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foxy-exy · 3 years ago

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You don’t have to say you love me (I just wanna tell you somethin’) - Kevaaron

Aaron could have predicted that pretending to date Kevin Day to get back at Andrew would backfire. He just didn't think it would backfire like this.

Another present fic for @starsandgutters !!

It started off as irritation. A prickle of annoyance. After all, Aaron thought, why was his brother allowed to have his stupid little boyfriend who gave him sappy little looks and brushed his fingers when they thought no one was looking? When Andrew spent so much energy and time driving off each and every girl Aaron had ever even smiled at?

When he woke up to Josten curled up in Andrew’s bed, he felt the anger begin to simmer in his chest.

And when he finally walked in on them kissing, Aaron Minyard knew something had to be done.

***

“I’m sick of this.”

Kevin looked up at the slam of Aaron’s hands on the kitchen counter, a ghost of a wince startling him out of his intent perusal of a book — one that looked suspiciously like some kind of soapy dollar store romance. Aaron raised an eyebrow at the chiselled man with an Exy racquet slung across his shoulders plastered across the cover, and Kevin cleared his throat and flipped the book over.

“Sick of, uh, sick of what?”

“Them. Josten being all over Andrew.”

Kevin looked mildly disturbed. “You didn’t… they weren’t…”

Aaron mimed vomiting. Imagine walking in on that. “Oh god, no. They were just making out. But it’s pissing me off. At this point, I feel like they need a taste of their own fucking medicine.”

Kevin lifted a dark eyebrow, uncomprehending. “What do you mean?”

Aaron considered him over the top of his laced fingers.

It wasn’t Kevin’s fault that Aaron and Katelyn had tearfully decided several months ago that the sneaking around just wasn’t worth the effort — attempting to keep their relationship up at a distance wasn’t working, so they’d parted ways. And it also wasn’t Kevin’s fault that he was now the only one who wasn’t related to Aaron that he actually exchanged more than two regular words with.

But the plan that had been quietly brewing in the very back corner of Aaron’s head for several weeks now was, admittedly, immensely helped by Kevin being Kevin. The fact that it was Kevin — of anyone Aaron could hatch this particular plot with — would piss Andrew off like no other.

And ultimately, that was the utmost goal.

“Kevin, what if I were to tell you…”

***

“What.”

“Look, I’ll help you with studying. Or — or something. I don’t know, what do you want? I’ll get you merch for your favorite team. Something for Knox, or whatever? You can put it on your little shrine.”

“This is ridiculous,” Kevin said, but he suddenly looked a little pinker than he was before. “I don’t have a…a shrine.”

Aaron opened his mouth to make a comment about how he didn’t know what else the entire inside of Kevin’s wardrobe was supposed to be, but now was the time to let things like that go. “I know Andrew and Josten piss you off too. If they figured out they needed to chill out with each other, maybe they’d do more practice with you.”

Kevin looked to be considering the proposition, finally, narrowing his far-away eyes thoughtfully down at the shirtless Exy player, only slightly concealed on the counter by one hand. At last, he said haltingly, “Couldn’t you…ask someone else?”

The uncertainty was Aaron’s in. He pushed forward, throwing another Kevin bait into the mix. “If you do it, I’ll practice extra with you too.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed again, snapping up to sharpen on Aaron’s face. He had him. “I don’t know if you could keep up.”

“Oh my god, you asshole, that’s the point. I’ll put in more effort, you can show me how.”

“You’ll join night practices?” Kevin tilted his head.

A twinge of nervous anxiety in Aaron’s stomach. “I mean, I can’t do it all the time, I have to study, because unlike the rest of you all, my classes actually matter outside of a minimum GPA. But sure, whatever. Sometimes I’ll let you drag me along. If you do this.”

“This is ridiculous,” Kevin sighed again, as he stuck out his hand for Aaron to shake.

“So is your book,” deadpanned Aaron.

(Though if he had to chew his lip nearly to bleed to bite back a smile when Kevin dove to escape with his smut novel with a sputter and a glare, it was no one’s business but his own.)

***

“Greek salad and the turkey sandwich, here you two are. Enjoy.”

Kevin was sporting a sour scowl strong enough to wilt the salad the cafe waiter had placed in front of him — like getting treated to lunch was the lowest part of his week.

Maybe it was, he’d probably prefer to carry out this plan on the court. After all, Kevin preferred to do most things on the court.

Now that Aaron thought about it, Josten preferred the same. Perhaps the next part of this plan could happen on the court. At least Kevin would look less like he wanted to be five miles away from him, which really ruined the entire point of this exercise.

“They usually get coffee here around this time, so we just need to be a little convincing when they show up,” Aaron muttered, once more glancing furtively over his shoulder for Andrew and his annoying redheaded shadow. “But before they get here, Kevin, you did agree to at least pretend to fake date me. Maybe drop the murder glare, it’s not very romantic.”

“What am I even supposed to do?” Kevin hissed, but his glare dropped in favor of the same flavor of embarrassment Aaron recognized from his Knox shrine, eyes darting to Aaron’s face and back away, on repeat.

Aaron scoffed. “You’ve dated before. You were dating — what’s her name, Thea, weren’t you?”

“Not like this,” Kevin mumbled, beginning to shred his napkin.

Aaron watched him shower paper confetti across the tabletop, biting back his own surprise. Granted, Aaron had only seen Thea once or twice before Kevin had ended things with her, and their relationship had never seemed anything like Aaron’s often short lived but whirlwind style romances. Kevin and Thea had read aloof power couple at best, and… dangerously close to toxic old Raven headspace for Kevin at worst.

But still… Kevin Day, unsure of dating. Unsure of himself. A strange sight indeed.

“Well. We’ll figure it out. First, here.” Aaron slid an open palm across the table, and Kevin stared down at it like it was a foreign object.

“Hold my hand. It’s not going to bite you.” No movement, but Aaron knew how to play to his audience. “Or are you not up to the challenge?”

Kevin huffed and slapped his hand down, clamping his fingers around Aaron’s wrist. His hand was very large, and enveloped most of Aaron’s, but the death grip was anything but amorous.

“Prime boyfriend hand holding, Day,” Aaron said dryly.

“Prime plan, Minyard,” Kevin parroted back, as he picked his fork back up, raising his eyebrow. “Have fun eating that sandwich with one hand.”

“Fuck you.”

“Not on the first date, honey,” Kevin smiled around his forkful.

“Oh, of course. I’ll wait til the second to jump you, I’m not a slut, sweetheart.”

The slight choke brought a wave of triumph, as Aaron also managed to pick up half of his slightly soggy sandwich and bit into it.

Kevin was giving him A Look, and Aaron flipped him off with his sandwich hand, smirking.

Even if he’d had another option for this plan, Kevin was fun to poke at. It had been a long time since they’d last properly talked. They rarely spent time alone — Andrew was the Minyard Kevin was most interested in. Aaron’s preoccupation with Katelyn and with his schoolwork had meant he’d rarely spent much time speaking to him, anyway, let alone trading snarky insults.

Kevin speared an olive and stared at it. “So… aside from… holding hands. What are we planning on doing?”

Aaron tried to cough down dry turkey. “We just need to fool Andrew into thinking we’re an item, it’s not that hard.”

“But what kind of terms, Aaron? How far are you expecting…oh shit.”

(Read more on AO3 here!)

#kevaaron #aaron minyard #kevin day #all for the game #the foxhole court #aftg #aftg fanfic #all for the game fanfic #fanfic #andrew minyard #neil josten #andreil #kay fanfic #kaystuff #long post

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canary3d-obsessed · 4 years ago

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Restless Rewatch: The Untamed Episode 09 first part

(Masterpost) (More Canary Funsies)

Warning: Spoilers for All 50 Episodes!

This episode features so many eternal minutes of zombie shambling that I thought I could fit everything into a single post. HA HA HA HA nope.

Zombie Temple

The trio do their best to fend off the not-zombies in the temple. Lan Wangji tells Wei Wuxian that he can’t go carving them up because they’re not actually dead, and drops a callback to their very first meeting at the gate of Cloud Recesses, when Wei Wuxian caught his attention with his pillowy lips comment on the not-dead cultivator.

Lan Wangji: You said it in that golden moment that will be seared into my memory for eternity, where I heard your voice and laid eyes on your angelic face and lost my heart forever, remember? Come on, babe, it was our very first zombie! How baked were you?

Wei Wuxian: I jerk off to the sword-fighting memory, not the zombie memory, you weirdo.

Nie Huaisang’s fear of the definitely not undead has apparently gotten him the rest of the way over his fear of Lan Wangji, because he’s now yelling “Lan-Xiong!” right along with “Wei-Xiong!” as he struggles. Note that although he later mentions that his fan is made of some fancy metal, we don’t see any evidence that he wants to fight with a fan any more than he does with a blade. I don’t hate anyone’s fan-fighting NHS headcanon, but my take is that he just isn’t a physical fighter, and that’s ok.

This is a good time to remember that our entire experience of the Nie clan so far in this story is 1. Clever but hopelessly combat-unready tiny artiste Nie Huaisang 2. Quietly helpful, absurdly pretty sidekick Meng Yao.

We don’t know yet that Nie Huasang’s gege and Meng Yao’s sugar daddy is literally the toughest motherfucker in the entire cultivation world. But his friends do! Which makes me love these dynamics even more, because not one of them criticizes Nie Huaisang for being the person he is.

(more after the cut!)

Never Let Me Go

This scene is where Wei Wuxian gives his tacit consent to being used as the eventual agent of Nie Huaisang’s vengeance....ok not really.

But he does make it clear what Nie Huaisang should do when he’s in a pickle. And NHS doesn’t forget things.

Priorities

Meanwhile, Lan Wangji isn’t nearly as patient as Wei Wuxian, and he drops a silence spell on Nie Huaisang basically out of annoyance. It’s not like they’re trying to be sneaky.

Lan Wangji: How about you have an exquisitely crafted ceramic cup of shut the fuck up?

Flute Girl

Wen Qing comes to the rescue by summoning all of the not-zombies, who happen to be her extended family, to come toast some marshmallows.

She’s another person who unwisely demonstrates, where Wei Wuxian can hear her, the power of flutes over zombies.

This move doesn’t seem to do anything important but it looks cool.

Brother Dynamic: Bad. Really Bad.

Jiang Cheng shows up in the temple and trolls everyone, because this is a great time for childish antics. Wei Wuxian is super happy to see him and runs over to hug him, which earns him a shoulder slam.

This is a regular part of their body language with each other. Wei Wuxian covers his hurt reaction very, very quickly, with a smile that doesn’t involve very much of his face.

Wei Wuxian is so good at pretending his feelings aren’t hurt, he probably convinces himself.

Then he gives a too-honest answer when Jiang Cheng accuses him of...daring to enjoy himself, basically.

That’s more truth than Jiang Cheng was looking for, and he raises a hand to Wei Wuxian, who hides behind Nie Huaisang. This move is interesting because on one level it’s just clowning; obviously Nie Huaisang can’t protect WWX from anything, and WWX doesn’t need protection from Jiang Cheng.

WWX can easily beat JC in a fight, as he’s let us know before. On another level, this retreat signals WWX’s harmlessness, his childlike-ness, in a semiotic dance that has been playing out for over a decade between the brothers. NHS is taking on Jiang Yanli’s role in the choreography, this time.

All of this troubling hostility doesn’t make Jiang Cheng a bad person. He’s young and he’s still under his parents’ control and subject to their abuse at home. It takes time to develop mindfulness about this stuff and learn to treat people beneath you differently than the way you are treated.

Jiang Cheng isn’t ready for that yet, any more than he is ready to say out loud that he cares about his brother.

Leave My Boyfriend Out of It

This interaction is noteworthy for Wei Wuxian defending Lan Wangji to his brother, before Jiang Cheng even has a chance to blame Lan Wangji.

Wei Wuxian says that following Lan Wangji was his own idea, and then gives LWJ the sweetest, warmest smile.

Lan Wangji also gets a pair of totally unearned, delighted smiles of thanks from his two besties when he lifts the silence spell on Nie Huaisang.

Being mildly dickish all the time works out fine, I guess, if you only make friends with people whose brothers are legendary grouches.

Grilling Wen Qing

Wei Wuxian finally decides he’s had enough of Wen Qing’s crap, and gets slightly aggressive in questioning her.

He’s not actually roughing her up but he is approaching her as a near-enemy for the first time, rather than as someone who wants to be her friend. Once Wen Qing tells him what’s up and agrees to a sort of temporary alliance, he goes back to being his normal slightly awkward self with her.

I don’t romance-ship WQ and WWX, except maybe as corpse-mountain era FWB, but I do like their chemistry. And their friendship is really refreshing and interesting, based on sharing goals and working together, not on emotional intimacy. It’s nice to see people with a lot of barriers around their hearts, building a strong, trusting bond without having to actually open up very much.

The idea of perfect sharing between people is a nice one, but it’s pretty alien to many of us who are recovering from trauma, or people who just aren’t wired that way, and it’s good to see other models of friendship and love.

Wei Wuxian, at Lan Wangji’s direction, parts the Red Sea drops a cage on the other 3 cultivators before going to hunt the dire birdy.

Jiang Chang is, predictably, pissed off about it, in spite of Wei Wuxian’s “you’re good at this” parting words, and says, according to the subtitles, “you bastard!”

