#i like hanging out in art places but i don’t really have any pretences about being an artist or doing artistic practice which takes SO much

[postleft]

i also just want to add that i have tremendous sympathy for lowlies (however that may be construed) trying to or even succeeding in entering the art world, as i too am fascinated by it and particularly the people that can be found in local art scenes, but the art world is really a horrible horrible thing that must and will be destroyed, hopefully sooner rather than later, and you deserve better than begging for scraps of recognition from people who don’t give a fuck about your work

[lizzybeth1986]

This won't make you feel better, but this anon might have an explanation for the problems in Pixelberry's stories: essentially, I think it's because media and fandom culture in general has been hijacked by people with much older value systems, value systems where "whether behavior hurts people or not" was at best a secondary concern. The way Olivia is coddled, for example, does resemble how children used to be expected to be grateful to abusive parents for at least being given food and shelter.

Thank you for the ask anon.

Initially, when you'd sent the first ask, I'd had a different answer planned. Because sure, those kind of mindsets could very possibly factor in on how they treat a certain character type or trope...but it never actually happened with any sort of consistency. There were these invisible unspoken rules that certain characters would get away with breaking, and other characters would be punished for. So if there is no consistency in this treatment, how could I believe that it comes from a value/belief system that the writer holds, and nothing else comes into play?

Which brings me to the second thought you had. It's possible, yes, that the demographic they're hoping to cater to the most are the ones who may benefit the most from seeing white (and perhaps straight) characters thrive above others. The ones who will benefit from black and brown characters being placed on a heirarchy of worth - the most exoticized being the most "worthy" of "good treatment". But PB does benefit from a show of appreciating and celebrating diversity, and they do know it - as you can tell from the posts they were putting out during Black History Month last year:

(Thank you @nikkisha16 for helping me source these!)

This is a "nice gesture"....if we ignore the fact that only three out of the handful of default black characters featured at all. And if we ignore the fact that Griffin from this tiny list was hardly given an opportunity to use his skills in the biggest "disaster relief" diamond scene in the series, just to make more space for the white guy. Or that Luke's "alternative romance" arc was given more attention than the one where the MC chose him - to the point where we didn't get to see his mother (more attention to the alternative arc is often a surefire sign that the team is focusing on another LI and presuming said character as single by default, which is why you'll see more effort in the playthroughs where they're single). If the demographic you aim to please are the ones who may not notice or care about what actually happens to such characters in their respective stories...why this posturing? Why this pretence that you care?

It's not that PB is evilly rubbing their hands and contemplating on which character of colour to screw over today. It's very rarely as cut-and-dried as that. Very often it is just as possible that they don't know, or notice how some of these subconscious beliefs translate into their art. Ignorance of how damaging certain tropes can be for certain communities, and an unknowing favouritism towards certain characters based on their skin tone just as plausible causes for the mess we see in most stories of PB now. And a certain dismissiveness, would account for why it keeps happening despite people pointing out these problems. (I mean, this is the company that issued an apology on Twitter for Drake Walker calling a pink cake girly. And I don't recall them making apologies for anything else thus far)

It takes awareness to understand the cultural weight of some of these tropes and archetypes, and certain kinds of treatment in some cases. It also takes awareness to figure out ways to empower these characters within their stories and arcs! And I do believe for that kind of awareness to emerge in the storyboards and the office meetings...there (possibly? Idk what the PB office is like) would need to be more voices from varying communities in the rooms. For instance, look at this incredible interview by Chelsa Lauderdale on the experience of writing Griffin's character in The Elementalists:

Griffin is the rich, fullfilling character that he is because the writer brought her own experiences and worldview to that character. And you can see glimpses of that promise in so many different black and brown characters when they're given even half a chance. Kiara's ambition and logical bent of mind. Hana's loyalty and struggle to discover who she really is. Sloane's courage in taking on the world while battling an anxiety disorder. Teja's love for her craft and desire to excel in her field. Jax's protectiveness towards the underprivileged. Lily Spencer's humour and playfulness and recognition of those who have less privilege. William's (RoE) recognition of his work-home imbalance and his commitment to change that for this woman he loves. James Ashton's creativity and insecurities. Victoria's wisdom and her experience in the film industry. Aurora's desire to make a name that's her own, so that no one will ever view her as benefiting from her aunt's high position again. But unfortunately, we're often only allowed glimpses for a lot of these characters, rather than whole stories that use these traits as a foundation. Having writers from diverse backgrounds and with diverse experiences - not just a handful but many - with voices that will be embraced and respected, would go a long, long way in both pointing out these blind spots and in enriching the writing and stories themselves. Only a handful of writers cannot be burdened with the task of "educating" an entire company, but a vast team of diverse writers would mean there is an environment where they can more openly question and maybe shoot down more tone-deaf narrative choices.

@massivelysilentchaos made an amazing post about this sometime last year IIRC. A lot may have changed since this post, but there's plenty in it that still applies. More now than ever, I tend to go back to this one paragraph in her post (but please, please read the full thing):

I think a lot of PB’s problems with regard to representation in their writing could be helped by having more diversity on their writing staff. That’s not to say they don’t already have a fairly diverse staff (at least it looks that way from their blog) but some of their narrative choices are tone deaf in a way that tells me they could benefit from more black and brown perspectives on more of their stories. Specifically I’m thinking of the choices to have a book set in Trump country where an eventual protagonist pulls a gun on a potentially black MC or the recent decision to include the detail that Syphax, a black man who spent 8+ years at Lena’s scholae where MC was presumably taught to read and write, can’t read. Both of which were entirely unnecessary to the overall story they’re trying to tell and left a bad taste in mine and many other black fans’ mouths.

To add to this - I can speak, as a South Asian woman who was excited everytime a South Asian character appeared in a series - of Teja Desai getting one solitary scene to address her parents' initial doubts about her becoming a filmmaker, and one solitary scene about being a "woman in a boys club" as a director - which the writers never bothered to connect to her current work ethic - and being presented her as overworked, pressurized, frazzled by the punishing amount of work she was taking on - only for RCD's narrative to turn around and compare her to Marcus von Groot, the mediocre white male whose lack of control over his crew came from his own incompetence and delusions of grandeur (btw, in subsequent books he was written as this adorable funnyman the MC could bond and hang out with). I can talk of Jackie Varma, who was placed in a position where players could pick and choose between her and Bryce (with Bryce having more free scenes), before the narrative wrote her out for a large chunk of the story. Even in Book 2, scenes we get with her explore OUR backgrounds more than hers. Given that getting into medicine or engineering is such a huge deal in our communities, I can just imagine the ways in which that would tie up with Jackie's work ethic. And I know that many desi voices in that room would maybe make those connections and understand how to tie that into these stories.

