

"Pick on your sexuality?"

"She literally said ‘why can't you just be who you were when you were sixteen, you may not carry the family name but you will continue the bloodline'—"

"What twisted mind would say something like that?"

"My grandma, sweetie. This is my grandma."

India actually laughed at that. Remy could hear confused sounds from the other side, which he assumed belonged to that Jackson kid she talked about a couple weeks ago.

"Is she also the type of person who would say that Jenna is a nursing student because she's black and a woman?"

"I wouldn't put it past her to act like Professor McKenna. But anyway. So that's my grandma, and my grandpa is… he's deaf and senile. You can imagine what that's like."

India hummed. "Sounds like a fun holiday."

"Well, after coming back Emile and I went to see Rent. I still hate that musical but it was fun to watch it with him. And my boyfriend only called once like, three days ago. And I mean, rude much?"

"I'll bet. I got to talk to my psychiatrist, and… guess what."

"I'm scared of guessing."

"I'm gonna get my first doses of blockers and estrogen real soon, if everything goes right." Remy tried to avoid the tightness in his chest. "I know, I know… you've been waiting for this too."

"Is it weird that I can't wait to get mine but I'm still scared of when you'll get yours?"

"No, absolutely not. I totally understand. We all have a fear of change, peach. Some of us more than others. But it's going to be such gradual change that you won't even think of it, okay? It's exactly how I explained it to Jackson. Even when I get top surgery, which will probably be the most dramatic change, it's not going to be such a big shock. I promise."

India had to end the call rather quick after that. Apparently some doctor needed to talk to her about some stuff, and he could hear her grit her teeth before saying her goodbyes - the doctor called her "Mr. McGinty" - so it must not have been good.

He had a… sort of date, with Emile, at Times Square later. His sister was going to this bar in Greenwich right after the ball drop, so until then, she said she'd chaperone - as if they needed one. But Nathalie had some rules and stuff so they had to have her around, or else.

Whatever that else would be.

"Dad, I'm going out!" A hum of agreement came from his dad's room. Okay then…

Remy got his bag and his phone, sent a quick text to Chris wishing him a happy new year - he probably wasn't going to see it until Remy pointed it out to him when they got back to Boston - and left.

(He probably should check on his dad, but he was going to be alright. Two and a half years sober now, and he had his cartoons. He was going to be okay.)

——

11:57:11 12 13 14... p.m.

"I'm cold!"

"You're from Minnesota, Emile."

"I don't see your point."

Emile was wrapped in his own yellow coat and Remy's black coat (well, one of his three black coats; this particular one he got on a trip to Disneyland when his dad worked on the national tour of some musical, he already forgot) and was still freezing. How in the…

"Do you want to go to Starbucks and get a hot chocolate?"

"Is Starbucks even open at this hour?"

"There's one on fifteen hundred. It's open twenty-four hours."

"...okay, fine." Remy offered his hand and Emile quickly wrapped his arm around Remy's, allowing him to lead the way.

1500 Broadway wasn't the closest to the ball, but Remy was sure that they could make it there and back.

Maybe it was a bit of wishful thinking, but he was going to be an optimist this time.

11:58:28 29 30 31… p.m.

"We never told Juliana that we're going," Emile muttered through chittering teeth. "My mom is going to be so mad—"

"Emile, babe, calm down. We're almost there."

The huge building was already in their line of sight, and Remy couldn't feel happier. He could totally use a latte right about now, and Emile obviously needed a hot chocolate and a cookie. The poor thing was seconds away from becoming a human icicle.

He didn't want to be responsible for his best friend suffering from hypothermia, after all.

"You see that huge building over there?" Remy couldn't make out if Emile was nodding under all his layers or what.

"What about it?"

"We're gonna go to Starbucks in there, okay?"

"You're an addict, you know that?"

Remy didn't listen. So he liked his Starbucks, so what.

He dragged Emile behind him.

11:59:38 39 40 41… p.m.

The line was moving awfully slow for some reason. Remy had no fucking idea why so many people were at Starbucks so close to the ball drop…

Well, he was being a bit of a hypocrite.

"Can we get something to eat too?" Emile whispered to him, standing on his toes. The black coat from Disneyland was back in Remy's possession. The building was warm enough.

"Sure, why not?"

"Thanks, sweetie!"

Sweetie. Holy shit

"Schmuel would work till half past ten at his tailor shop in Klimovich," Emile sang to himself. Remy remembered that song very well. Norbert Leo Butz had a very… interesting way of singing it.