“Bastard” is a pretty specific epithet, in English. In the current century, it’s generally used to mean “asshole,” more or less. But it still does carry the meaning “of illegitimate birth,” and since The Untamed is often concerned with legitimacy it seems pretty strong for JC to use with someone who is rumored to be his own Dad’s by-blow.

Let’s have a look and see what he really is calling him... 你混蛋 = Nǐ húndàn = “you bastard” per Google translate. Wow, Jiang Cheng, you really went there, huh.

Wen Granny

Wen Qing and the others in the golden cage watch as the not-zombies try half-heartedly to get to them. Wen Qing is super sad about it, as opposed to the two guys who are just annoyed (Jiang Cheng) or scared (Nie Huaisang).

The first time I saw this, it was just - oh, Wen Qing sympathizes with this poor random woman, she feels bad about what's happening, this is to show us she has a heart.

Now though -- that's HER granny. Maybe not her bio-grandma but clearly a granny of her clan, who she knows well, who later cares for A-Yuan when he's a child, so may very well have cared for A-Qing and A-Ning when they were small, too. Owie.

Dire Bird Hunting

Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian run off to hunt the smoke bird together. They are quickly trapped in cool-looking fog. Kudos to the Director of Photography.

They spend some time being confused and also being peak Wangxian 1.0 as they help each other out.

Lost in the fog and unable to summon talismans, Wei Wuxian is mainly about checking on Lan Wangji, making sure he’s ok, making sure he’s near. He doesn’t spare any worry for himself.

(We get a rare instance of seeing an actually glowing sword here, instead of just having a character say “I saw the beams of swords!” to save money on VFX.)

Lan Wangji, meanwhile, understands the mental attack they are under, explains it to Wei Wuxian with only a little snark about Wei Wuxian’s overly busy mind, and teaches him how to handle it.

Lan Wangji is super disciplined in mind, body, and sword - his fight moves don’t change, really, throughout his life, but he gets better and better at execution. Wei Wuxian isn’t exactly undisciplined, but he’s super creative and busts out a new skill in nearly every encounter. Lan Wangji sees this and is learning to make use of it.

After Lan Wangji helps Wei Wuxian overcome the confusion that is blocking his talisman use, he tells him which talisman to use.

This isn’t a talisman that LWJ uses himself, it’s just that he’s paying very close attention to WWX’s battle moves, and has a great memory, so he knows which ones will work. In a pretty short timespan he’s moved from thinking like a solo swordsman to thinking as part of a team with a broad range of battle skills. Very soon, he’ll be starting to use Wei Wuxian’s talismans himself.

WWX takes a hit from the flying death chain, but uses it to his advantage, as in so many encounters. He’s not just self-sacrificing--he is definitely that--but he’s also a chess player, knowing how to use a sacrifice or an injury to his advantage. Cue Lan Wangji being worried for the entire rest of his life.

Part Two is here!

#fytheuntamed #the untamed #the untamed gifs #wangxian #chen qing ling #restless rewatch the untamed #canary3d-original #nie huaisang #wei wuxian #jiang cheng #lan wangji #wen qing

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atopfourthwall · 5 years ago

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how has being a reviewer changed in the past few years? I've been interested in reviewing different forms of media, inspired by several people including yourself, and it's definitely been shoved aside for video games and "lifestyle" channels. Do you think there's a way to get good revenue these days as a reviewer if you haven't been on here for years?

Yes, but it’s harder. Back when I started, the internet was VERY hungry for AVGN-style content - negative reviews talking about terrible media in an over the top manner, particularly because frustration can be funny and a lot of people hadn’t heard of a lot of the terrible movies of the past or present (or if they did, it was at least always fun to have a new perspective on it). It’s why we all tended to follow the same basic model - play-by-play of the movie/comic/game/etc., clip of the thing in question, then cut to us for pithy or sarcastic remark. However, like with any trend, audience tastes end up shifting. Even back in the day, people wanted me to talk more about good comics. Part of that was because a lot of my audience WEREN’T comic fans but wanted to get into them, while others were getting bored by the constant barrage of hate. Even creators themselves were getting burnt out on it - assuming you’re not genuinely annoyed at the thing you’re talking about (and truth be told, even when we’re looking at something we genuinely dislike, anger takes up a lot of energy, so it makes it that much harder to get that across so there’s a degree of acting required so that it doesn’t sound like you’re just bored or mildly annoyed), performing the same similar thing for years can wear down on ya, especially if you’re a creative person who wants some variety in the things you’re doing. As such, with a combination of people who were of DOING the same old thing combined with an audience who WANTED something different, you’ve got the rise of video essayists, less scripted content, or people being willing to do videos on media they actually enjoy. And because the longer-form content of video essays and the like requires a lot more time and research rather than just riffing, people tend to gravitate towards those more these days because it’s entertaining material that looks at media in ways that the mainstream doesn’t really do. You’re not seeing 40-minute deconstructions of Guardians of the Galaxy 2 and how it relates to complicated relationships with abusive family on NBC or the like. The advantage of an independent Youtube/New Media channel is that they usually have zero oversight - no one you have to seek approval of to cover a subject. You just do what you want to do. Now, that of course has its flipside that sometimes someone needs to tell you “No, this is a terrible idea,” but that’s a risk even if you DID have some oversight if they don’t recognize potential issues. Now, reviewers of course are still around. Some newer ones, some older ones like me. The formula still exists and still works, but of course because it’s been around for over a decade the problem that exists with starting a new one now is standing out in the crowd. A lot of it comes down to genuine talent - express opinions and jokes that are unique (or at least uniquely presented), well-executed, and just have a good eye for material that people WANT to see talked about (or at least something no one else is doing that makes you different from anyone else) and you’ve got a leg-up. The downside of course is that the algorithm favors the predictable, samey type of stuff which is why you have entire channels devoted exclusively to a single franchise (or in my case, why History of Power Rangers is more popular than AT4W despite AT4W being my regular content) so you might not get the promotion you need. There is no surefire trick to BEING successful at this, I’m sorry to say. I lucked out in getting in at a good time when there were less people doing this (and very few doing comic books) and getting promoted on a very popular site, but you won’t necessarily have that advantage. It’s why when you start, you’ve got to do it more because you enjoy doing it rather than simply going for the money, because there’s no guarantee you’ll make it. Hell, even after 12 years of this, while I make more than enough to live on (and that’s with both Youtube AND Patreon), I’m not exactly living the high life.

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docfuture · 5 years ago

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Princess, part 12

[This story is a prequel, set in an alternate 2012, several years before The Fall of Doc Future, when Flicker is 16. Links to some of my other work are here. Updates are theoretically biweekly. Next chapter is partly done so I’m going to try to get it out early in September.]