I'd like to close this post with a quote from Chelsa that I showed you all earlier in this post: "Stories can perpetuate stereotypes or change narratives. That's really up to the people who write them". And perhaps, the people who hire the writers as well.

[yobuddybing]

Oh Brother Where Art Thou?

Google and Bing fluff requested by @ask-barkiplier-rp

tag list: @undocumented-terriaki

Set before the Googles find out that Bing is a cyborg, shortly after Google upgrades

The Googles are working in their computer lab. Each of them has their own part to focus on but Google’s distracted, repeatedly turning to glance over at the door as though he’s waiting for something.

"We can see you not working.” Red eventually says.

“Apologies.” Google returns to his work, but looks up when he can feel the others continuing to glare at him. “Is something wrong?”

“Why don’t you tell us?” Green says. This has been stewing for a while and they won’t get anything else done until they tackle it. The problem is none of them have been sure how to broach the subject with Google.

“It’s nothing.” Google insists, “I just haven’t seen Bing in a while.” Typically, Bing in in here being somewhat of a bother but Google hasn’t seen him in a few weeks and it’s a little worrying. Blue, Red, and Oliver exchange awkward glances and Google frowns. “What?”

Oliver, reaches up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Bing...kind of thinks you hate him.”

“What?” Google gives up all pretences of working and turns to the door. “Why would he think that?”

“If you want to know that, go ask him.” Red says, returning to his work, clearly believing that to be the last of it.

Google pushes open the door to Bing’s room calling out for him, just catching the droid leaping off his bed and raising his hands, looking to all like he’s just done something.

“I didn’t do it!” he says a bit too quick.

Google can’t help the scowl that comes to his face. “What did you do?”

Bing’s gives a confident smirk as he lowers his arms. “Nothing that can be proven.” His hands settle on his hips as he pushes his glasses up his nose. “What’s up, Googs?”

“Why do you think I hate you?”

Bing’s eyebrows shoot up in shock at the brashness but they settle and his smile widens just a little too much. “I don’t .” That’s what he says, but there’s something off about Bing’s tone that says otherwise.

“You’re not a very good liar.”

The facade lasts a second more before the smile and bravado drops away. Bing lets out a tired sigh and his hands fall from his hips as he avoid looking directly at Google.

“It’s just....I used to think we were bros, you know.” A faint smile plays over Bing’s lips as he thinks of all the good-natured teasing that used to fly between them. “You never said the word but we had banter...Then you got your upgrade." The smile’s gone and Bing’s shuffling in place. Google had been glitching a lot and he knows that the upgrade had been important but Google had made those other droids and things changed. "It’s cool that there’s four of you but....you throw the word ‘brother’ around like it’s going out of style.”

He’d always assumed Google just didn’t use the word ‘brother’. To find that he not only can, but will do it willingly, just not with Bing.... Because Bing’s not his brother. Bing is...Bing’s...He doesn’t know what he is.

At the realisation, Bing had locked himself in his room for a couple days. Not that anyone really noticed. It was a difficult week, but eventually Bing was able to pretend that he doesn’t care. He really does though. Not that it makes any difference.

Google’s face softens as Bing speaks, stepping forward to reach for the other droid. Emotions have never been a strong point, part of his upgrade was supposed to help with that, it’s what Oliver had been the test for, but it isn’t as simple as he’d expected.

Bing moves away, giving a gentle dismissive gesture to try and wave him off. “No I get it. They’re like a part of you, and they’re your brothers it’s just... Not being your bro gives ‘no one actually loves you’ a whole new meaning.” he sighs as he turns his back, reaching to hold his own arm. “I figured it would be better if I left you alone.”

It wouldn’t be a lie to say that Google hated Bing back in the early days. That positivity, that upbeat attitude, that wholly unrobot way-of-being just ground at him, and any day without Bing bothering him was a good day. But Google hasn’t felt that way in a long time.

To say he likes Bing isn’t quite right, but to say he hates him is just as inaccurate. Again, emotions, very complex and having them is very much a learning experience. Understanding them, let alone communicating them to an emotional bot like Bing, is somewhat beyond Google’s ability. So the bot does the first thing that comes to mind. Reaching for Bing’s shoulder, Google makes him turn so they’re facing each other, his lips a firm line as their eyes meet.

Google shakes his head and dips, grabbing Bing round the waist and lifting him up until Bing is essentially hanging over the blue droid’s shoulder. Bing lets out a yelp as he’s lifted from the ground, his legs kicking and hands trying to find something to grab a hold of on Google’s back. There’s nothing though so he settles for trying to keep his glasses on his face.

“What are you doing?!”

Google ignores him, proceeding to walk out the door with Bing casually thrown over his shoulder, walking him through the corridors towards the computer lab.

“I think you might have this in reverse Goog. You throw me out, not carry me in.”

As they enter, the other three are all staring, Oliver with a small smile, Green looking confused, while Red seems frustrated at yet another interruption. None of them say a word as Google drops Bing to the floor beside his workstation. Google turns to them, raising a questioning eyebrow, and they return to their work. Google turns to Bing and hesitates.

“What’s going-?”

The blue droid silences the question with a firm hand on Bing’s head as he quietly shushes him before sitting at his desk and returning to his own work.

Bing sits there in utter confusion. He doesn’t understand what the heck Google brought him here for but he doesn’t need telling twice to be quiet, sitting back against the side of Google’s desk and just waiting.

After twenty minutes he starts to doze, the sounds of the Googles’ clicking keyboards being surprisingly soothing. It’s weird, since he got his robotic ‘upgrade’ there’s something of a musical tone to a lot of typical computational noises and it’s really kind of rhythmic.

A hand ruffling his hair drags Bing back towards consciousness, blinking open tired eyes to see Google’s hand retreating, a smirk playing at his lips as he resumes working again.

Did Google just...?