Then again, he never heard anyone else sing it.

He would ask Emile where he heard that song later.

"Forty-one years had come and gone at his tailor shop in Klimovich—"

"Ten, nine, eight…" oh crap.

Remy grabbed Emile's shoulder, shutting him up momentarily. It took just a couple of moments for either of them to fully realize what was going on before—

They kissed.

If there were fireworks they were blinded by the fluorescent lights and deafened by the loud cheers all around them, but they still kissed.

Kissing his blond was very different from kissing his boyfriend. Not that it felt wrong or anything, just... different. Nothing forced, nothing too overpowering. It was lovely, and sweet, and Emile was as soft as always. Nothing felt wrong there.

Not even the little voice that said that Chris won't like it. He wasn't there. He didn't need to know.

And so, they kissed.

——

Wednesday, January 1st, 2003

00:17 a.m.

"You saw The Last Five Years?" Remy asked, a cup of latte warming his rather freezing hands as he walked Emile back to his hotel (Juliana left them to go to a party in Greenwich Village).

"I didn't go to school for anything but my exams from mid-April. I saw that musical so many times, I kinda lost count."

"Oh, okay. Cool."

[lizzybeth1986]

Nuestra Familia (RCD MC: Astrid)

Book: Red Carpet Diaries

Rating: G

Pairing: Astrid-centric, minor Seth x Astrid

Summary: Astrid realises she doesn't know her family as well she had thought. Minor crossover with The Freshman/The Sophomore/The Junior.

Author's Note: This is a bit late for MC Appreciation Week, but I figured I'd put it out there anyway. This is my origin story for Astrid Ortega, my second RCD MC, who is involved with Seth. There's a cameo of one character from TF/TS/TJ in the end and I have a feeling you folks have already figured out who it is 😅 I used (of course) the "crossover" prompt from this list for my fic. I'm tagging @choices-mc-rules, in case they would still like to reblog this.

Translations:

Nuestra familia - "our family" in Spanish.

Chanclas - slippers/flip-flops

Tres leches cake - Typically a very moist chiffon cake soaked in a mixture of evaporated milk, condensed milk and heavy cream. Tres leches literally means "three milks".

Abuela - one of the terms used for ‘grandmother’ in Spanish.

Ita - Short for Abuelita, also used for grandmothers. Astrid calls her grandmother the former, her mom Teresa calls her grandmother the latter.

Manda Huevos - Can mean a lot of things according to context, but generally used to express a range of emotions, such as annoyance, disappointment, contempt or disbelief. In this context, Teresa means “it's not fair”.

If I've gotten anything wrong in terms of references, please do tell me, and I'll definitely fix it in the fic.

“One more foot inside my kitchen and it'll be my chanclas for you later.”

Teresa Ortega said these words to her daughter Astrid, in the same tone one would use to offer a guest some tea.

It wasn't that her mom didn't allow her kids to help with the cooking. She did. Salome was too young to do much but set the table yet but Astrid (and her big sister Letitia, whenever she was home) often pitched in to help with the meal.

But heaven help anyone who tried to help Mom with her tres leches cake.

This recipe was from Mom's Ita’s faded little diary, passed down to her by her mother on the condition that she would learn its recipes off by heart. It was her pride and joy, Mom would often say. Her baby before her actual babies came along.

And today it was even more essential Mom get this cake right. Astrid's abuela was visiting, and ever since Astrid's mother insisted on naming her Astrid (“She’s already named my first and last - at least leave the middle one to me!”) she could do nothing right.

Perhaps it would've been easier to handle if Dad wasn't Abuela's only son, if Mom had someone she could jointly ignore Abuela with, if they had cousins they could play with while the adults sorted out their issues. Or perhaps not. Still, it would have been nice to know.

“Easy, mom, I'm not going to touch your precious cake,” Astrid said, grinning, “Lemme demolish it at lunch instead.”

She'd be lying if she said she wasn't tempted, though. She could get the scent of baked cake wafting in all the way from her bedroom, and her mother was already starting to combine Carnation milk, condensed milk and 1/4th of a cup of heavy cream into a thin, but somewhat creamy, mixture.

Mom raised her eyebrows. “Why are you here, then?”

Astrid felt the muscles around her neck tense up, but schooled her face to a look of injured innocence. “What, can't I just want to talk to my mom once in a while?”

She craned her neck a little further behind Astrid, a tiny frown beginning to form between her brows. “What's that you're holding behind your back?”