Previous: Part 11

Recovery--and a start at change and learning. Flicker thought about the wrap up of her first session, and Stella's comments on paying a bit more attention to the ways other people were already helping. "... and I just suppressed thinking about it at all because the frustration got real bad when I didn't," Flicker had said. "Understandable," said Stella. "Did you consider talking to Armadillo?" "I talked to her about some general stuff, but she's... old." Stella nodded slowly. "I can see how the Database might have given you the impression that sex was invented sometime in the 60s. And Armadillo was already middle-aged by then." "That's not fair. It just that the primary sources were so indirect and coded about it. And left so much out. The Database doesn't..." Flicker frowned, then sped up to check a few things. After a while she slowed back down. "Well, crap," she said. "I learned most of my 20th century history when I was randomly bouncing around the Database reading whatever caught my interest when I was 11 or 12. So I missed stuff. And I didn't go back, and made some implicit assumptions." "You might find a discussion with Armadillo illuminating," said Stella. "Have you considered that Doc might not be the person contributing the most to the collective judgement of your social maturity level that the Database uses to set your default access levels? He seems willing to delegate to people he trusts, and of those, Armadillo clearly has had experience with children." "Oof. No, I hadn't thought of that." Flicker sighed. "Sometimes I wonder about the amount of time I spend mentally running circles around things without looking at what's at the center." "Don't be too harsh on yourself. You blame most of your social difficulties on mental differences, poor references, and lack of practice. But the form of your education mattered, too. You never went to school before your graduate work, and you did most of that remotely. You learned from Doc, the Database, and direct observation--primarily of static scenes because of your speed. And the bulk of educational material in the Database was written by and for typical humans, with all the embedded assumptions that entails." "I really like the Database. And the summaries help." Stella shook her head. "Not always. Not if you don't know what's missing. The Database AI made judgements when you were younger about what was appropriate at the time. This shaped your knowledge map, which was already going to be very different from most humans. So do your Database access restrictions. Information revealed selectively or out of order can harm. And if the Database can't reveal A to you--for, say, privacy reasons--and revealing B without A would cause harm, it will restrict B as well. I'm sure Doc must have warned you about that." "Yeah, but a lot of his restrictions seem arbitrary." "Many will, if done right. Database restrictions can and do cause bias problems, but overriding them is inherently risky. The Database AI has to balance that, and there are no optimal choices, because the whole idea of the Database as an 'objective' knowledge map is a illusion. The Database is biased by what gets recorded. Your access to it is further biased, and what you actually do access is even more biased. But the idea that you are necessarily getting closer to impartial truth when you override a warning is dangerous." "So I can mess myself up with overrides." "You already have. Repeatedly. Information shaping is one of my more powerful tools. Cruder forms of it are in widespread use and getting more effective every day. But perceptions come pre-shaped." Stella had sipped from her cup of coffee before continuing. "For example, you are highly proficient in many math-heavy technical subjects not usually mastered until graduate school, and awkward in areas typically covered by early childhood education or peer group socialization. So when you made your implicit assumptions? Of course you missed things. However." Stella was good at an 'I have a secret to share--eventually' style of speaking that was both mildly annoying and very effective at focusing attention. "Yes?" said Flicker. "Anyone would. You just missed different things. Others might have helped with some of them. But no one could predict them all. Not Doc, not the Database, not me. So do what you can, but don't be too hard on yourself when mistakes happen." "Ah. I'll try to remember that." ***** Flicker tried to follow Stella's initial guidelines, which focused on short term recovery, stabilization, and 'stop making this worse'. Avoiding patrols was the most important and hardest to follow advice. Physical therapy and exercise were tedious, but not difficult. The dietary changes... were trickier. Flicker had lost weight from the accident and the isotope exchanger sessions which she really couldn't afford. And her kind of pseudo-shapeshifter healing depended on adequate body mass. Stella forwarded some funny essays on cuisine and recovery for shapeshifters supposedly written by a French werewolf, and had the Database reset her food and drink related warnings, with an eye to both mental and physical health. She'd also pointed out to Flicker that it only took a few early incidents of plasma in the GI tract while pushing the limits of her entropy dumping to cause lasting aversion to eating much while on call. So when she later started to feel like she was on duty almost all the time, she stopped eating proper meals except with friends. Staying off patrol for now made it possible to change that, but not easy. Theoretically, she could eat like an Olympic athlete in training while exercising appropriately, and recover quite quickly, but that wasn't realistic. She was stubborn, but so were her habits. She couldn't patrol, but she could keep busy by surveying--updating Database geographical and obstacle data--and doing interior construction and finishing work on her house. Back-ordered materials had piled up. Flicker used power tools mainly for precision and delicacy; she had custom hand tools for speed and power, and boxes of regular hammers and screwdrivers to replace the ones she wore out or broke. Superspeed and robotic help let her make rapid progress in the half days she was putting in to it. Common areas and guest rooms were finished, and recreation areas, a wider variety of workshops, and Database node expansion rooms were all taking shape. Making time to talk and eat with friends wasn't sophisticated advice, but it was obviously helpful. She'd had dinner with Jetgirl and her husband yesterday. Good food, carefully non-specific sympathy, then after dinner, 'girl talk' with Jetgirl. Which meant tech geekery--they spent a few hours discussing the instrumentation and results from Speedtest, and Jetgirl's suggestions for some issues Flicker had encountered expanding her robotics workshop. Reliable comfort. The aftereffects from the cybernetic interface withdrawal were finally mostly gone, and Flicker's metabolism and appetite seemed to be responding to her exercises. She was definitely putting on muscle faster than a human could. And she'd mentioned her problem to Stavros, the owner of her favorite Greek restaurant, he'd gotten a look on his face like he'd been personally called upon to save the world, and now she had enough takeout in her fridge to feed a starving pseudo-mythological extradimensional being for a week. Today, a visit with Armadillo. She had promised something interesting. Flicker had once asked Armadillo why she hadn't picked the name Glyptodon instead, because that seemed closer in size and fearsomeness to her appearance. Armadillo had laughed and said she'd never heard of them at the time--the late 40s. The two of them were at Armadillo's house, sitting at a table with an impressive feast. It was not unusual for Armadillo; with super strength, near invulnerability, and half a ton of mass, she ate a lot, and saw no reason not to enjoy it. Armadillo was cheerful and a good friend, as well as effectively family. And at an age of 98, she knew a lot of history, especially the kinds that didn't usually get recorded very well. The main reason Flicker didn't visit more often was an embarrassing one: When she'd been younger she'd had episodes of severe insomnia. But Armadilo knew how to spin a story to help. So when the biological part of Flicker's brain was working, it associated Armadillo's stories strongly with drowsiness. Which didn't mean they were boring. Armadillo was sharing some anecdotes from the late Pre-Net era--the 50s through the 70s--when Luce Cannon, Belle Tinker, and One-eyed Jack had been prominent superheroes. They had set precedents that ended up shaping the way the Database had been assembled. The norms Luce had established as a practical way of preserving relationship privacy and security without centralized infrastructure required narrative indirection and implication in order to discuss certain subjects at all. Armadillo was very good at the style needed. Unfortunately, that and the lack of unrestricted Database references hindered the usual ways Flicker updated her memories, so she was having trouble with details. But there were definitely differences from the way she'd thought about the origins of the Database. "Huh," she said. "I always assumed that Doc decided everything important when he first built the Database, and the rest was just legacy format and historical records." "Not entirely," said Armadillo. "Luce knew all about records and careful access--she built her own intelligence operation, after all--and Belle was already starting to convert some of them to electronic form and building early bots in the fifties. But reliability for anyone but Belle was always a problem, and she didn't have the level of conscientiousness about documentation that Doc did." "Um. Doc isn't always that great about documentation. He gets--" "The Database AI or someone else to do a lot of it. I know. But someone does. Heck, I've done my share. Belle was way ahead of her time, but we never found anything but cryptic notebook scribbles for some of her weirder stuff. Left a bit of a mess after she was gone. Doc brought in organization, documentation, robustness, and speed, and then extended it to everything. But the first Database grew out of what he built for Luce not long before she died. And Luce set some access conditions, which Doc won't change without a good reason. So don't blame Doc for all of them." "So the age restrictions are from Luce?" "Some of them, yeah--but they aren't hardcoded, they're more flexible; we knew they'd have to accommodate aliens and extradimensional beings and whatnot. It's really a maturity threshold." Armadillo smiled. "But I have a treat for you." "Oh?" "There are a few things I have personal discretion about. And you've hit a block involving one of them twice now. It's a good example of how we handled a few things back in the day, and might help you understand some of the ambiguity. I can show it to you, but you'll have to put your visor on locked standby or take it off--no unrestricted electronic images of this are allowed." Flicker frowned, but arranged a protocol with the Database and pulled back her hood. Armadillo pushed back a plate, picked up a small case, opened it, and pulled out a large photographic print. "This is a copy of the last known good photograph of Belle Tinker. The original is in my family photo album in one of Doc's vaults." Flicker moved her chair closer to get a better look. It was a group photo, centered on a younger Armadillo. "What's that blacked out area?" "Non-superheroes with living relatives. The photo is from my 60th birthday party in 1974." Given the date, Flicker wasn't surprised that Armadillo was a bit narrower--she'd still been slowly adding mass. But... "Head spikes?" Armadillo laughed. "Yeah, that was my last try at regrowing them. I'd been on a trip to Tokyo the previous year, and there was a translator around during a Kaiju attack. I ended up stopping it by talking to the big fellow about the relative effectiveness of head spikes for challenge bellowing. We had a nice talk, and everyone went home happy. No property damage, even. So I decided to give them another try. But mine were only a little stronger than steel, so they kept breaking off--same kind of problem you have with your hair. I finally gave up in 75? Or maybe 76? But really, I'm the least interesting person in that photo. I'm curious what you think about the others." "Okay," said Flicker. "But that goblet you're drinking out of... Is that a demon skull?" "Yep. The goblet was a birthday present. It would have been rude not to try it out." Armadillo nodded towards a nearby cabinet. "I still have it, but I hardly ever use it anymore. Little call for it, and it's tricky to clean." "Um, okay." Flicker studied the image of the woman with red hair, a lab coat, safety glasses, and an expression of indulgent patience. "Belle has the same kind of 'I could be in my lab working on something cool' face I've seen Doc make. Most of the contemporary sources I found in the Database were really bad at describing her. She'd have been, what, in her late forties? She looks younger than that, fit, and tough, I don't understand what was going on." Armadillo smiled. "There were a few that treated her reasonably--but they tended not to emphasize appearance. Belle did not fit any 'feminine' stereotype back then, there were a number of media bigwigs who really didn't like her, and she didn't humor patronizing reporters. So it was common for them to distort or belittle her intelligence and accomplishments, insult her appearance, attack her character, or just use bad pictures. If they had to write about her at all. That's one reason why the quality of much of what you found about her is poor." Another woman with short dark hair was leaning against the table with a relaxed smile, but a very clear presence. "Did Luce Cannon always look like she was in charge?" asked Flicker. "I mean, it was your party, but..." "She could hide it, but she was keeping an eye on someone who could get overenthusiastic." A girl wearing a black outfit was smiling intently at the camera with a predatory look. She appeared to be around eleven; it was hard for Flicker to judge ages. "Is that a toy sword?" asked Flicker. "It looks awfully realistic." "Nope. That was Katya's first magic sword. She outgrew it; it's in the vaults now." "Magic sword? Wait... Katya? That's Jumping Spider?" "Oh, goodness no; she wouldn't use that name for years. That's Katya the... Hunter, I think? She switched from the Devastator sometime around then. This was only a year after Luce started teaching her." "Did... What... Why is she waving a sword around at your birthday party?" "It was a compromise; she wanted to make a little pyramid out of the other skulls for the picture, but Luce vetoed that as unsanitary. Just as well; Belle said they smelled pretty manky." "Other skulls?" Every time Flicker got a question answered, she immediately had several more--and she couldn't speed up and check the Database because her visor was off. "Besides the one Jack and Belle turned into the goblet for my birthday present. It was Katya's idea, so she got to hunt the demons, and she went a little overboard getting spare skulls. Jack took her to the dimension where they lived--nasty place, but they were immune to poison, which was handy." "...it's a magic goblet." "Oh, yeah, it detoxifies anything in it," said Armadillo. "If I ever want to be absolutely sure I can't be poisoned or I'm worried about contamination, I use it. But it's usually overkill, it makes most non-alcoholic beverages taste kind of funny, and properly cleaning the precipitate chamber is a pain." "Doc never let me hunt demons when I was ten," muttered Flicker as she studied the figure standing next to Belle in the photo. "Mores change, and your adoption process wasn't complete yet. It would have been awkward to explain." "Did One-eyed Jack ever show any sign of aging? It doesn't look like his appearance changed at all in pictures." "Nope," said Armadillo. "At least not from when I first met him in '50 or so until he disappeared in the nineties. White hair, neatly trimmed beard, and the eyepatch. He almost always wore that hooded robe and carried that staff with the magical doodad on the end. Occasionally he'd switch to a really old style suit and a dress cane--he could do an impressive Offended Aristocrat act. But his apparent age never changed. I suspect he was some kind of shapeshifter, and I know he could create illusions, though, so I'm not sure anyone really knows for sure." "Wait. Disappeared? The Database lists him as 'presumed dead' with supporting evidence; someone found his eyepatch and a scrap of robe near a small crater in the Topaz Realm and Doc verified they were genuine." "Yep. Doesn't mean he died. He might have just decided it was time to stop being Jack. Hard to believe someone as careful as him would botch a portal like that, and it seemed awfully pat that it happened somewhere with enough ravenous scavengers to ensure the lack of remains wasn't suspicious. If he was a shapeshifter, there could be someone with his memories who looks quite different running around somewhere. And he had a saying: 'Sometimes you see something coming and all you can do is get out of the way.' I think that's what he did." Armadillo grinned. "But then, I've been accused of being sentimental from time to time." "Okay," said Flicker. "If you're suspicious about Jack, what about Belle? She was declared dead, but all the Database says is that something catastrophic happened to her portal generator late at night and she was gone afterwards. Jack is recorded as testifying that as far as he could tell, she hadn't been murdered or kidnapped, definitely wasn't alive on Earth, and he wasn't able to tell quite what happened with the portal. But Doc said that if she really wanted to burn her bridges, she could have set the portal generator to self destruct, then gone through to somewhere before it blew. He still has the remains of it in the vaults." Armadillo looked out the window. "All true. She seemed kind of withdrawn for a while before that. Well, withdrawn for her--she was always full of more ideas than she had time to try. She'd had a disagreement with Luce and the Volunteer for a couple of years over... I guess you could call it public policy. She made some predictions that turned out to be pretty accurate, and the first part of one of them had just happened--that was '80. It's conceivable she might have just been tired of Earth. But then she was kind of close to Jack, and he was pretty down afterwards--and if she went somewhere else, I don't know why he wouldn't be able to visit. I tried talking to him about it once, and he just shook his head. So I really can't say." "Were they a couple?" asked Flicker. "Database is ambiguous--they at least pretended a few times, but it wasn't clear what was going on. I assume it's okay to ask about that now that they're both gone?" "Heh. It's not forbidden to ask, and they worked well together in the lab when Belle wasn't out causing trouble with Luce. I'll say this; Belle never showed interest in most men--she'd roll her eyes at most of my jokes--and Jack never showed any interest in anyone but Belle. But it could just have been cover; a convenience for both of them." "Oh." Flicker frowned at the last figure--a middle-aged man in nondescript clothing, leaning back in the chair beside Armadillo. His glasses were perched precariously on the end of his nose, his fingers were laced over his chest, and his eyes were closed. "Who is the guy beside you, and why is he asleep?" Armadillo smiled. "Oh, he'd had a long day, then a nice meal, so he just was catching a little nap. He sometimes answered to the name of Chandler Devon." Okay, now I know I'm being tested. Flicker sped up. The name was vaguely familiar--why? She glanced at Luce again, then remembered. Chandler Devon was connected to Luce Cannon in some way, perhaps one of her agents, or possibly romantically linked--but that had been a shaky source. Documentation about him had been really spotty, with large gaps. He'd been a skilled enough amateur geologist to get a few articles published, later in life. But his fondness for volcanoes had apparently done him in--he'd disappeared during the Mount Pinatubo eruption a few years after Luce's death. That made the third nominally dead person in the picture with a missing body. The only person who was definitely dead and buried was Luce--she'd died of cancer in the late 80s. There were several odd things that required explanation about 'Chandler Devon'. Why was he even at Armadillo's party? Had Luce brought him? Why hadn't anyone woken him up for the picture? It was a memorable occasion. Was it a prank? Wait. Armadillo had said she was the least interesting person in the photo. What could possible make him more interesting than her? If he-- Oh. So that's what he looks like when he's asleep. But how did he manage... Luce. Of course. She was the original super spy. Jumping Spider's teacher. If anyone could cover everything he'd need, it would have been her. That explained so much. He'd gone more than fifty years without anyone-- Idiot. Everyone in that picture probably knew. He'd always had a family. A family of choice. They just never, ever gave it away. Even when they disagreed with each other. But still, a few years after Luce died, he decided it was time to stop being Chandler Devon. Could he still maintain cover? Probably; Jumping Spider was 27 by then, and Doc was 17, with the Database up and running. But the Lost Years were about to start, and Doc had seen that coming. No longer worth the trouble, maybe? How much had Luce meant to Chandler Devon? A lot to think about, most of it not even about Belle. But there was etiquette to be observed. And as far as Flicker could tell, it was to indicate obliquely that she'd guessed, but not say anything unambiguous. She could come up with something. She slowed back down--and found herself blinking back tears. "He looks like... someone who works very hard," she managed. "And doesn't get a chance to relax very often. I'm glad no one woke him up." Armadillo nodded slowly. "So was I." She started to put the picture back in the box. "Wait," said Flicker. "Who took the picture? I thought I knew, but now I think I was wrong." Armadillo paused. "Another time, maybe. You probably have enough to cogitate about today already." "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Next: Part 13

#FallofDocFuture #FallMisc

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incomingalbatross · 5 years ago

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Met online asks: the Psmith series, predictably?

I am at long last getting to this! (and what, no, I wasn’t expecting this one at all... :P )

So I think what stymied me here is that... Mike is almost certainly a lurker online. I can imagine Psmith being a Personality easily, but Mike probably spends his time in the internet as inconspicuously as he can. And they need to meet as equals, obviously, so you can’t have just one be Internet Famous at the start...

BUT. Once I started typing, it worked out pretty well!

So here we go:

Mike has Facebook and Twitter and so on, partly for keeping up with IRL connections but mostly to keep up with cricket and his brothers. Tweets almost exclusively about cricket (though also about TV shows he’s currently into), actually has followers who don’t know him IRL because he has Informed Takes

His Twitter account is old enough that it’s not connected to his real name, and he doesn’t identify himself either because he doesn’t like the notoriety of being the Youngest Jackson Brother when he’s not even playing... what do you even call it? Do you call it playing pro cricket, nowadays? You know what I mean. He’s probably still in high school

So yeah his online presence isn’t explicitly connected to the rest of his family’s. His brothers follow him, but they’re not very active on Twitter, and personal communication in the Jackson family is mainly over group text, so the fact that they’re related doesn’t really show

Psmith, meanwhile, has a Twitter account that jumps randomly from topic to topic, depending on whatever the heck he’s thinking about at the moment. It’s constant Psmith Monologuing thrown out into the void, just what the internet was made for

His Twitter display name is Psmith and his handle is something like @ therealpsmith. No one’s sure if it’s supposed to be his last name or if his name is P. Smith or what.