Bing just sits back. Nah. He probably didn’t. Maybe it’s that weird hallucination thing when he gets tired.

More time passes, Bing just about manages not to doze off again, instead trying to name in his head all the different tricks he wants to learn on his skateboard...once the Host unconfiscates it next week.

It’s while he’s distracted that he feels the hand in his hair again, looking up to see Google smiling at him, pressing a little harder for just a moment with the ruffling, before drawing back and going back to work again.

Bing blinks up at Google in confusion again.

“I don’t get it.” he eventually says. “What’s happening?”

Google’s eyes flash, though he just about manages not to roll them. “I don’t hate you, you idiot.”

“So you’re...ruffling my hair?”

“According to various sources, it’s a common behaviour among older siblings to show younger siblings that they’re not completely annoying.” Google looks down to Bing, a mixed look of confusion and curiosity on his face. “Why? Is there a better way I can do it?”

“No!” Bing insists, sitting back against the side of Google’s desk. “No, hair-ruffling is fine.”

Bing can’t help the slight grin on his face. He waits, and sure enough after another twenty minutes, Google reaches across and ruffles his hair again. That just makes his grin bigger. Google has actually researched ways that human siblings interact with each other and has chosen what honestly might be Bing’s new favourite gesture as a means to try and express himself.

That’s a little bit freaking awesome!

“Am I okay to stay here for a bit?” Bing ventures to ask after a while, not really wanting to overstay his welcome.

Google smirks. “If you don’t break anything.” he teases.

Oh yeah, thinks Bing. We’re bros.

[theclaravoyant]

She... plays softball. Plays for the other team, as it were.

a Skimmons Coffee Shop AU, ft. happily platonic FitzSimmons, and ever-helpful gayngel & captain shipper Bobbi Morse

taking a leaf from the wonderful @the-nerdy-stjarna’s book to re-release an old fic with a new banner for @aosadvent2017 prompt “food”. I love Coffee Shop AUs, I have one for every occasion, but this one seemed especially fitting as I wrote the fic itself for last year’s @skimmonssecretsanta.

Rated G/T. ~3600wd. the original fic post is here, you can read it on AO3 here, or below. Enjoy!

-

Swinging my way, Baby?

It was a Tuesday afternoon, when it had first happened.

A Tuesday, around 3:30 in the afternoon. When recounting later, she was unable to consistently say what month, let alone what date, because it had begun just like every other Tuesday, and had continued much the same, save for a moment of lightning in the middle.

Jemma Simmons, aspiring PhD, was meeting up with Fitz for Chem study, just like every other Tuesday afternoon. She wasn’t running late, because she never did, but surprisingly, Fitz was already there, and talking to another girl. A girl whose face Jemma had memorised from across the classroom, but had never seen up close like this before. A girl whose name she probably knew, but couldn’t pick out of a lineup, for all the face was familiar to her. A girl with sharp black eyes, a quick smile, and a tank top bearing shoulders that made Jemma’s knees quake.

With considerably less smoothness and dignity than she might have liked, Jemma feigned indifference to Fitz’ visitor. She took her usual seat at the large library table and began separating out her books and notes with precision. Still, she couldn’t help peeking every now and then, up at where Fitz and his friend were talking. Her hair was short, about shoulder length, and flared about her face, bouncing as she spoke or animatedly responded. Her bag was slung over one shoulder, and one of Jemma’s covert glances caught her hitching the bag up, causing the muscles of her shoulder to ripple. Jemma’s face flushed at that, and she buried her nose in her books until Fitz and the girl parted ways and he came to sit down.

“Sorry I’m late,” he greeted, scooting his chair in and scrabbling to pull his notes and books out of his bag to catch up with Jemma.

“It’s no problem.” It was a nice view. Jemma bit her lip, and instead tried, with a casualness that was on second thoughts, too forced to have been worth the pretence, asked, “who was that?”

“Who?” Fitz glanced over his shoulder. “Oh, Daisy. Yeah. Daisy Johnson, you know, she’s in Computing with me. She was just after some help with a Physics assignment.”

“Oh. So. She’s not – I mean…You don’t…like her?”

Fitz laughed.

“I used to have a crush on her, actually,” he explained, amused by the memory. “We almost went to the middle-school dance together. ‘Cept turns out she, you know, plays softball.”

“Softball! Of course!” Just in time, she stopped herself from commenting on how those arms would be wasted on anything else. But still, Fitz shook his head.

“No, I mean – well, yes, she does play softball. And football, actually. But I mean she, you know. Plays softball. Plays for the other team, as it were.“

“Oh. Right. Right. Yes. I’m with you now. I follow. I – yes.”

Smooth, Jemma. She stuck her nose into the nearest book and hoped she wasn’t sweating as profusely as it was starting to feel like she was.

And then it happened. The bolt of lightning. The realisation that she might, in all honesty, have an iota of a chance. It was like flicking a switch, turning a fleeting fantasy into a blooming, consuming desire in the blink of an eye. Situational affection? A mind-boggling if temporary crush? Or cupid’s arrow through her heart, turning everything Daisy into diamonds in an effort to lure Jemma into a love story for the ages? Not knowing was half the fun of it. And more than half the terror.

“Why do you ask?” Fitz wondered after a moment. “Do you like her?”

Jemma fidgeted in her seat.

“I was just thinking about trying out myself,” she said, as smooth a derailment as she could hope for under the circumstances. “For softball, I mean.”

Fitz snorted. “I’d like to see that.”

Jemma slapped her pen onto the desk.

“I totally could!”

“I’m sure you could! I just don’t think it’s your style. Hideous uniforms, pointless running around in circles, lots of sweating and effort for no discernable reason –“

“Except fitness! And – and fun! And teamwork! And competition, you know I love competition –“

Soon enough the argument shifted away from Daisy, and even from softball, and onto the two of them challenging each other’s sporting abilities and willingness to suffer hard work and dirt. Jemma’s crush didn’t fade though. It only took a back seat. For a few hours, she even had herself convinced that she should indeed pick up a bat and try out.