Ding! The cake was ready now, just in time for soaking. Astrid let out a sigh of relief. She wanted Mom to see this wedding card, yes - it was why she came to the kitchen in the first place - but now was probably not the time for questions. Questions about family or about secrets. Not when she knew how important it was for her mother to get her weekend cakes right.

“Family” was always a big deal around the Ortega table. Dad was his mother's only child, and Mom’s parents passed on long before any of them were ever born. Her father was as annoyed by Abuela's antics as her mother was, but it never stopped him from having her visit every Sunday because “she's the only family we have left”.

It was as if he needed her to keep himself rooted, as if without her he would be floating aimlessly, no aim or identity, taking his wife and children down that path with him. Abuela knew this. By God, did she know this.

Or so I thought, Astrid said to herself, gripping the wedding card tightly and creating new creases where the word Ortega was written.

Mom was gritting her teeth now, carefully pouring the three-milk mixture over the cake and muttering to herself. “One more word about dry cake this time and I'll give her soggy toast, I swear I will.”

Astrid would have stood up last week and said something to Abuela, if only Mom would let her. It was probably a good thing Leticia wasn't around, she'd fire shots at Abuela for less. She was protective over all of them and often in the heat of the moment she'd forget she’d be landing them all in further trouble.

She was still muttering. “Wants chiffon cake. Screams bloody murder if I use box mix. What, Teresa, looking for shortcuts again?” Mom's voice was raised in an accurately nasal imitation of Abuela's voice. It was almost like she'd forgotten Astrid was there. “Then I make it from scratch like she wants. Then it's Oh Teresa this is so dry oh Teresa it tastes like sawdust. Why else do you think I use box mix, eh? You want it from scratch and you want moist. ¡Manda Huevos!”

The diatribe kept Mom occupied while she finished pouring, so Astrid kept silent. Mom needed this. This wasn't something she can say in front of Letitia (resulting in another Sunday screaming match) or Dad (what would he do?) or Salome (no way would the kid ever take Salome, language! seriously again). Mom needed someone to have her back, no matter how silently or secretly. And that someone had better be her.

“If only Linda had stayed…”

Astrid froze. “What did you say?”

Mom looked up, blinked twice, then stiffened. “Nothing. Nothing.”

Silently, Astrid handed over the card she'd been holding, all this time. She found it while searching for her dad's treasured García Lorca poetry collection, hidden between a page that exalted love and a page that mourned loss.

Mom took it from her, her eyes widening as she read the words.

LINDA ORTEGA

and

DOMINIC SANDOVAL

request the honour of your company at their wedding.

“Dad always told us he was all Abuela has, right,” Astrid said, “The only Ortega for miles around."

Mom answered by busying herself with more activity than ever. Keeping the soaked cake in the fridge. Pouring the remaining milk mixture into two glasses. Washing her hands. Washing the dishes.

“I'll do that for you,” Astrid took a plate from Mom's hands, “Just talk to me.” She grabbed a sponge and dish washing soap, cleaning vigorously. “All this time, Dad's been telling us Abuela's the only family he has, Mom. Like, he has no one else. Like, we have no sisters or brothers besides the three of us. Was he lying?”

“You're wrong,” Mom said, her voice suddenly sounding sharper, harder, “Abuela's the only family he has left. Your father didn't lie.”

“Just omitted the truth, yeah,” Astrid wished she knew how she felt about this. Right now there was so much she was feeling that she didn't exactly know where to begin. “There's no “together with our parents” above their names either. Not like yours’.”

Mom sighed, picked the card up, then held up two glasses of milk-mixture in front of her. “Take one and give the other to your sister. I have a lot of work to do.”

On any other day, Astrid would have grabbed that glass and relished its creaminess, wiping the milk-moustache off her mouth with a flourish. But today no amount of sweetness was going to take away that weird metallic taste in the roof of her mouth.

“I'm not done asking about this,” Astrid said, scowling, “to you or to Dad. If I have aunts and cousins out there, that's something I wanna know.”

Astrid did try in the weeks to come. But she never saw the wedding card again, and neither Mom or Dad ever responded when she raised the topic again. Still. It felt nice to dream.

Every time Abuela made a snide remark at lunch, she imagined her cousins there. A snarky younger girl who’d make smartass comments. A strong boy her age who’d shut Abuela up with just a glare. A nice aunt who’d take Mom's mind off all this nonsense. It didn't help much, but it felt nice.

It felt nice knowing she had company out there. Somewhere.

--

6 years later.