(It feels weird making up Twitter accounts for them in response to an ask from you... but this AU has different goals and so I do need different Twitter presences for them. And I can’t see Mike on Tumblr at all, so that’s not an option)

Since this is an AU, I think they can initially connect over cricket. Psmith follows Mike first, and tends to retweet a fair amount of his cricket takes with his own added commentary. After enough of this (since Mike isn’t so high-profile that he doesn’t notice a new regular interacter) Mike goes and checks out his Twitter

It’s not all cricket and a lot of it is diatribes about whatever’s annoyed Psmith today. But they’re witty and entertaining diatribes, and Mike ends up following him

Before long Psmith starts up a long thread about something Mike’s already been stewing over--a plot development in a TV show they both watch, maybe? Not sure

But anyway Mike starts commenting/retweeting/arguing with other people who disagree, because the thing in question is Stupid and Wrong and the fact that people think otherwise bothers him on a personal level

And then Psmith DMs him like “The cricket connoisseur has come to my aid! I am gratified by your assistance,” and then starts talking to him, personally, about why the thing is Dumb and Wrong

From this they start chatting/interacting more regularly. Mike is, obviously, less loquacious than Psmith, and I don’t think their friendship solidifies quite as quickly as in canon just because they aren’t doing things together, but they still click

At some point Psmith’s bemoaning the fact that he’s so constrained by Twitter’s character limit (unlike Mike, who is “the strong, silent type, admirable suited to the medium”) and starts talking about how to fully express himself he should really have a podcast

Mike: “Why don’t you, then?”

Psmith: “You are right. Why not? Here we see the strength of a true man of action--direct and to the point. Why SHOULDN’T I start a podcast?”

Annnd then he ropes Mike into doing it with him so he’ll have someone to talk to. Mike insists, however, on only using his first name, because he doesn’t want this to reflect badly in his brothers if it goes horribly wrong

So they start a nominally-about-cricket (since that’s their biggest shared thing) podcast, called simply “Mike and Psmith”

(There’s probably a joke somewhere in their eventual fanbase about it being “Mic and Psmith,” since Psmith’s doing 80% of the talking)

Between their dynamic and Psmith’s ability to talk, it’s surprisingly successful--it bounces all over the place, topic-wise, but they’re just fun to listen to

While they’re not, like, Buzzfeed Unsolved levels of well-known, they get a decent-sized fanbase

(There’s a long-running fandom debate over whether Psmith is actually Like That or if the show’s scripted. It will probably never be permanently resolved)

They also start a YouTube channel for playing video games and so on--partly because listeners wanted to see it, but partly because they just like hanging out and doing stuff together

Mike has not told his family about any of this, BTW, because he’s too self-conscious about being mildly internet famous, but one day Margery stumbles across the show. He’s in for a lot of teasing

I honestly don’t know how they meet IRL--I’m torn between A) them just video-chatting eventually, learning each other’s actual names, and meeting up at a cricket match, and B) them meeting coincidentally, in some completely different capacity, and recognizing each other by their voices

Either way, though, once they meet they keeping meeting and eventually end up room/flatmates once they both move away from home (if Mike’s planning to play cricket, would he go to college? Would modern Mike be planning to play cricket for a living? I don’t know these things so I’m leaving that vague)

“Moving in with someone you made friends with online” is not always a recipe for success, but it works out for them. They were already best friends, but now they can actually do stuff together! It really just solidifies their friendship for good

(Not that there isn’t friction--the number of Shenanigans Psmith drags Mike into has vastly increased, for one thing--but it all works out, in the end)

Their podcast is an essential part of their routine, by now. I’m not sure how it develops over the years, but it stays pretty low-key... the core of it is still just two best friends hanging out, and that works

(At some point in the future, the cast may expand to "two best friends and their wives, who are also best friends,” but that’s another story, and one I don’t know well enough to say for sure)

#psmith #mike jackson #isfjmel-phleg #ask games #thank you for this one!#it was fun once i got it going #and there REALLY should be a Part 2 with the girls but i don't know if it'll happen #(if anyone else wants to come up with that one please do!)#there need to be Internet Identity Shenanigans in that of course #too much wodehousian potential there to pass up #(and i almost went there for mike and psmith but i felt it should maybe be saved for psmith and eve)#this had less Emotional Drama than the psych one but i think that fits them okay?#not that i'm OPPOSED to Emotional Drama it just didn't come up the same way #also wasn't expecting them to become podcasters but i enjoy the mental images of that #and psmith needs to use the internet to talk SOMEHOW right #too good a venue to pass up #WAIT 'Nominally About Cricket' is their tagline

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ohjohnno · 5 years ago

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Outrageous Fortune Reviewcap: S1E09 (”When The Blood Burns”)

I’ve been demurring on this one, partly because of real life shit (well, mostly that to be honest) but also because this episode isn’t all that good. It’s an episode entirely centering around Antony Starr’s characters, and I sure hope they paid him double, cos the range he needed for it was tremendous. But, unfortunately, one of those characters (Van) just isn’t all that interesting yet, and the other (Jethro) is ill-served by one of the dumbest and most unfortunate sideplots the show has yet had. So, without further ado, we’ll get this one out of the way, and I’ll try and keep it short.

We open with a dual appearance from the two most irritating characters in the show: Tracy and Suzy Hong, their differences now thoroughly mended and united in enjoying themselves by tormenting Van.

Yeah, it’s as insufferable as it looks. An incensed Van finally snaps and threatens to quit; Mr. Hong overhears, but Van finally manages to stand up for himself and it pays off: Mr. Hong makes him manager of one of his local little stores, which seems to sell mostly cheap novelty junk. I’m not entirely sure why he does this, honestly, but it’s a mildly important character moment for Van, so okay, I guess?

Meanwhile, in the West household, things are getting a little crazy.

Cheryl and Kacey are promoting their new underwear business with a sorta quasi-striptease party, hosted by and for middle-aged women. It’s one of the aspects of the episode I like best, not because the women are sexy but more because they really aren’t; they’re a bunch of trashy fortysomething women, reminding the world that it isn’t just model-type people who like having sex, or who know how to have fun with it. Kacey makes this explicit with a little barb at the morbidly fascinated Pascalle, telling her they didn’t offer to use her as a model because they wanted to use “real women”, which is a nice reminder that toxic standards of femininity cut cruelly in both directions. So, yeah, good segment - made all the better by the horror of the younger girls who’ve been dragged along.

Van returns, utterly nonplussed at the scene before him, and they all retreat to the bedroom. Antony Starr’s comic acting here is great, actually - he follows the others to the room and finds them using his drugs with an indignant and confused response of “well... don’t!”, and it makes me laugh every time. Draska expresses some clear interest in him, which he once again ignores, as usual. The next scene is where the plot properly begins.

The gist of it is this: the Hongs’ local store has their goods transported from warehouse to shelf by Draska’s clan, the Doslics. Van discovers that there’s a discrepancy between the number of trading cards he was meant to be shipped and the number he actually received; he goes and politely asks the Doslics about it, and they do not take that well.

I come from good people - HONEST people! Made strong by our troubles!

Naturally, they think he’s accusing them of thievery. Naturally, this makes Van pretty sure they really are committing thievery, and a raging Mr. Hong agrees. The two proceed to keep escalating tensions, and the rest of the Wests get caught in the crossfire; mama Doslic gets into a fight with Cheryl in a supermarket car park, Pascalle finds her old tyre-modelling photos all defaced with violent graffiti, and it’s all mildly funny but also kinda dull. Eventually, it turns out that Van’s mate Munter has been stealing the cards from the warehouse all along, using the keys Van gave him for safekeeping. This is not the last time Van will find himself victimized by the consequences of his own actions.

I’m blasting through *a lot* of this plot here really quickly, and that’s cos it just isn’t very interesting for the most part. It’s trying to be a farce, mostly, and it sometimes succeeds; Van’s initial confrontation with the Doslics is really quite funny, and his steadily increasing panic as the situation just goes more and more wrong isn’t bad either. But it’s all a bit too by-the-numbers and predictable, and in the end none of the stakes feel real; we all know that in an episode like this, the Hongs and the Doslics were never really gonna properly come to blows, and they don’t. Van confesses a lot of stuff to Draska in a couple of secret meetings, and while he’s initially paranoid about her loyalty, she proves herself by finding a way to fix the issue; she places all the blame for the break-ins on Eric (who was selling the stolen cards anyway, after buying them from Munter) and the two families come together to absolutely motherfucking whoop the guy’s ass, leaving him looking rather worse for wear.

...next thing I know I’m getting the shit kicked out of me by half the West Auckland United Nations!

If I have a favorite moment in this plot, it’s probably near the beginning, when the elder Doslic is first bringing in what he believes to be the full shipment of cards. He’s ranting and raving, the whole time he does it, about how much he just damn well hates the “chinks” and their terrible language skills, not to mention their driving - all while speaking in a heavy Croatian accent himself and also, oh yeah, taking their money. This show really does get quite a lot of comedy out of the idea that solidarity between marginalized groups really just doesn’t exist.

The rest of it, though? I mean, it does contain a couple of important moments, I guess. Van, after initially lying to protect Munter and only making everything worse, is genuinely willing to offer himself up, blame himself entirely, and essentially sacrifice himself in order to save everyone’s hides, and only doesn’t end up doing it because Draska fixes it all before he has to. That’s a nice reminder that Van, at his core, really is a genuinely good person, and that his internal conflict as a character all comes from the tension between that and the toxic masculinity he’s had indoctrinated deep within him by his father and the culture he’s grown up in. Cheryl demonstrates where her loyalties lie and takes Van’s side without a second’s hesitation after mama Doslic shows up with complaints; for all her problems with Van, she really does love him unconditionally. But there’s also too much stuff that doesn’t come off, like Van’s boring interactions with a mildly delinquent kid who likes the trading cards, or Tracy’s ever-one-dimensional mistreatment of Van.

Still, at least it’s better than Jethro’s plot.

Remember how Tracy knows now about Jethro’s little rape-by-deception thing a few episodes ago? Well, she still doesn’t seem to be thinking of it as rape, but she is trying to get him to apologize for it nonetheless. Jethro, meanwhile, wants to root her again, and he knows he can’t do that without apologizing. So Jethro’s plot this episode is several scenes in a row of him miserably failing to pull off a convincing apology, and... that’s it, really. Hugh’s back, being annoying as usual (though it’s intentional enough that it doesn’t bother me too much), and Loretta briefly shows up to mock him for how bad he is at apologizing (talk about the pot calling the kettle black!), but for the most part this is all really redundant and dull. The only interesting part comes in Loretta’s video shack, where Jethro straight up lies to Caroline’s face, right in front of Loretta, in order to make himself some free time to go and keep trying it with Tracy. Loretta, of course, is too sociopathic to feel sorry for her, and we all knew a couple of episodes ago that Jethro wasn’t gonna be able to maintain it with her as a regular relationship, but the beginnings of heartbreak on Caroline’s face as she begins to get an inkling, in her subconscious, of what’s going on is genuinely sad.

But the ending of this plot? It’s awful, and in a really unfortunate way. In the end, see, it turns out Tracy never really wanted an apology; she likes Jethro, doesn’t really care about the fact that he deceived her in such an intimate way, and wants it with him again. She decides he’s ready when... he just refuses to apologize one time, admitting he isn’t sorry because (and this is possibly the worst line of dialogue in the whole show, so brace yourselves): “why would I be, when it was the best fuck I’ve ever had?”

Eugh.

So they start having an affair, and that’ll stay important. Meanwhile, Van’s plot ends similarly, in the superficial respect: Draska finally convinces him to have sex with her, as a celebration for the two of them getting out of that little escapade with everything intact, and it’s also the start of a relationship. Her toxicity, of course, has been evident the whole time from her unhealthy fixation on him, but if she demonstrated anything in this episode it was her intelligence and resourcefulness, so one suspects bad things on the horizon for Van. Nothing much happens with the rest of the characters - Loretta doesn’t do much other than the aforementioned mockery of Jethro and some mildly funny jabs at Pascalle’s choice of career, and Pascalle doesn’t do much other than get all horrified by what’s been done to her poster. On the whole, then, this is a disappointing episode, and maybe the worst one so far. Van will get good, I promise - the potential is all there already. But we’ve still gotta wait for now. Until next time.

#Antonia Prebble #Siobhan Marshall #antony starr #Robyn Malcolm #grant bowler #television #outrageous fortune #Frank Whitten #rachel lang #Gutter Black #nz

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comicgeekscomicgeek · 6 years ago

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Their Hero Academia - Interlude 2: Heroes and Villains

The next installment of my on-going, next gen, My Hero Academia fan fic “Their Hero Academia”, raw and unedited.

This interlude is actually in two parts, for easy readability. Several of the work study pairs as well as portions of the dialog were suggested by @msalliepants

Chapters 0-24, plus the first interlude, can be found here

Their Hero Academia – Interlude 2: Heroes and Villains

Part 1: Heroes

Izuku Midoriya thanked the hostess who had shown him to the restaurant’s back room and looked upon some of his best friends in all the world. They didn’t get to all see each other as much as they liked anymore, not since so many of them were so busy with their careers as Pro Heroes, but they liked to get together when they could. At least he got to see Kacchan and Eijiro on a regular basis, since they actually lived next door to each other, with Denki and Kyoka on the other side, in a gated community that catered to Pro Heroes. Tetsutetsu and Itsuka actually lived across the street, as did Monoma and his wife.