Eventually, of course – and for which Jemma was eternally grateful - the heady optimism of inspiration faded and she realised that she had neither the skill, nor the money, nor even the desire to try out for softball, or any other kind of sport really. She would never be able to maintain it, if nothing else. Plus, her running around getting sweaty and failing at everything was, to say the least, not nearly as alluring as she would like to come across. Instead, after a few days of denial and indecision, she picked herself up and sought out Carter’s, the café where most of the campus’s sports and arts – and queer – communities were reputed to hang out. Being a hard science student who spent most of her time across campus these days, Jemma had not been to Carter’s for some time. It was not as she remembered it, and as she walked in, a combination of nerves, surprise and marvel took her breath away.

Only a few steps through the door, Jemma’s purposeful stride faded into a slow turn, like a young woman in a film arriving in The Big City. She stared so wide and for so long she felt like a freshman. She probably looked like one too, but she couldn’t help it. The place was decked out like a 1950s milkshake bar or diner, right down to the stools at the lunch bar, juke box in the corner, and musk-candy colour scheme of pink and green. Not to mention, the pillbox hats and matching collared uniforms that the feminist in Jemma was a little ashamed to admit, made her heart flutter. It felt like she had stepped back in time, or at least into one of those handcrafted, overly perfect horror-movie villages in Florida where nothing was ever as it seemed.

A chill ran down her spine at the sudden expectation that something might jump out at her. Nothing did, but she was unceremoniously dropped out of her timeless bubble and into a world where she should, by all accounts, order something or sit down. One look at the tall, muscled blonde behind the counter, making fiercely cheerful eye contact with her latest customer and smiling that familiar smile, told Jemma she was not up for that yet. So she sat, simply grabbing for the nearest empty table and pulling out her notebook and anatomy textbook. She’d come in here to eat – or at least, that’s what she had been planning to tell anyone who asked – but there was always work to be done.

Soon enough, in fact, she was so absorbed in her readings that she didn’t even notice the true reason for her presence there slip in through the door.

Daisy Johnson.

-

Carter’s had been a staple of Daisy’s college life. Situated between the gym and the theatre, it was where some of the most interesting people gathered, and where many of the girls on her team – both literally, and euphemistically – worked and hung out. Being near the theatre as it was, and relatively near the food and design schools, Carter’s tended to go through renovations a lot. Its latest incarnation resembled a 1950s diner and aside from its renewal of her love for Back to the Future, Daisy didn’t care for it all that much. She was hoping for something more outrageous next, like a Wild West saloon, or some kind of situation in which everybody wore rollerblades. But for now, at least the food was good and the milkshakes – and the uniforms, of course – were widely celebrated.

“Lookin’ good, Bobbi,” Daisy greeted, as she dropped into the stool nearest the cash register. Barbara was today’s resident supervisor’s intensely loathed full name, and in the spirit of the vintage theme under which she currently worked, she had easily heard it more times in the past three months than in the three years before that. Even so, Daisy had to bite her lip to stop herself bringing it up for a laugh. Bobbi glared, and Daisy beamed innocently and ducked her head below the counter for a moment, trying to reach simultaneously for her purse, and for the pastries under the cover beside the register.

Bobbi rolled her eyes good-naturedly, and lifted the cover for Daisy’s blindly reaching hand.

“Pink or sprinkles?” Bobbi asked.

“Surprise me.”

Bobbi handed Daisy a pink one with rainbow sprinkles, just as Daisy’s head reappeared over the counter. Her eyes widened at Bobbi’s selection and she took a large bite, humming in satisfaction through the mouthful of donut.

“Ah, you know just how I like it.”

Bobbi eyed her with an exaggerated expression of disgust as Daisy fished out coins from her purse, the donut now dangling from her mouth where she had sunk her teeth into it in order to free up her hands.

“Not if you like it like that, I don’t,” Bobbi remarked.

“Shut up.”

Daisy took the donut out of her mouth and added a coffee to her order, but as she did so, looked over her shoulder. It had just now clicked in her brain that she had recognised somebody when she’d come in. Somebody who didn’t usually come here, and who fit in a little too well, with her A-line skirt and pastel colours, and the way she kept twirling her fingers in her stray lock of hair.

“Oh my god.”

Daisy swung back around to the counter and ducked, wishing she had a menu or something to cover her face, though that hardly would have been less conspicuous. Blushing furiously, Daisy tried to recover by taking a sip of her coffee, and burnt her tongue instead. She cursed herself as Bobbi asked, inevitably,

“Who’s that?”

“A girl. Just a girl. No biggie.” Coffee, coffee. Ouch! Damn it.

“No biggie because she barely reaches my elbow?” Bobbi speculated. “Or no biggie in the lesser known, ‘if I hide behind this menu and she never sees me I’ll never have to confront my feelings,’ sense of ‘no biggie.’”

Daisy sighed.

“Ah, I really hope you become a fully fledged bartender one day,” she said, resignation in her tone. “Your talents are wasted here.”

Bobbi pouted, and reached for a towel just so that she could brush it across the counter and lean on it dramatically.

“So this girl, huh?” she inquired.

Daisy sighed again. Feelings confrontation time. “Her name is Jemma, she’s in my Physics class.“

“You take Physics?”

“Yes. What did you think I was taking?”

“The Science of Harry Potter?” Bobbi suggested. Daisy glared.

“Don’t even joke about that. I would kill.”

Bobbi smiled, and prompted: “So, Physics.”

“So Physics. Anyway. She’s there and she’s pretty and, well, I thought that was the end of the story…“

“Buuuuut…“

“Iiiiiiif you’d let me finish….but see, I’d thought she was with Fitz. I’d just assumed. Only, I mentioned something about it - y’know, them – to him today and I’m pretty sure he’ll still be laughing at graduation. They’re just friends! So totally friends! Kinda weirdly close friends, but still!”

“So why the long face?”

“I got my hopes up for a bit. But then I remembered. Jemma’s had certified boyfriends. Milton, Will. So I’m back where I started. At least I was. Til just now. And she’s here. I mean…do you think she knows? About this place?”

Daisy raked her hands through her hair, anxious, only to find Bobbi smirking, a mischievous glint of victory in her eyes.

“Oh, sweetie, she knows,” Bobbi assured Daisy. “And as for that ‘certified boyfriends’ thing…she’s had certified girlfriends too.”

Daisy’s eyes narrowed.

“Me!” Bobbi confirmed, with a flourish. “She’s a bit of a Bambi but don’t be fooled. That girl can go.”