“Donuts, Iowa?” Seth’s eyes were gleaming at the prospect. He was more a bag-of-chips kinda guy most days, but he also liked having massive sugar rushes before a comedy gig.

“As long as the insides of six of those are practically spilling over with fruit jam, I'm game,” she said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. It felt exhilarating, freeing. She hadn't felt this normal in a while - normal enough to kiss her boyfriend without worrying about paparazzo jumping out from a bush. There was a guy in a leather jacket she didn't recognize - three blocks across - looking at her like he wanted to talk, but not in a way that made her feel unsafe.

That was the nice thing about Northbridge. People looked, sure, but they were less likely to make you feel like an exhibit from a zoo.

“Wait here, yeah?” Seth said, planting a kiss on the lips instead, “I'll be back before you can finish spelling “OHIO” with your arms.”

Astrid laughed. Seth said the most Ohio things sometimes. Neither of them had had this much fun since she was offered a lead role in Tender Nothings, which was why Seth always jumped at a chance to take up gigs in Northbridge, and why he always offered to take Astrid along when she was free.

The guy from before stepped forward a few minutes after Seth entered the donut shop. The summer heat must have been too much for him - his leather jacket was now slung over his shoulders. “Um, hello. Astrid Ortega?”

He stood with his hands in his pockets, mouth pursed into a thin line, a tiny curl slipping carelessly from his hair and resting on his forehead. She caught a peek at the tail end of a bird tattoo (Owl? The tail looked pointy) on his left arm.

“Yeah,” Astrid said, wondering whether it was her or Seth he wanted to talk to, “but I don't know what your name is.”

“ Zigmund. Zig for short,” he replied, looking behind him from time to time, “My sister Lucy’s a big fan. Asked me to help her get an autograph from you.”

“Is she here?”

“Yeah. But she doesn't want to come out. She's shy.”

Ah. So that was the cherry-red blur barely hidden by that building. She learned long ago that no matter how friendly you appeared, your image would precede you and intimidate people anyway. Autographs were great, but somehow she didn't want to stop at just that.

“Would she come out now if I asked?” she gave him her sunniest smile, “Tell her I won't bite.”

Zig hesitated, then nodded. Astrid watched him walk to the other building, move his hands expressively as he tried to convince his sister to join him (from that angle he almost looks like Letitia, Astrid thought), and return with a curly-haired, starry-eyed teenage girl.

“H-hey,” she said, then blushed, clearly embarrassed by her nervousness. Silently, she hands over her autograph book. She keeps her eyes studiously away from Astrid's face. “I, um, I like mystery films, and I really, really liked Tender Nothings.”

A girl after my own heart. “Maybe you'll like Sunset Boulevard, then,” she said, smiling.

Astrid could have just signed and left it at that, but there was something about these two. Something about the way they stood together, or exchanged glances, or something, that reminded her of home. Which was silly. But it didn’t change the fact that she wanted to leave a good impression on them.

“What would you like to be when you grow up, Lucy?”

Lucy didn't miss a beat. “Ballet dancer. Like my brother.”

Astrid smiled, particularly at the look the girl gave Zig. Yes, she could see on second glance that even though some people would say he didn't have the body of a dancer, he held himself with a certain grace, a certain lightness that belied a stronger core. Hit by a sudden rush of inspiration, she quickly scribbled a little note to go with her signature, and asked Lucy to read it.

To Lucy and Zig, future (hopefully!) best ballet dancing duo in America. Be sure to save me a seat when you folks get famous. Love Always, Astrid.

“Wowwww,” Lucy whispered. Zig suppressed his smile, trying not to let how he felt show, and failed. A corner of his mouth lifted upwards, revealing an almost-invisible dimple.

The two left before Seth brought his box of donuts,but they thanked her at least thrice as they walked away.

“Wait till I tell Mom about this,” Astrid overheard Lucy tell her brother as they left, “I told you she'd be really, really nice.”

“You did,” there was a note of indulgence in Zig's voice.

"Ortegas all around the world. Wherever we're from, we're nice.”

Had Seth come out a moment later, Astrid would have probably walked up to them and asked. Perhaps asked them where they were from and their parents’ names.

But Seth was here, with donuts, and there was never a moment she could take her eyes off either.

“Do you know those two?” Seth asked her, passing her a tres leches cake donut that was claimed to be one of their best, “They looked familiar.”

“”No,” Astrid replied, closing her eyes in bliss. Mmmm. The treat was taking her back to Des Moines, back to home, back to her mother's little kitchen. “But I wouldn't mind meeting them again.”

--