Momo had actually bought the restaurant many years ago so that they could get together when they wanted with some modicum of privacy. Considering they counted among their number a very large number of Heroes in the Top Ten, it was a necessary precaution.

“Deku!” And there was the voice that could brighten his world immediately, his wife of twenty years, Ochako. She leapt up from her chair next to Tsuyu and ran over to him, wrapping him in a hug that he gladly returned, followed by a kiss. Behind them, he could hear Denki and Minoru hooting and hollering, but he ignored them.

“Hey you,” he said. “You get the kids dropped off at Mom and Dad’s okay?”

Ochako smiled. “Yeah. Hana’s being moody about the whole thing, but Mako’s just happy to be seeing her Grandpa Might.”

Not surprising. At almost thirteen and with no interesting in turning Pro Hero herself, Hana was a typical teenager. At five, Mako was perfectly happy to be her Grandpa Might’s “sidekick.” So long as she wasn’t setting things on fire with her Fire Breath Quirk, anyway.

They’d come a long way from a classes of teenagers thrown into the deep end of the Hero pool. Now they were adults with careers and families of their own. They all had children, many of them more than one. A lot of potential little Heroes, as Dad liked to say.

“Good,” he said, as he took her hand in his and joined their friends at the long table. There were thirty-three of them all together. Himself and Ochako, Tsuyu and Fumikage, Tenya and Mei, Denki and Kyoka, Momo and Shoto, Kacchan and Eijiro, Mezo and Haruko, Hitoshi and Camie, Hanta and Mina, Mashirao and Toru, Koji and Ibara, Minoru and Pony, Yuga and Haru, and Rikido; they were also joined tonight by Itsuka and Tetsutetsu, Kota and Eri, and Mirio and Melissa. It made it a little hard to have a conversation, but they managed. Most of them had been through hell together and that had forged bonds that nothing would ever break.

For his part, he spent some time talking to Mirio and Melissa, gushing over how well their eldest, Tamaki, was doing as one of his sidekicks. Considering both he and Mirio operated together out of Might Tower (an extraordinary graduation gift from Dad), and Melissa ran their Support division, it was probably unnecessary, but he couldn’t help but share what he felt.

Around him, the others were engaged in conversations of their own, interrupted only briefly by the wait-staff arriving to take their orders. Ochako and Tsu exchanged parenting tips, Mei and Melissa were lost in some technical discussion he couldn’t follow at all, Haru and Haruko were talking as the always did, of the troubles of being a non-Hero spouse. Eijiro and Tetsutetsu were proudly sharing pictures of their youngest to anyone who would listen, while Kacchan looked more and more exasperated by his husband’s antics by the minute. Mina was teasing Tenya about being future in-laws. And he was fairly certain he heard Mina telling Toru that she was pregnant again.

Finally, after the food had been brought and they eaten, Izuku clinked on his glass with his spoon to get everyone’s attention.

“Okay,” he said. “As nice as this has been—really great to see everyone again—we actually do have a real reason for getting together tonight. As you know…”

“Oi, Deku!” Kacchan shouted, giving him an annoyed look. “Nobody says “as you know!” We all get it, the Sports’ Festival’s coming up in a couple weeks!”

Izuku moved on, not letting that stop him. “Well… yeah,” he said. “That. Anyway, we all know it’s coming up. And while I’m hoping all of our kids do well enough to get a lot of offers…”

“YEAH!” Eijiro interrupted. “My Katsumi’s gonna kick so much ass! You’ll all get to see how awesome she is!”

“Shit down, Shitty Hair,” Kacchan said, yanking him back down in his seat.

“Sorry, Izuku, Bakubabe!” Eijiro said. “Got carried away.”

Izuku waved it off. “It’s fine, it’s fine. But like I was saying, we’ve talked about it before, but we want to make sure all the kids have offers. I know some of us can remember how bad it felt not to have any.”

Around the table, several of his friends and former classmates nodded.

“Just remember to keep an eye out for General Studies kids too,” Hitoshi said. “U.A.’s gotten better about getting people into the Hero Course, but there’s still a lot of them slipping through the cracks.”

“Not that being in General Studies is bad,” Haruko said, from her spot next to Mezo. “But we were all proud of you for making it, Hitoshi.”

Hitoshi gave her a polite nod in return. “Lots of hard work,” he said. “You could have made it too, you know.”

She shook her head. “I was never cut out for it. Besides, one Hero in the family is enough for me.”

“Anyway,” Izuku said, “I got an e-mail from Aizwa this morning and it basically said that if any of us even thought about taking our own kids for Work Study week, he would track us down and beat the stuffing out of us.”

Minoru let out a terrified shriek, clinging to Pony at the very thought.

On the other hand, Eri and Hitoshi both let out a laugh. “Sorry,” Eri said. “But that’s just such a Dad thing to say.”

“You really can’t see how frightening he is, can you, babe?” Kota asked.

“He’s really a softie,” she replied. Kota gave her a look that suggested she’d gone mad, but didn’t belabor the point. All things considered, Izuku didn’t blame him. He still considered Aizawa to be one of the scariest people alive and he’d taken on some incredibly frightening Villains in his career.

“He still means it though,” Hitoshi said. “But he’s softened in his age if he’s giving us a warning.”

“Wait,” Denki piped in. “So that means…”

He trailed off and Kyoka buried her head in her hands. “Take your time, Idiot.”

Denki have this some thought for a moment, before shaking his head. “Nope, I got nothing.”

“I assume you’re suggesting there’s nothing preventing us from extending offers to each other’s children, Izuku?” Momo asked.

Izuku nodded. “Right, Momo. So I thought maybe we could work it out ahead of time.”

“I must object!” Tenya said. “Surely, this premeditated behavior is unbecoming of Pro Heroes such as ourselves, not to mention unfair to the sportsmanship of U.A!”

“Oh, relax, Tenya,” Ochako told him, looking mildly annoyed. Izuku could understand it. Tenya actually had relaxed some since they were in school, but could still be a stick in the mud most of the time. “We’re not depriving the kids of any offers. We’re just making sure they all have one if they want it. And we can scout more than one student if we see someone else who really catches our eye.”

Tenya grumbled a reluctant agreement.

“Nejire and Tamaki let me know they want to be involved too, if they can,” Mirio said. He’d known in advance, of course, since Izuku and Ochako had discussed it with him.

“A good plan,” Shoto agreed. “But who gets whose kid?”

“I was getting to that, thanks, Shoto,” Izuku said.

“Well, hurry it up, Deku!” Kacchan snapped. “Some of us haven’t got all night!”

“Funny you should mention that, fam,” Camie said. “Hitoshi and I were talking, and we think it’d be mad lit if you’d take Shota.”

Kacchan’s eyes went a little wide as he fixed the two of them were a glare. “And what makes you think I’d wanna take the little loudmouth?”

Hitoshi was unfazed by Kacchan’s glare. “Shota has a Quirk that is both unique and powerful. But he is prone to distraction and sometimes lacks discipline. You should be able to provide some instruction on the first and temper the latter.”

After a moment of sustained eye contact, Kacchan backed down. He waved a dismissive hand in the air. “All right, but you owe me big for this, Sleepy. Your kid never shuts up.”

Hitoshi simply shrugged in reply.

“He gets his mad gift of gab from me, fam,” Camie said, proudly.

Izuku decided it was best to simply move on. “All right, that’s one down. Before we start digging into everyone, I, ah, I think it’s probably best that we deal with the “difficult” children first.”

“Difficult children?” Mina asked. “We don’t have any difficult children!”

Well, this was going to be awkward. But Izuku pressed on. He coughed, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Mika, Chihiro, Takuma, Katsumi, and the Twins.”

Predictably, the room exploded.

“How dare you accuse my little princess!” Minoru shouted.

“Minny…” Pony said, trying to calm him down.

“What’s wrong with Chihiro?” Denki demanded.

“She’s got your genes,” Kyoka told him, rolling her eyes.

“What the hell, Izuku?!” Mina shouted. “I thought we were friends!”

“Your kid’s always getting Kenta into trouble, Mina,” Rikido said, crossing his arms. Hanta just looked awkwardly between his friend and his wife.

“I am hurt by these unmanly accusations!” Eijiro cried out.

“Deku, you take that back, damn you!” Kacchan roared.

“What did you say about my babies?!” Mei screamed.

“Excuse me,” Tenya shouted, arms flailing through the air. “My children are not difficult!”

The room went quiet for a minute, before everyone turned to state at him.

“They are a handful,” Tenya added, pushing his glasses up. “There is a difference.”

Eyes returned to Izuku and he swallowed nervously. He’d rather have been facing a room full of super-villains. “We all know what I’m talking about,” he said after a moment. “We all love our kids, they’re all great kids. But some of them need a little more guidance or a little firmer a hander than others. That’s it. Maybe difficult wasn’t the best word, but… still…”

Fortunately, things settled after that.

“I’d be happy to take Chihiro,” Momo said. “Kyoka and I have been talking with Eri already. It will be a good opportunity to begin preliminary plans for Support equipment she can use.”

“Thanks, Momoyao,” Kyoka said, clearly relieved. “Just remind her she’s got my genes too, okay? Don’t let her do too many stupid things like my Idiot here.”

“When have I ever done anything stupid?” Denki asked, looking slightly hurt.

“You really don’t want me to answer that question.”

Minoru stretched a hand into the air. “Oh! Oh! Tsu! You should take my little girl! You’ve got an all-female crew, right? No boys to get her in any trouble?”

“Minny, you know Mika doesn’t just like boys,” Pony corrected him.

He pressed on anyway. “Boys her age are nothing but trouble. Should have sent her to an all-girls school.”

Fortunately, Tsuyu didn’t’ focus on that part. She put a finger to the side of her mouth. “I’d love to whip her into shape,” she said, “but she can’t swim, *kero*.” Tsuyu had taken over from Captain Selkie many years ago and primarily patrolled the waters of Japan. She was good at it too, good enough to have become the Number Nine Hero. That she was popular with children and adults didn’t hurt.

“However,” Momo said, “she could use someone responsible and disciplined.”

Several pairs of eyes fell on Tenya. Shock crossed his face at first, but was then replaced by his usual look of determination. “Very well,” he said. “I shall do my best to instill in her the proper values of a future Pro-Hero and UA student.”

“I can take Tensei,” Mezo volunteers. “Your son is… excitable, Tenya, but skilled. I can teach him how to observe and think.”

“And I can take Sora,” Mashirao adds. “Mezo and I both have a pretty back to basics approach that’ll do the Twins some good.”

Mei waved a hand in their direction. “Oh, sure, if you wanna be boring about it!”

Tenya was calmer, giving them both a polite nod. “Thank you both,” he said. “I apologize in advance for any trouble they may cause you.”

“Okay, we’ve got the Terror-Twins sorted out,’ Mina said. “Can we go back to the part where you think Takuma is difficult? Because that’s clearly wrong. He’s just building his brand!”

“He’s a bad influence,” Rikido said again.

“They’re just kids,” Toru said. “And they’re having fun!”

“How can you say that, Rikido? After everything I’ve done for you?”

“He lacks discipline,” Fumikage said, cutting through the arguing. “I can correct that.”

Mina blew air out through her lips and Izuku was certain he was going to have to intervene. “Fiiine,” she wailed. “But I don’t see what need fixing.”

No one was going to touch that point. That Mina was a terrible disciplinarian who let her children run all over her was well known. Hanta wasn’t much better, but he did try to keep things under control.

“Maybe if you didn’t have so many kids, Raccoon Eyes,” Kacchan sneered, “you could keep your eyes on this one.”

“Oh, come off it, Katsuki!”

Hanta placed a restraining hand on her arm. “Honey, it’s not good for you to get stressed… It’s not good for the babies.”

“Babies?” Eijiro asked, grinning. “Are you pregnant again, Mina? That’s fantastic!”

“Aren’t you a little o…” Denki began, but a sharp glare from Mina stopped him from completing that thought. It a rare show of life-preserving sense, he stopped talking.

“Yeah,” Mina said. “Twins this time. Last kids, I promise. I just can’t keep Hanta off me! Of course, it’s pretty hard to resist, with how big his…” Next to her, Hanta turned several shades of red.

Izuku didn’t know how Mina and Hanta did it. His and Ochako’s three were enough of a handful. They had five kids already, and now two more? He grinned, though. “I guess congratulations are in order, then!” Various congratulations went out from the other members of their group, except for Kacchan.

“There’s still time for you to get back in the contest, Tsu!” Mina said.

“What contest?” Tsuyu asked.

“The kids contest!” It was true, after Mina and Hanta, Tsuyu and Fumikage had the most kids.

“That’s not a contest,” Tsuyu said.

“Said the loser.”

That got a few laughs from the group, before they moved on.

“Anyway,” Mina said, “I wanna take Asuka. She could use a chance to loosen up.”

“Ah,” Hanta said. “You’re going off active duty before the Sports Festival, hon.”

“Aw, dammit!” Mina said. “I forgot!”

“I’ll take her!” Toru piped in. Izuku assumed she was waving her arms excitedly, judging by how the straps of her dress were moving, but he couldn’t be certain. “We’ll make it a girls’ week!”

“And teach her something, *kero*,” Tsuyu said.

“Yeah, that too!”