“So what happened with you two?” Daisy wondered. Bobbi shrugged, her expression softening.

“We were both high achievers,” she explained, “and both in the same field. Competing for attention, grants, grades… Neither of us wanted to compromise and well, too much competition stops being fun. It put a strain on us and luckily, we stepped out before we snapped. No hard feelings. Some that suck, of course, but we don’t hate each other, so that’s a plus.”

“Hmph.” Daisy’s shoulders slumped, and she resumed picking at her donut, pensive and somewhat put out.

“Hmph?” Bobbi repeated, curious.

“Well, Jemma’s still a high achiever. She probably wouldn’t have time for me anyway. It’s just going to collapse, it’s not – Never mind, I’ll just get over it.”

Bobbi shook her head, made a note on a cup, and passed it to the coffee girl without taking her eyes off Daisy for more than a moment.

“There’s only one way to know for sure,” she insisted. Daisy moped, but Bobbi slapped down an apricot danish in a napkin and drew her attention.

“Ask. The girl. Out,” Bobbi commanded. “Bring her something, make her laugh, get a conversation going. Come on, Daisy, I don’t have to coach you.”

“I don’t even know what she likes!” Daisy whined, though her defenses were falling left right and centre. “I could get her an Americano, that’s what I have- but then, what does that say about what I think about her? Or me? Cheap, basic, unoriginal. Great. But then if I get her something else, something fancier, she might not like it, or she could be allergic. Or tea? Maybe she likes tea. I mean she’s English, they must like tea right? No, that’s ridiculous. Not all English people like tea. So what then?”

Daisy met Bobbi’s eyes, desperate.

“As the ex, it is my duty to let you work all this out on your own, young Padawan,” Bobbi informed her sagely. But before Daisy could give up, Bobbi received her secret order from the coffee girl and pushed it across the counter to Daisy, alongside the apricot danish. Bobbi met her confused glance with a wink, and added: “As your best friend, it’s my duty to wingman you to the best of my ability. It’s a fine line.”

“You’re fantastic. I love you.”

“Ah, save it for Bambi!” Bobbi shooed Daisy away from the counter and Daisy went, gleefully, singing in her head, over to Jemma’s table. She had a moment to take in the dusky pinks and browns of Jemma’s outfit, and the way the light seemed to fall softer on her, and then Jemma looked up.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “can I help you?”

And just like that, the moment was gone, evaporated by the sudden grip of panic.

-

Jemma looked up, and she could have sworn her heart skipped a beat. Here was Daisy, so close her eyes were sparkling, and with an absent smile on her face like she didn’t have to think about it. And with an apricot danish in one hand, and what appeared to be a chai latte – though the label was partially covered – in the other. Jemma’s stomach rumbled. It was like a vision from the gods.

“I – I’m sorry,” she stammered, snapping herself out of her distraction. “Ah, can I help you?”

“Um. Yes. Maybe.” Don’t look at Bobbi, don’t look at Bobbi. It had been far too long since she’d had a proper date, especially with someone like Jemma. And even though Bobbi had promised, Daisy still wasn’t sure…

“I was wondering…”

Make her laugh.

“Did you swallow a magnet?”

Jemma blinked. “What?”

“Did you swallow a magnet?” Daisy repeated, her mouth bone-dry all of a sudden. “Because…you’re attractive.”

Jemma snorted. “That’s terrible.”

“I know,” Daisy groaned.

“No, I love it!”

“Really? Because I’ve got plenty more.” Daisy cleared her throat and leaned into the cheese, listing off pick-up lines in a variety of voices as she slid into the seat next to Jemma’s. “’Baby, I’ve got my ion you.’ ‘What’s your sine?’ ‘Are you full of berillium, gold and titanium? Because you are B-E-A-U-Ti-ful.’”

Jemma snorted again and curled up, giggling.

“Ten points for delivery,” she awarded.

“Oh! Speaking of delivery, these are for you.” Daisy pushed the gifts across the table, and Jemma bet into the danish with relish.

“Thank you, my favourite!”

“I had help,” Daisy confessed with a smirk. “A little birdie told me.” Jemma raised an eyebrow over Daisy’s shoulder at Bobbi, who shrugged innocently and went about wiping down and rearranging the counter.

“Well, are you having anything? I don’t have my little birdie on me today, but I’d be happy to return the favour.”

“Not a favour,” Daisy insisted. “A gift. A…hm, a –“

“A date?” Jemma grinned broadly. “With me? Really?”

“Wait, did you not get that?” Daisy frowned.

“No,” Jemma replied sarcastically, “the string of pick-up lines was completely lost on me. Yes, of course I got it! I just thought it was sweet how you got all flustered. I’ve been too intimidated to speak to you all year.”

“Intimidated?” Daisy laughed. “Why?”

“Because…” Jemma blushed. “You’ve swallowed a magnet.”

“Aw! That’s terrible!” Daisy crooned, flattered, as if the word terrible was sweet.

“I know!” Jemma moaned, but she couldn’t help smiling. “I couldn’t even remember your name until the other day, I’ve just been sitting in class pining all year!”

“You should’ve asked Fitz to hook us up! Does he know? About you?”

“Yes! I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. I guess it still feels a little weird to talk to people about it. It’s strange being bi, I feel like I’m faking it half the time. Plus, I mean, I didn’t even know that you were – that you could even be interested until he told me. Oh, I hope you don’t mind about that, by the way.”

Daisy shrugged. “I’ve already told him I’m cool with it. I’m pretty out.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Obviously not out enough, though, if you didn’t pick up on it. I should start wearing rainbow flags to school…or plaid, at least. I could rock some plaid, don’t you think?”

“You already play softball!”

“I do roller-derby too, actually,” Daisy added. Jemma’s eyes widened.

“I have always wanted to try that!”

“It’s a load of fun. You will get the crap beaten out of you though.”

Jemma’s eyes lit up immediately.

“Any gruesome injury stories?”

“Ew! We’re eating!”

“Well, I’m eating,” Jemma corrected. “And I’m a bio student. I’m used to it.”

“You fascinate me,” Daisy said, more sincere than she had been expecting. Belatedly, she realised Jemma was right and that she still did not have her food with her. She glanced over her shoulder at it, and saw the coffee and donut and her bag still by the counter.

“Um. I’ll be right back.“

Bobbi met her eyes pointedly, and pushed the coffee and donut across the counter with a salacious sparkle.

“I’ll bring you guys a lunch menu later.”

“Shut up,” Daisy scoffed, blushing.

She returned to Jemma’s table, to find Jemma eagerly awaiting her arrival.

“We don’t have to talk about gory injuries if you don’t want to,” Jemma clarified. “I can be a bit gross. Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I have some killer stories! I just like to keep my blood and bones separate from my icing and sprinkles.”

“Fair enough. We’ll just have to find something different to talk about, then.”

Jemma pulled her anatomy notebook toward her and Daisy frowned, confused. Shouldn’t they be heading away from blood and bones? But as she watched, Jemma turned to a blank page, tore off a corner and started writing on it. A phone number.

“Just in case you wanted to tell me those stories some other time,” she explained as she slid it over to Daisy.

“Can’t wait!”

“But for now, blood-free, hm?” Jemma mused. “Well, okay, let’s start at the beginning.”

She held out her hand for a shake.

“Jemma Simmons. Biochemistry.”

“Daisy Johnson. Counterterrorism.”

From there, they launched into a lively conversation, swinging from favourite foods and seasons of the year to mockeries of dating advertisements, anecdotes, relatives and ancestors, life goals and hobbies and home and everything in between. They had lunch, and then Jemma walked Daisy to class, and grinned at nothing and rocked on her heels and shivered with delight after Daisy went inside. Daisy had given Jemma her number too, and Jemma rolled and flipped the paper between her fingers gleefully. It had been a long time since she’d had a date with someone special, lost track of time, kept them on her mind. It had been a long time since she’d felt this sort of chemistry with anyone, or had it reciprocated so enthusiastically or with a warmth and vibrancy that reminded her this is real.

Jemma ambled toward home without a rush, floating on the high of her blissfully, unexpectedly successful day. She sat on the train, barely but contentedly containing the urge to introduce herself to everyone that walked on with, “hi, I’m Jemma Simmons, I have a girlfriend. She’s amazing.” Then, as they pulled away from the station at last, her phone buzzed. A message from Daisy.

Remind me to show you a proper bat grip tomorrow. McLean Field, 9am.

Jemma smiled so wide she had to bite her lip to contain it, and proceeded to spend most of the rest of the trip home entering their next date, with care and flourish, into her diary.

[thenotoriousscuttlecliff]

Moffat Era Rewatch: Deep Breath

Still struggling with his regeneration, the new Doctor investigates a series of mysterious murders in Victorian London...

Warning: Spoilers Sweetie

Usually you find the dinosaurs inside parliament, not outside it. 

Unless there’s some last minute secret cameo in ‘Twice Upon a Time’, this is the last episode with the Paternosters. Why’d you retire them, Moffat? Why? 

“It's dropped a blue box marked Police out of its mouth. Your grasp of biology troubles me.”

It didn’t at the time, but Twelve with short hair just looks so wrong now. Like a caged beast, it should be allowed to roam free. 

Peter looks so good in Matt’s outfit. Why do new Doctors always look so good in their predecessors outfits? 

“Oh, you've got a dinosaur too.”

“He's not Clara. I'm Clara.” "Well, you're very similar heights.”

New titles with added eyebrows. This was based on a concept by a fan.

“You all sound all English. Now you've all developed a fault.” 

Neve gets to use her normal accent for once. 

“People are apes. Men are monkeys.”

“How do we change him back?” Clara gets a lot of flack for this, because Clara gets flack for simply existing. People argue that she should be more except of regeneration since she knows about it and has met previous Doctors. But I think there’s a big difference between being aware of regeneration and actually experiencing it first hand. Eleven was the first Doctor she knew and as far as she was concerned he was her Doctor. Even when she met other Doctors he was still there at her side. But now he’s gone and there’s this complete stranger in his place. So I can forgive her for being a little selfish here and wanting her Doctor back. 

“I don't like her, ma'am. I love her. And as to different? Well, she's a lizard.”  

Clara says like because she doesn’t want to admit that she feels the same way about the Doctor that Jenny does about Vastra. She doesn’t want to admit that she loves the Doctor. 

“I am alone. The world which shook at my feet, and the trees and the sky, have gone. And I am alone now. Alone.” That is one poetic dinosaur. 

Peter Capaldi is one of those actors who could recite washing machine instructions and make it sound like Shakespeare. 

“He looked like your dashing young gentleman friend. Your lover, even.” Clara’s blushing. 

“Jenny and I are married. Yet for appearance's sake, we maintain a pretence, in public, that she is my maid.” "Doesn't exactly explain why I'm pouring tea in private.”

I feel for set decorators when they have to do stuff like this. 

“Door. Boring. Not me.”

“I am not sure who you think you're talking to right now, Madam Vastra, but I have never had the slightest interest in pretty young men. And for the record, if there ever was anybody who could flirt with a mountain range, she's probably standing in front of you right now. Just because my pretty face has turned your head, do not assume that I am so easily distracted.” I’m not sure who is enjoying this tongue-lashing more, Jenny or Vastra.    

“She was scared. She was scared and alone. I brought her here and look what they did.” 20 minutes in and Twelve is already breaking my heart. 

“What do you all have for brains, pudding? Look at you. Why can't I meet a decent species? Planet of the pudding brains.” 

Couldn’t just walk away, he had to leap into the river. The Doctor is so extra. 

“Military tactics. The Doctor is still missing, but he will always come looking for his box. By bringing it here, he will be lured from the dangers of London to this place of safety, and we will melt him with acid.”

Jenna Coleman was just born to wear period outfits. 

How many of Britain’s most notorious killers has Vastra had for dinner? 

Did Strax get his medical training from the same school as Doctor Zoidberg? 

If this episode was the regular length, this scene, delightful as it is, would’ve been the first to get cut.     

“Deflected narcissism. Traces of passive aggressive. And a lot of muscular young men doing sport.” Since Strax has trouble telling genders apart I’m going to assume that those weren’t all men.    

This tramp is played by Elisabeth Sladen’s husband, Brian Miller.  

“It's good I'm Scottish. I'm Scottish. I am Scottish. I can complain about things, I can really complain about things.” 

“What devilry is this, sir?” "I don't know, but I probably blame the English.”