“Perhaps I should take Kimiko?” Yuga asked, one hand on his chest, staring slightly off to the side as he often did, as though looking into some invisible camera. “The unseen could use a few tricks about visibility and standing out.”

“I’m going to have to pull rank on this one,” Eri interrupted. “Kimiko’s expressed some interest in continuing her medical education and I’m do for some field work during that week anyway. I think it might be good for her to see what it’s like out there.”

“Who am I to refuse such a lovely lady’s request,” Yuga said, bowing slightly in his seat.

“Let me know if you’ll be at my hospital,” his husband, Haru, said. “I can probably arrange a few things if you can’t.”

“Of course, thanks,” Eri said.

“And thank you, Eri,” Mashirao said. “Kimiko seems really excited about this. I think she’s found her calling.”

Eri smiled. “Just happy I could help.”

“I want to take Katsumi,” Ochako said.

“You do? What’s your angle here, Round Face?” Kacchan asked. “She’s no Rescue Hero.”

“That’s not all I do,” she said. “Besides… I think a little Gunhead-style martial arts instruction will really help her focus.”

“It is a manly art,” Eijiro said, rubbing his chin. “I like it! Thanks, Ochako!”

Kacchan crossed his arms and scowled. “Fine. But no going easy on her!”

Ochako made her meanest face back at him. Which looked more ridiculous than scary. Izuku had to turn away to keep from laughing, which would have gone very badly for him.

“Okay,” Izuku said, “moving on…”

“I’m taking Toshi,” Mirio said. “I already called this when he was born. You’re not taking that from me. I’ll fight you.”

“No you won’t,” Melissa told him.

“No I won’t,” he agreed. “But I am calling Toshi.”

“So instead of his dad, he gets somebody just like him. Great.” Kacchan rolled his eyes again. But he didn’t argue the point. Mirio was good at what he did. Izuku was well aware he’d set the bar as the Number One Hero incredibly high… and Mirio still found occasion to surpass him in the Rankings. Little wonder that Dad had once considered him a possible successor.

“Oh yeah,” Mirio said, grinning. “Tamaki said he’s take Kenta. Figures he could teach him a few things with an eating-based power.”

Rikido nodded thoughtfully. “That’d work. Kenta’s working hard, but I know he’s struggling to find ways to make his Quirk work well. Tell him thanks.”

Mirio tossed off a little salute. ��Will do.”

“I’ll take Daisuke,” Tetsutetsu said. He flexed and let out a shout. “It’ll be a manly week!”

Itsuka patted his bicep. “Inside voice, please.”

“Sorry, babe. Got excited.”

That seemed satisfied to Mezo, who gave a simple nod.

“And who wants my darling boy?” Aoyama asked.

Hanta cracked his knuckles noisily. “I can do it. He might benefit from a down-to-Earth point of view.”

Aoyama turned to Hanta, who was wearing cargo-shorts, with sandals and socks. He looked like he was turning a little green. But Haru leaned close and whispered something in his ear and some of the tension seemed to leave him.

“Oh, very well. A little worldly experience will do him good.”

“What about Izumi?” Shoto asked.

Momo frowned. “I’m afraid to admit, I’m a bit concerned… but she also hasn’t had any health or Quirk-related concerns since the one outburst. Her doctors have given her a clean bill of health to continue.”

“I can do it.”

If he’d had a chance to bet everything he had on this, Izuku never would have expected that it would have been Denki who had spoken up.

“You?” Kyoka said, making the word almost an accusation.

“She’s gotta be careful not to overdue her Quirk. I can help with that.”

“He… has a point, Kyoka,” Momo said, after a moment. She turned to Shoto, who nodded. “Please take good care of her, Denki. We nearly lost her once, I don’t know what we’d do if anything happened again.”

Denki gave the both of them a thumbs’ up. “You know it!”

“Can Akaya swim?” Tsuyu asked Koji and Ibara.

She can, Koji signed. Surprisingly well.

“She takes well to the water,” Ibara agreed.

“Then I can take her,” Tsuyu said. “I can teach her about water planets and how to use her Quirk in a different environment.”

“What about you, Izuku?” Mirio asked. “Isn’t that everyone? Going to hold off judgement until the big day?”

It was well known in the Hero community that Izuku always picked at least one, sometimes two students for Work Study after the Sports Festival. He understood that the gambling halls spent considerable time and effort trying to figure out who he might pick, updating their odds until the very last minute. But no one had ever really figured out his pattern. Despite being the Number One or Number Two Hero at any given moment, he never picked anyone who placed in the top three. He rarely even picked someone who placed in the top ten. He’d been doing it for over twenty years and no one had ever figured it out.

Izuku always picked someone who looked like they deserved a chance to prove themselves. Maybe not someone who’d placed high, but someone who was trying their hardest and just needed a little spotlight to make their mark. He knew how it felt to be a kid with no offers, to be trying so hard but not measuring up to some horribly high standard. And he didn’t want anyone to go through that if he could help it. It didn’t hurt that he still had a fantastic eye for analysis. He’d actually written a couple of books on Quirk analysis and application that were still being used as textbooks in a few of the Hero Schools.

“Maybe,” he said. “Toshi’s been talking up one of the kid’s classmates. His parents aren’t Heroes, so I want to get a good look at him in the Festival.”

“Haimawari?” Shoto asked. “Izumi’s mentioned him too. I think she still feels rather guilty for injuring him. But I’d planned on watching too.”

Both snapped their attention to Eri and Kota, who had had more contact with the kid than either of them.

“Nope,” Kota said. “I’m not playing favorites here or saying anything that might influence you. You’re going to have to wait and watch.”

“He’s certainly got a heart for heroics,” Eri said, clearly not feeling bound by the same rules as her husband. “Dad says he reminds him a lot of two of you when you were students.”

“Interesting,” Shoto said.

“Definitely,” Izuku agreed. “So… I guess we just watch and wait and if we like him, we’ll make offers and let him decide?”

“Sounds fair.”

Kacchan slammed a fist on the table. “What’s so special about this kid that’s got everybody excited over him?!”

Izuku held up his hands to pacify his friend. Even though they had put their differences aside ages ago, he’d be lying if he said Kacchan’s outbursts didn’t make some small part of him still flinch inside. “Just hearing good things, Kacchan. We’ll see where it goes.”

A smug grin crossed Kacchan’s face. “Yeah, well, maybe I’ll watch for this kid too. Snipe him right out from under you and IcyHot.”

“That’d be great! You’ve got a lot to offer, Kacchan!”

“Dammit, Deku, you can’t even compete right…!”

Izuku just smiled, which only made Kacchan glower more. Some things never changed. “I think that’s everyone? Tetsutetsu, Itsuka? Did you want somebody to take Kana, or…?”

“I can do it!” Ejiro volunteered.

“Yeah, that’d rock, bro!” Tetsutetsu cheered.

“Bro.”

“Bro!”

“Boys!” Itsuka shouted. “That’s really nice, Eijiro, but probably not a good idea. You and Tetsu are too alike for her to learn anything new. Besides, she might start sliding back to when she and Katsumi wouldn’t tell you two apart.”

“We’re alike?” Eijiro asked. He looked at Tetsutetsu, who simply shrugged.

“But we’re fine, Izuku,” Itsuka said. “Neito’s mentioned taking an interest in her, but we know she’ll do well enough to find somebody.”

“Or me!” Pony said. “I’d love to take Kana!”

“Let her get some offers, Pony,” Itsuka said. “But we’ll see.”

“I can respect that,” Izuku said.

From there, the conversation drifted back to simpler topics. Day to day concerns, children, choices of whether or not to take a side job or endorse some piece of merchandise. For a little while, they world went away and they were just a group of friends getting together. Izuku smiled. This happened far too rarely and he intended to savor every moment.

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winterrose527 · 6 years ago

Text

Love is Blind

Thanks for the ask @octaviahales

I moved this out of my ask so that I could do a page break because this got long because I love this prompt so much.

octaviahales said: I was JUST here I know but a blind date au? Robb & Ella being absolutely determined to get their best friends to date bc it’s so damn obvious to everyone else & finally get them each to go on a blind date but it’s with eachother?? idk if that’s any good and again only if it inspires you oh my gosh

As a PSA to all: I love prompts! Please send along.

Jon walked into Last Hearth, one of those New-Westerosi restaurants obsessed with brussel sprouts and truffle oil, at three minutes to 8 o’clock on Friday night.

He wasn’t much for these kinds of restaurants, preferring to eat at home or at Winterfell, but of all of them, this was admittedly his favorite.

“Okay just remember you like The Wight vintage 74 and the meatloaf,” Ella said to him as he pulled on the charcoal sweater she’d insisted he wear.

“Ella I can order for myself!,” he growled, annoyed by how much more comfortable he felt in the sweater she’d suggested than the button down he’d intended to wear. “Just like I can find my own dates!”

“If you were better at finding your own dates we wouldn’t be in this situation, now would we?,” she asked with a skeptical raise of her brow. Her face softened, “And I know you are perfectly capable of deciding what to eat and drink and everything else… I just want you to be happy.”

“I know you do, Ella,” he said with a sigh.

Ella was always well-intentioned. It was frustrating. Not as frustrating as her always being right though.

“Now is this really necessary?,” he asked, holding up the flower she’d given him.

“Yes,” she said firmly, “A winter rose. She’ll have one too.”

Jon couldn’t quite believe that he’d agreed to a blind date. He had never been on one before, and quite honestly, they had always been his nightmare. He wasn’t really one for small talk and that was all a blind date could be.

Plus the uncertainty of it all. At least with a regular first date you know the girl found you mildly appealing. This was a total shot in the dark.

He gave Robb’s name to the maitre’d. That was all a part of it, Ella loved suspense.

He was ushered over to a table in the corner. He knew it must be coveted, two corners of it were on a banquette, which Ella had told him long ago made things more romantic. According to her, Robb would always whisper sweet things in her ear over dessert, though according to Robb, they were usually utterly filthy.

He sat down and waited, setting the blue rose onto the table in front of him. He wanted a glass of whiskey, but he knew that wouldn’t exactly make the best impression on his date and he had been assured by both Robb and Ella that she was worth making a good impression on her.

“She’s stunning,” Ella said.

“And so sweet,” Robb confirmed.

“You’ll adore her,” Ella promised.

“I bet by the end of dinner you’ll feel like you’ve known her for years,” Robb offered.

Jon highly doubted it, even though he usually trusted Robb and Ella implicitly.

He turned towards the door and saw a slender figure in a navy blue dress being escorted right towards him. He saw the rose before anything else and then his eyes landed on the most beautiful face he’d ever seen.

He stood up, his throat was dry and he really wished he’d given in and had that whiskey.

She looked at him questioningly, as though she didn’t understand why the maitre’d was bringing her towards him, so he reached on the table and picked up the winter rose, waving it slightly.

Realisation dawned in her eyes and he looked away from them in case disappointment came to rest there. He wasn’t sure that he could take it if he did.

“Jon Snow,” she said by way of greeting.

“Sansa Stark,” he offered in return.

“You’ll feel like you’ve known her for years,” Robb had said. Robb his hilarious and completely dead best friend.

Oh he’d known her for years, ever since he’d met Robb in pre-school and she’d been gurgling happily in her bouncy seat. He’d known her for all but one of her twenty five years.

And he’d been in love with her for at least twelve of them.

***

She couldn’t quite believe that she’d allowed Robb to talk her into this.

He’d caught her of guard last week by asking. In all her life, she had never known her big brother to encourage her to date. He wanted her to be happy, she knew, but if that happiness could be achieved by spending all of her time safe with him and Ella and their family then more the better.

“I can’t believe you want to set me up with someone,” she scoffed, “Aren’t you the same man who has threatened every one of my last four boyfriends?”

“Well yeah,” Robb nodded, stuffing his face with the lemon bars she’d made for the whole family. The plate was now halfway gone. “But that’s because they were assholes who didn’t deserve you. At least this way, I know he’s a good guy. He doesn’t deserve you - no one could - but he won’t hurt you.”

“You’re not playing fair,” she whined.

He was so good, and so caring, it was obnoxious.

“Never have, never will,” he grinned,“Come on Dovey. Give happiness just one more chance.”

So it was that at 8 o’clock on the dot she walked into Last Hearth, her favorite restaurant in the city (they had the yummiest brussel sprouts).

She smoothed down the dress Robb had suggested, though she suspected that came from Ella. It was navy blue and silk and she was pleased that other patrons were dressed similarly. It was a great tragedy that no one seemed to dress up anymore and she wouldn’t want her date to think she’d been so eager to please.

She gave Robb’s name to the maitre’d and he nodded at her and escorted her through the dining room.

She fiddled with the Winter Rose she held in her hand nervously and looked around.

Then, to her utter dismay, she saw Jon Snow of all people sitting at the corner table.

Why does he have to be here? Couldn’t the gods have at least given whatever poor bastard has been set up with me a chance? How am I supposed to care about them when Jon Elliot Snow is sitting a few tables away?

Jon stood up when he saw her and she was about to say to the maitre’d that she was just going to greet a friend quickly when he waved something at her. A single Winter Rose.

She tried to keep her face placid, though she searched his for signs of disappointment. He averted her gaze and her stomach plummetted. Of course, he had thought tonight was a date, a real date with a girl he might really be interested in. She wondered briefly if he had thought that he was going to get laid tonight and blushed at the thought.

The maitre’d stood in front of Jon with a flourish as though this was a great unveiling and she mustered all of her strength to greet him with a calm, “Jon Snow.”

“Sansa Stark,” he said in that velvet voice that always made her name sound like a caress.

“Your waiter will be with you in a moment,” the maitre’d said and took his leave.

“So… I assume that Winter Rose isn’t a coincidence?,” Jon asked.

“Would you prefer to pretend that it was?,” she couldn’t help but ask.

He blanched and she regretted it instantly but he recovered quickly, a small smile whispering in the corner of his eyes, “Of course not. You look beautiful, Dovey,” he said kissing her cheek, “Like always.”

He had always been kind, unfailingly so, and he’d been calling her beautiful since before she knew that not everyone in the world was. It didn’t mean anything, she knew that.

“Well you certainly clean up nice,” she said back, “I’m glad I chose that color over the blue.”

He was wearing the sweater she’d bought him for his birthday last year. Another detail to thank Ella for she was sure.

“Me too,” he nodded, the tips of his ears turning pink, “It’s my favorite… should we um…?,” he asked gesturing to the banquette.

“Oh, of course,” she nodded and they sat down.

They were seated at the corner table, the most romantic one in the restaurant, and according to Northern Times, the most romantic one in the city.

“So…,” she said, suddenly completely incapable of thinking of anything interesting to say.

Love had a way of making a smart girl stupid.

***

"Do you really think this will work?," Robb asked her.

Ella rolled her eyes, "Are you starting to doubt me now?"

"Never," he said, pulling her to him, "I just know how stubborn they are..."

"Which is why our intervention was necessary,” she reasoned, running her hands over his sweater-clad chest. She wrapped her arms around him and laid her cheek over his heart and went on, “The good news is that they are as predictable as they are stubborn. In fact, I can tell you exactly how it's going to go.”

“Is that right?,” he asked with a grin, “Go on then.”

“First... they are going to to act as though they are angry with us because neither of them realises that the other one is just as head over heels for them..."

"I'm going to kill Robb and Ella," Jon grumbled.

"I think that's a little unfair," she scoffed and his eyes widened. He opened his mouth to protest, to tell her that he didn't mean that in a bad way about her, but she said, "There's no way Robb had the foresight to do this. Killing Ella will probably be sufficient."

He chuckled and nodded, "That's true. I'll forgive him, he knows not what he does."

She giggled wind chimes and then her face fell, "Do you... Well... I mean... I'd understand if you wanted to... I don't want to ruin your Friday evening..."

Ruin. You're cute.

How many times had he imagined asking her out? No more than the number of times that he’d chickened out.

He’d been mad about her at least since she was thirteen years old. Before then he hadn’t quite realised why he always got sweaty around her and why her opinion seemed to matter so much.

It had all changed on her thirteenth birthday. It was the first year she had a boy-girl party and he and Robb and Theon had all promised to attend. It was no skin off Robb’s nose who had already been dating Ella for a year at that point, having realised much earlier (at the age of eight during a terrible thunderstorm) that she was his beloved.

They played spin the bottle and Sansa had spun first, she being the birthday girl. He had somehow been next to Joffrey, Ella’s horrible older brother, and the bottle had landed right in between them. It had been Joffrey who had taken the bottle and turned it towards himself before marching proudly over and planting a kiss on Sansa’s lips.

She had been beet red but his knuckles had been white he was so angry. He realised then that he wasn’t just angry, he was jealous, and more than anything he was upset that it hadn’t been him.

He’d pushed those feelings down, always coming up with some excuse or other not to pursue her. But now sitting next to her all of those excuses fell right out of his head.

"Well um... we're both here, right?," he suggested, "We have to eat... and I know how much you love their kale or whatever green thing is most popular this week."

"It's their brussel sprouts and they are iconic and timeless," she said haughtily.

"Well then," he said, picking up his menu with a flourish and earning that giggle again.

"Okay, well that could last through dessert...," Robb reasoned.

"Oh no," Ella said with a smile, "Because then we bring out the trump card..."

It became quite clear that in order for her to get through this date, alcohol would have to be involved.

They’d at least made it through the initial awkwardness, there was no icebreaker greater than how impossibly annoying their completely loving and totally wonderful best friends could be.

And it wasn’t as though, once she had slowed her heart rate, that Jon was so difficult to talk to or anything. He wasn’t much one for small talk, but there was no need for small talk between them. She had always seemed to confide in him, all apart from one topic of course, because he was such a good listener. He really listened, thoughtfully, always nodding and never interrupting. He’d ask questions that made you know he was really thinking about what you were saying.

Even still he smelled so good and he looked so good and he was sitting so very close to her that she was afraid if she didn’t have something to do with her hands she might just removed his hair from it’s bun and run her fingers through it.

"There's this red wine here that I really like actually," Jon said, as though reading her mind. "If you wanted to split a bottle? Though if you'd prefer a lemon drop martini I can get something else..."

She told herself that it didn’t matter that he knew her favorite drink. If he was sitting with Arya or Robb or Ella he’d know what all of their favorite drinks were too. He just knew everything about her, the way you did with the people you knew your entire life.

It didn’t mean anything, but she blushed all the same.

"Wine sounds good," she nodded, "Which bottle is it?"

She picked up the wine list and because they were on a corner, it was very easy for him to lean in next to her. He really did smell so good and he'd trimmed his beard for tonight and she had the ridiculous urge to lick his neck.

"Fuck...Ella even told me it before I came... um...," he said scanning over the list.

"Pardon me," a voice said from above them and they looked to find a waiter proffering a bottle. "A bottle of The Wight 74, with compliments..."

"Is that-," she started.

"Yep," Jon confirmed with his eyes closed.

Sansa had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. He was so adorable when he was annoyed.

She remembered her thirteenth birthday. She had been upset when it had been Joffrey who she’d ended up kissing and had gone outside to get some fresh air and found him there. He was snippy with her and she’d gotten angry and then as though he couldn’t help it he just grabbed a small box out of his pocket and shoved it at her. It had been a necklace with a dragonfly on it and he’d been so surprised when she wanted to put it on immediately. She still had it and was surprised Ella hadn’t recommended she wear it.

"That wouldn't happen to be compliments of an Ella Stark, would it?," she asked.

The waiter smiled and, as though he'd been anticipating that question, said, "The party has asked to remain nameless to protect your unborn godchild."

"Unbo-," Jon said and then looked at her.

Tears pricked her eyes as she looked back. She knew that Ella and Robb had been trying for a few months but Robb hadn't said anything when she'd seen him earlier.

She started to laugh and so did Jon. There were tears in his eyes and she wiped the ones running down her cheeks. He pulled her to him and she sank into his embrace and she squealed and they both laughed.

It was so wonderful to hear this news with him of all people who would love the baby just as much as her. It felt so right to be with him and it reminded her how no matter what, they would always be inextricably linked.

Just like Ella intended.

“May I?,” the waiter asked.

She’d forgotten he was there and she nodded, easing reluctantly out of Jon’s embrace.

The waiter set about uncorking it and she couldn’t take it, she threw her arms around Jon’s neck, wiggling all the while.

“I get to be Auntie Sansa!,” she giggled. Another little Stark to love.

“Uncle Jon,” he mused, cupping the back of her head and pressing a kiss to her hair.

He was going to be a wonderful uncle, of that she was sure. If the baby was a boy, he’d want to be just like his Uncle Jon - brave and gentle and strong - and if the baby was a little girl, he’d treat her like a princess, the way he’d always treated Ella.

The way he’d always treated her.

Their waiter poured them a glass each and made himself scarce.

Jon picked up his and held it to her, “To our niece or nephew,” he said and she raised hers as well, “And their meddlesome parents.”

“And to you, Uncle Jon,” she said with a smile.

“Auntie Sansa,” he said with a small shake of his head, his eyes on hers as their glasses touched.

“Good work little one,” Robb said, kissing her stomach.

She stroked his rich auburn curls and sighed happily.

He leaned his cheek upon her stomach now, they were splayed out on their big bed, the baby making her tired already.

“Tell me what happens next,” he said, as though this were a bedtime story that she’d soon tell their child.

She closed her eyes and thought about the two people they loved the most and said with a lazy smile, “Next, Sansa will get giggly and Jon will get horny.”

“Ella!,” Robb complained.

“You asked…,” she reminded him.

***

“Oh my god,” she moaned and Jon made sure his napkin was well and truly covering his lap.

The brussel sprouts had finally arrived along with tuna tartare and freshly baked bread. Everything was delicious, including the wine, and Sansa was very appreciative.

“Seriously Jon,” she said, stabbing a sprout gently with her fork and raising it towards him, “You’ve got to try this.”

He accepted the bite and fought the urge to moan himself, chewing it and nodding at her.

She giggled and raised her thumb to his lips, swiping across and gathering some excess sauce and bringing it to her own mouth.

She looked at him like she couldn’t believe that she’d done that and he knew that he was looking at her like he too couldn’t believe that she’d done that. More than anything though, he knew he was looking at her like he very much wanted her to do it again.

Though he wouldn’t mind if next time she just kissed it off of him. In fact he’d go back into the kitchens right now and get a whole bottle of that sauce just so she could lick it off of him if that’s what she wanted.

He shook himself out of it and raised his glass to his lips again. The wine wasn’t helping, it was a heady wine and it was making Sansa’s already perfect features all the more alluring. It was also making her more at ease, and when Sansa was at ease she was touchy. Which was exactly as wonderful and terrible as it sounded.

“So why?,” she asked him.

“Why?,” he repeated dumbly.

“Do you think they did this?,” she clarified.

Maybe because I am hopelessly in love with you and they are completely aware of it.

“Boredom?,” he offered instead, earning that giggle once again.

***

“Okay but this has been happening for years,” Robb reminded her, “I mean he has been in love with her for over a decade at least. She’s been in love with him for just as long. How many millions of opportunities have they had?”

“Too many,” she agreed and then smiled, “But that’s when the table does it’s magic…”

***

It was on the second bottle of wine that the banquette seemed to get smaller. Or perhaps the restaurant just got louder.

Either way, she and Jon got closer.

“I can’t eat anymore,” she told him as the waiter handed them their dessert menus.

“You’re right,” he said with a grin, giving it a once over, and looking up at the waiter, “We’ll just have one of the lemon tarts, please.”

“You’re trouble, Jon Snow,” she said, taking another sip of wine.

“You know Theon’s theory on that phrase…,” he said.

Their plates had been cleared and he now rested one forearm on the table, and the other on the back of the banquette. She had found her way into the hollow of his arms and her legs were crossed towards him and their calves were touching and had been for some time.

She blushed because she did know, but she traced the rim of her wine glass with her index finger and played dumb.

“Theon has so many theories…,” she said, “I’m surprised you can remember them all.”

“Not all,” he told her, and his voice was low when he added, “But this one just got suddenly more interesting.”

He was playing with her, she was sure of it. Even still she liked that quality to his voice and even though she didn’t know the rules quite yet she began to like this game.

“Go on then,” she said, looking up at him through lowered lashes.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “It’s… um… that…”

The tips of his ears had turned pink and his eyes were threatening to bug out of his head and she knew that he knew they were in uncharted territory.

“I remember now,” she said and took a small sip of wine.

He chuckled sheepishly and said, “Some of his theories are dumb.”

“Some,” she agreed, but not this one.

He looked at her like he’d heard her say it. Like she’d shouted it at him. His eyes were trailing over her face like he was trying to see all of her at once and she realised in that moment that it wasn’t the first time he’d looked at her like that.

She knew that Ella and Robb knew about her feelings for Jon. That was, after all, why they’d set this whole thing up.

But she thought about Ella and Robb, the two people who loved her and knew her best in the world, and she thought that maybe they wouldn’t have done this if they didn’t at least think he might feel the same.

“Why do you think they did this?,” she asked him again.

***

“The more you talk about this, the more it kind of sounds like you are intending for them to end up in one of the restaurant bathrooms…,” Robb said with a shudder.

She giggled and shook her head, “Not their style. You… on the other hand…”

“That was one time,” he reasoned with her, his hand snaking up her stomach, over her breast, tracing her neck until he could cup her face, “And it was your fault.”

“What did I do?,” she asked him stubbornly.

“You were you,” he told her sweetly, “When a guy like me is sitting next to the girl of his dreams and she, against all reason or sense, loves him back, there’s only one thing to do.”

“Exactly,” she said with a smile.

***

It was now or never.

He had realised halfway through the first bottle of wine that Robb and Ella, the two most caring friends in the world, would never have put him in this situation if they didn’t at least have an inkling that Sansa may, or at least could, feel the way for him that he felt for her.

He started to think so too during the second bottle of wine and she was so charming and lovely that he couldn’t help but move closer to her.

She hadn’t seemed to mind that and so he’d gotten closer still, because it was the only thing to do when a girl like her let you.

And then she’d said it. You’re trouble Jon Snow.

According to Theon, when a girl said that it meant she’d already pictured sleeping with you. He usually disregarded Theon’s theories as utter crap, but this one… he would sorely like this one to be right.

She was looking at him like it maybe was right and he panicked and backtracked but she hadn’t. Sansa Stark was many things but a coward wasn’t one of them.

“Why do you think they did this?,” she asked again.

“Maybe they thought you deserved better than what you’ve gotten,” he told her.