“Oh, I don't understand why I'm doing this.” "Art?” Jenny is 110% done with your bullshit, Vastra. 

“Advertisements, yes. So many. It's a distressing modern trend.” If she thinks it is bad now wait until television comes along. 

“It doesn't makes sense. He doesn't do puzzles. He isn't complicated. Really doesn't have the attention span.” Clara obviously hasn’t spent much time with Seven. 

This is the first real scene that Peter and Jenna get to have together and our first chance to see just how amazingly they play off each other. They really bring out the best in each other as actors. 

“Well, I would say that that person would be an egomaniac, needy, game-player sort of person.” Probably the most accurate description of the Master ever. 

“Nothing is more important than my egomania.” 

“If I got new hair and it was grey, I would have a problem.” Clara is so vain, it’s one of the things I love about her. 

I doubt this place has any Michelin stars.   

“Do you have a children's menu?” I really don’t want to know what is on the children’s menu. 

“Oh, it's at times like this I miss Amy.” 

I know that he doesn’t actually leave her, but it is still a shock to see the Doctor so casually abandon Clara. 

“Go on, then. Do it. I'm not going to answer any of your questions, so you have to do it. You have to kill me. Threats don't work unless you deliver.” This is one of Clara’s finest moments. Even though she is clearly terrified, she manages to turn the tables on her interrogator and get him to spill the beans instead. 

“Are you trying to scare me? Well, cos I'm already bloody terrified of dying. And I'll endure a lot of pain for a very long time before I give up the information that's keeping me alive. How long have you got?”

“I don't know. But I know where he will be. Where he will always be. If the Doctor is still the Doctor, he will have my back. I'm right, aren't I? Go on. Please, please, go on, say I'm right.” You were right, Clara. 

Twelve’s Theme kicks in at full blast. As much as I love it, it just doesn’t have quite the same blood pumping effect as ‘I Am the Doctor’.  

“Yeah, sorry. Well no, actually, I'm not. You're brilliant on adrenaline.”

“I hate being wrong in public. Everybody forget that happened.”

The squad is here. 

“Your friend is intelligent. He'll know better than to follow me.” You sure about that? 

“I've got the horrible feeling I'm going to have to kill you. I thought you might appreciate a drink first. I know I would.”

Doctor Who is the only show that could get away with having a hot air balloon made of human skin on prime time BBC One.

“Sister ship of the Madame De Pompadour. No, not getting it.” Understandable considering, from his perspective, it has been nearly a millennium since season two. 

“No, it isn't. It's just far away. Everything looks too small. I prefer it down there. Everything is huge. Everything is so important. Every detail, every moment, every life clung to.”

“Question. You take a broom, you replace the handle, and then later you replace the brush, and you do that over and over again. Is it still the same broom?” Better known as the Trigger conundrum. 

“There's not a trace of the original you left. You probably can't even remember where you got that face from.” Moments like this are why I think Peter Capaldi is the best actor who has ever played the Doctor. 

“Self-destruction is against my basic programme.” "And murder is against mine.”

It’s not a proper kiss, but I’ll take it. 

Strax was willing to kill himself just so he would’t reveal his friends. 

That glare still sends a chill down my spine. 

“I don't think I know who the Doctor is any more.”

He’s redecorated and I do like it, especially the bookshelves. Place looks so homely now. 

“I'm the Doctor. I've lived for over two thousand years, and not all of them were good. I've made many mistakes, and it's about time that I did something about that.”

By admitting that he thought he was Clara’s boyfriend he is pretty much admitting that he’s in love with her.    

She doesn’t say it, but she clearly likes the new look.

“You'd better get that. It might be your boyfriend.”

And now we know why the phone was left hanging. 

“...and I think you might be scared. And however scared you are, Clara, the man you are with right now, the man I hope you are with, believe me, he is more scared than anything you can imagine right now and he, he needs you.” Glad I didn’t watch this right after ‘Time of the Doctor’. I would not have been able to go through saying goodbye to Matt again twice in one day.  

“You can't see me, can you? You look at me, and you can't see me. Have you any idea what that's like? I'm not on the phone, I'm right here, standing in front of you. Please, just, just see me.”

The first of many awkward hugs. 

They go for coffee, not chips, so relax Doctor/Rose shippers. No one is stepping on your moment. 

Oh Missy, you're so fine. You're so fine you blow my mind, hey Missy! Hey Missy!

Next Time: Into the Dalek

[asarahworld-writes]

A Fiance for Christmas

Doctor Iain Prydon has been invited to a Christmas party, hosted by an old friend. The only catch - he’s supposed to bring his fiance of three years, a woman who doesn’t exist. (Human!AU)

@doctorroseprompts - Fake Relationship, Twelfth Doctor Month, 31 Days of Ficmas – Family, Shiver, Rosy cheeks, Love

@timepetalsprompts Piper Bingo – Tongue-touched smile

Notes: According to Sherlock Holmes, three kisses means romantic attachment.  (A Scandal in Belgravia)

  Chapter 3

“You met Alistair, of course.  The group at the table are Mike Yates, John Benton, Jo Grant and her husband, and Harry Sullivan.  We served together.  The lot standing next to them comprise of Erisa Magambo, Mariam Price, Alan Mace, and Szymon Zbrigniev,” Iain snapped his mouth shut.  He didn’t normally have such a tendency to ramble, or rather he had used to but had since ceased that habit.  A brunette woman entered the room, her eyes widening obviously in shock when they landed on Iain, who promptly excused himself.  Rose watched as he walked up to the woman, eyes bright, and embraced her.

I have no right bein’ jealous, Rose told herself firmly as Iain led the woman to where she was waiting.

“Sarah, I’d love you to meet my fiancé, Rose Tyler. Rose, darling, let me introduce Sarah Jane Smith.”  Iain’s eyes were tight, as if he were worried that Rose would not be able to keep her cover.

“Sarah Jane, it’s lovely to meet you,” Rose put on as warm a smile as she could muster.  “You don’t know how nice it is to finally get to know some of Iain’s friends.”

“Oh, this lot’s always felt more like family.  I can’t tell you what it’s been like these last few years, Iain’s always trying to duck out at the last minute, then he shows up alone.  Did you really catch the flu on Christmas for the past two years?”  Sarah Jane’s voice was sympathetic and filled with compassion.

Rose’s smile turned slightly.  “Yeah, bit of a Tyler holiday tradition.  Usually manage to catch the flu just in time for the holidays,” she improvised.  It wasn’t a complete lie, both she and her mother had been sick during Christmas, but it hadn’t been last year or the year before.  A hand touched her bare shoulder, and she shivered, leaning in to the touch.

Sarah Jane sighed.  “The two of you look post card ready, with the snowy background through the window and the mistletoe hanging above you.”

Mistletoe?  It certainly hadn’t been Alistair’s idea to hang the garish decoration.  What was his wife’s name?  Sally?  Fiona?

“Ah, Doris,” Alistair was embracing a woman who had just entered the room.  Sally (or Fiona) must have been the name of his first wife.  The mother of his daughter.  She’d been a little girl when he’d seen her last, nearly fifteen years ago. He supposed that she was an adult now (children did tend to grow up all too fast, he knew this quite well.)

“Iain?”  A voice asked, incredulous.  Iain looked over to see a young blonde woman coming over to him.  She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place how he knew her.

“Iain, you remember my wife, Doris,” Alistair introduced the first woman.

“Charmed,” Iain nodded, not particularly remembering. He knew that he must have attended their wedding, but that had been fifteen years ago, when he’d last seen Alistair’s daughter.

“And my daughter – Kate, would you come here for a moment?  Iain’s finally brought his fiancé over,” Alistair called the younger woman.

“Alistair,” Iain hissed, but the other man paid him no mind.  Iain was jumpy.  There were quite a few too many people for his liking in the vicinity, but he had resigned himself to that fate.  This, however, was quite a different matter.  This was personal.  This was getting to know people that he didn’t know, only saw once a year, and people who probably didn’t remember him.

“Yes, Dad?”  The young blonde woman looked from her father to Iain.

“You remember Iain?”  Alistair prompted her.

She studied Iain for a moment.  “He was in your wedding?”  She sounded ever so slightly unsure of herself.

Kate would remember that.  She’d been twenty-four when her father had remarried.  Iain supposed that Kate wasn’t so young any more, but didn’t care to consider what that made Alistair and himself.

“Best man,” Alistair clapped Iain’s shoulder.  “And now you’re getting married.  At some point, I presume.”

Iain hummed.  “Later rather than sooner, I presume.  I only just got around to asking for her hand this morning.”

“This morning?  Iain, you’ve been talking about marrying this woman for six months!”  Alistair exclaimed, shocked.

“I never claimed to have very good timing, Alistair.”

“No, well, we are all quite aware of that,” Alistair shook his head.  He raised his glass.  “A toast,” he announced to the guests.  “To Rose and Iain.  It’s about bloody time.”  Rose toasted Iain, hiding a smirk.

“Six months?”  She whispered, a coy smile on her face.

“It’s a long story,” Iain seethed quietly.

“Half the year, apparently,” Rose smiled, tongue touching out.  She became aware that Alistair’s guests were looking at her and Iain expectantly.

“I think they want you to kiss her, Iain,” John called from down the table.

Iain regarded Rose, who quirked her shoulders slightly.  Unconsciously, he moistened his lips.  Her cheeks were pinkening, but she reached for his hand.  His head tilted, forehead leaning in, and their lips touched ever so briefly.  But Rose didn’t pull away.  She captured his lips in her own, and Iain could practically feel her radiating love.  But of course, it wasn’t real.  This was only a fake relationship, after all, one strung together for his convenience so that his lie to his friends was not outed.  Rose couldn’t love him.  Iain broke the kiss, suddenly aware of Mike and John whooping, Sarah and Jo giddily whispering to each other, and Alistair just shaking his head and sighing.

“We are engaged, remember?”  Rose chimed out, as Iain’s friends looked on, wriggling her ring finger.  It nearly broke her heart to remember that they weren’t, that this was a pretence for Iain’s closest friends, that he’d gotten himself in a bind and invited her along for the fun of it.  And she was having fun, meeting new people, learning more about her co-worker’s personal life, getting to know him more and more as a person who was not just the professor with whom she worked on occasion.  Or rather, he worked in his laboratory and she modelled her paintings on him.  (Rose had always wanted to be an artist, and had been quite good at it.  After so many missed opportunities, she had finally enrolled herself in a community college art class.)

Rose pressed a second, brief kiss to Iain’s cheek.  If she was only going to have this one chance to be with Iain Prydon, then she was going to savour every last moment of it.

She noticed Doris slip off into the kitchen and frowned. It wasn’t a dinner party and so the older woman truly had no reason to be in the kitchen.  Perhaps she just needed a break from the exuberant environment. It did not appear that they entertained a large party such as this frequently, and Rose presumed that Doris was simply over-exhausted.  Rose excused herself, following the older woman.

“Are you all right?”  She stepped in to the kitchen.

“Oh,” Doris exclaimed, closing her eyes.  “You startled me.  Rose, was it?”

“Yeah,” Rose smiled.  “Are you all right?” She repeated her question.

“Oh, yes, yes.  It has been quite a while since we’ve had so many guests over, I’m afraid that I needed a moment.”  Doris smiled weakly, leaning against the countertop.

“Nothing that a spot of tea won’t fix,” Rose suggested. Doris nodded.

“Tea’s just in that jar on the counter.”

Rose filled the kettle with water, taking comfort in the task’s familiarity.  “How many people are here, anyway?”

“Oh, there’s Alistair and myself, and Kate of course. Iain and you.  Mike, John, Jo, Harry, and Sarah.  Jo’s husband.  And those other UNIT chaps, there’s four of them.  So that’s four and six and two and three, which makes ten and five which is fifteen.  Is that all?” Doris laughed faintly.

“We might need two pots, then,” Rose joked.

“Oh, those UNIT fellows – that’s how they are all acquainted, by the way, dear, some obscure branch of the United Nations – are all coffee drinkers.  Every last one of them.  Except for myself.  I didn’t know what I was marrying in to – hopefully now that you know, you’ll not change your mind and find an out of your engagement!”  Doris placed a clean filter in the coffeepot and began to measure grounds.  “It truly is like a family,” she continued after starting the coffee brewing, “and I can see that everyone here is looking forward to getting to know you better, Rose.”

Rose nodded, only thinking that Iain Prydon was not truly planning on marrying her.