It wasn’t cockiness that made him say it. There was no pride in being better than her exes.

“Is that what you think?,” she asked softly.

“You know it is,” he said in a low voice, “How many times do I have to tell you that for you to know it to be true?”

He’d been there through every relationship. The tears and the betrayals, the cheating, even the one hitting. He’d seen it all and he always told her that she deserved better, that she deserved to be cherished and treated like the angel that she was.

She never believed him though, maybe because he’d never shown her.

“Maybe it’s you they were looking out for,” she mused, “After Ygritte and Val… maybe they thought you needed someone more…”

She trailed off as though she couldn’t think of any way that she was better than the girls he’d dated before. As though she wasn’t miles ahead of any other girl that could possibly have come before. As though she wasn’t the human embodiment of perfection.

“Kind?,” he asked her, “Thoughtful? Lovely in every conceivable way…?”

She looked at him with her wide blue eyes, a delicious blush rising on her cheeks.

He lifted his arm that had been resting on the banquette and took his hand and brushed some silky hair off of her face and tucked it behind her ear.

“Jon,” she said and he stopped as though cold water had been splashed on him.

He had been about to lean in, but he must have been imagining it. He must have misread it. Of course he had. How could a girl like her ever want him?

“Yeah?,” he managed to ask.

She let out a shaky breath and asked, “Do you remember my thirteenth birthday party?”

***

“So just like that, huh?,” Robb asked. “After years of wanting one another, they’ll just give in, all because of a booth?”

“Not because of a booth,” she shook her head, “Because they know us. When they stop doubting themselves they’ll realise that we would never do this unless we knew they were both all in.”

“Where were you a decade ago?,” he asked her.

“Right here, by their side,” she said, “Hoping they’d stop being idiots long enough to see the most obvious truth of them all.”

***

She was an idiot and she’d ruined it.

He had been looking at her like he might kiss her and then she’d just ruined it.

Jon placed his arm back on the banquette and moved the other to reach for the bottle of wine. He poured the last drops into her glass and his and then looked at her.

He went to set it back down on the table, but instead of putting it standing upright he’d laid it on it’s side and turned it, definitively, and beautifully, towards her.

“It’s twelve years too late,” he said, “And my palms are still sweaty but I love you even more now than I did then. Happy birthday, Sansa Stark.”

And just like that he kissed her. He kissed her and she was thirteen again. Nothing bad had ever happened to her. She had never been cheated on, no boy had ever yelled at her, there was certainly no boy who had ever hit her. He kissed her and it was like she was pure and unsullied once again.

And he loved her.

She kissed him back, because she loved him too. She’d loved him at her boy-girl party and during every relationship that followed. She’d loved him at Robb and Ella’s wedding when he’d walked right over to her while she was standing with Ramsay. They’d been fighting about something because he was ruining what was meant to be a wonderful day and Jon had taken her hand, and said, “Sorry mate, it’s tradition,” because he’d been the best man and she’d been the maid of honor but he hadn’t seemed sorry at all.

And he’d held her so gently and said, “Why are you doing this to yourself again, Dovey?”

And she’d said, “I don’t want to talk about it. Just dance with me a bit longer, won’t you?”

“I’ll dance with you all night,” he promised, “If it keeps you out of his reach.”

“You can’t do this,” she broke away and his eyes were as black as midnight and he moved to get away from her but she held him close, close enough that no one else could reach her. “If it’s not forever. I won’t…”

“It’s already been always,” he told her, “And it’ll be forever too. Just love me back, Dovey, because you own me. I’ll love you either way but it’ll make forever so much better if you just love me back.”

“I’ve never had much choice when it comes to loving you,” she confessed, “No choice at all. I just do. I always have and I always will. I love you Jon Elliot Snow.”

He kissed her again, and she was no longer thirteen, she was twenty five, and though it might have been twelve years too late, it was all the sweeter knowing that she’d never have to live without it again.

***

They must have fallen asleep before she finished the story, because it was light outside when her eyes opened.

She was alone in bed, well Grey Wind was there but Robb was gone, and she rose and brushed her teeth, slipping on her slippers before padding into the kitchen.

“Morning sweetheart,” Robb said from the stove where he was making pancakes.

“What time is it?,” she asked, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade on her way to get a glass of water.

“Almost ten,” he said and she heard his grin when he said, “Mom thinks that means it’s a boy.”

They’d only told his parents so far. Well, now Jon and Sansa knew too but no one else. She got emotional every time she thought about her goodparents’ reaction to the news and she went and hugged him from behind.

“And if it isn’t?,” she asked softly.

She knew he wanted a boy. He wanted many children but he wanted a boy first.

“Then our daughter will be another beauty, just like her mother, and I will love her more than life itself, just like I do her mother,” he promised her.

She turned him around and stood on her tiptoes so that she could kiss him. She loved him so madly, and the way he loved her was her favorite thing about herself.

It was the only reason why she’d done what she did, so that Jon and Sansa could know the happiness that she and Robb had been lucky to have for so long.

“Do you think we should call them?,” she asked with a hopeful smile.

“What if you were wrong?,” he asked her. She fixed him with a look and he grinned, “Let’s call Sansa first.”

She grabbed her phone and dialled the familiar number. She answered after two rings.

“YOU’RE PREGNANT!,” Sansa squealed.

“WE’RE PREGNANT!,” they yelled back.

“What do you say, Auntie Sansa?,” she asked, “Can we count on you as godmother?”

“Of course you can!,” Sansa giggled, “I can’t wait to hug you both, right after I MURDER you!”

Ella felt fear for the first time in this whole thing and she said slowly, “Did… did it not go well?”

“Jon they want to know how our date went,” she heard Sansa say and Ella screamed bloody murder.

“Terribly,” Jon said sleepily.

“By the gods,” Robb grumbled as she jumped up and down.

“Terribly is it?,” Sansa asked flirtatiously and she could practically see her pout.

“Yep,” Jon said with a smile in his voice, “Think I’ll have to take you out again tonight just to make up for it.”

“Come to dinner at our place,” Ella offered, “We can celebrate.”

“Baby or relationship?,” Robb asked.

“Both, everything! I don’t care just will you come over tonight please? You’ll forgive me for meddling, won’t you?,” she asked.

“You?,” Sansa scoffed, “We had this pegged as being all Robb’s idea…”

“Finally someone recognises my genius,” Robb said as though long suffering.

They all said their goodbyes and hung up with promises of dinner later and she hopped up on the counter as Robb handed her a plate of pancakes and a fork.

She hummed to herself as she bit into one and he ate his own with a small smile on his face.

“You’re already planning their wedding, aren’t you?,” he asked her.

“It’ll be in June,” she nodded, “It’s Sansa’s favorite month… you’ll wear a kilt. Don’t worry, you’ll look great.”

“Ella…,” he warned.

“I just want Sansa to be loved the way you love me. And I want Jon to be loved the way I love you. Is that so terrible?,” she asked him.

“No, sweetheart,” he said, “Like everything about you, that is absolutely perfect.”

***

“You know Ella will have us married off come Winter, don’t you?,” she asked Jon as he pulled her to his chest.

“Fine by me,” he said, his fingers trailing her naked back, “Though I thought you’d want to get married in June.”

“What makes you say that?,” she asked.

“It’s your favorite month,” he reminded her.

“I meant…,” she trailed off, not wanting to ruin the perfection of the evening and the morning by saying anything stupid.

“I know what you meant,” he said, tilting her chin up so she had to look at him, “And I’m telling you I’ll marry you any month, any day, any hour that you want. I’ll marry you in front of 500 people or in a court house with just Robb and Ella as witnesses. What did you think I meant by forever, Sansa?”

“June sounds good,” she said with a smile, “What will we do until then?”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” he said with a devilish grin, rolling them over so he was on top of her, “We’ll think of something…”

“Forever,” she mused, as he kissed down her neck to her breasts, “That’s a lot of somethings…”

He looked up at her and grinned roguishly, “Shall we begin?”

#prompt #fanfiction #modern #jon x sansa #jon snow #sansa stark #myrcella x robb #meddlesome myrcella #modern au #one shot #but long

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pengychan · 6 years ago

Text

[Coco] Mind the Gap, Pt. 5

Title: Mind the Gap Summary: Modern Day AU. Tired of Ernesto’s snide remarks, Imelda decides to put him in his place and her husband is more than happy to help. It was supposed to be a one-night deal. Things quickly get out of hand. [OT3, mostly porn and humor. Plenty of instances of Ernesto being Dramatic, Imelda getting Sick Of His Shit, and Héctor trying to be the peacekeeper. Don’t expect anything serious.] Pairings: Ernesto/Héctor/Imelda Rating: Explicit.

To see the version with art by Dara, check it out on Ao3.

Tag for all parts up so far.

A/N: May as well have titled this one Kitchen Nightmares tbh.

***

"Another chorizo?"

"No."

"Oh, I insist. You clearly wanted it pretty badly only a short while ago."

The remark, uttered with a smile fake as a three pesos coin, gains Imelda a sullen look from Ernesto that fails to impress her in the slightest. Héctor tries to disguise his chortle as a coughing fit, but if Ernesto's reaction - stabbing the chorizo with his fork while staring at him dead in the eye - is anything to go by, he wasn't very convincing. He gives Ernesto a sheepish grin, crossing his legs in mild discomfort when his friend chomps down on the sausage without breaking eye contact, and chews viciously.

All right, so precisely none of them is being very subtle tonight, but Héctor supposes they're way past that.

“Oh, come on. It’s not like we left you hanging,” Héctor says. All right, so they made him wait a fair bit, but considering that the original plan was to make him plead Hector thinks they went pretty easy on him. Once he and Imelda were done Héctor turned his attention on his friend almost right away, taking the gag out of his mouth under his wife’s watchful eye.

“You all right there, amigo?”

“Untie me,” Ernesto demanded, and even light-headed as he was Héctor found it quite telling that he didn’t have it in him to add an insult, and that his voice had cracked towards the end. He was hard and covered in sweat, both from the arousal and the efforts to free his hands and dislodge the gag. His eyes shifted from him to Imelda and then back to him, pupils blown wide even as he tried to put on a believable scowl and pulled at his bounds

Héctor smiled. “Don’t you want to come?”

“I’ll take care of it once you untie me!”

“Or I could take care of it myself,” Héctor said, running a finger down his stomach and to the waistband of his boxer shorts. Ernesto shivered under his touch and, really, it was the only answer Héctor needed. The next minute his hand was coated in lubricant and beneath the fabric, gripping Ernesto’s cock, tight but not too tight, and Imelda was grasping Ernesto’s hair. She forced his head back, exposing his throat and getting a hiss out of him. Héctor saw Ernesto swallowing, say his Adam’s apple bobbing for a moment before Imelda lowered her head to murmur in his ear.

“Got to work for it.”

And he did right away, with no other protest but a broken-up groan as he buckled into Héctor’s fist again and again and again. It was quick and desperate, his breathing fast and thrusts erratic, and soon enough he was done, spilling into Héctor’s hand with a shuddering moan before going limp again. He didn’t even react when he and Imelda untied his arms, nor when each of them took a hand in theirs to massage the angry red marks on his wrists.

“You look good like this, amigo. Should show up at the next concert just as you are now.”

Ernesto mumbled something that sounded much like he wanted him to do something very unpleasant with a dead fish, causing Héctor to laugh, but he didn’t say much of anything afterwards… or now, over dinner.

He just chews, and glares. Héctor smiles.

“Come on, you know it was funny. But I’ll make it up to you,” he adds, picking up his glass. Out of the corner of the eye, he can see Imelda’s lips quirking upwards. He waits for Ernesto to start swallowing before he speaks. “You can fuck me next.”

The sudden coughing fit is loud as it’s predictable, and this time Imelda laughs first while Ernesto hunches over the tabe, hacking and wheezing.

That’s for telling everyone of that time I choked on a chorizo, Héctor thinks, but he knows better than saying as much with multiple pieces of cutlery within Ernesto’s reach.

“Sorry, was it the wrong moment?” he asks instead, snickering. That’s when Ernesto looks up at him, face all red and eyes teary, and coughs out something that is most likely an insult to all the men in his family seven generations back, which somehow involves goats.

He doesn’t notice - and Héctor doesn’t mention - how Imelda casually puts down the arm she had raised to pat him in the back in case he really began choking.

***

Stay for the night, Héctor said.

Like hell, Ernesto wanted to reply, only that of course that would mean giving ground to Imelda, which was most definitely Not Happening. Plus, well… he did want that chance to fuck Héctor in the morning. He’d earned it, after all. So he shot a challenging glance at Imelda - he was mildly disappointed when she seemed uninterested in returning it at all - and muttered that sure, if he really insisted, he’d stay.

Except that he’s beginning to regret it, and he’s not entirely sure why.

He’s got one side of the bed all for himself, since those idiotas keep insisting on sleeping draped all over each other. He’s stolen most of the blankets. He’s warm and has plenty of space; he’d slept in worse conditions while touring, or on Héctor’s old couch after he hurriedly left his own home. Héctor isn’t even snoring; he should fall asleep quickly.

But hours tick by, and he just can’t sleep. Something feels amiss and he can’t figure it out, like an itch he cannot scratch, a sort of hunger he cannot sate. He lies in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet breathing on his left - the breathing of two people, skin on skin, keeping each other warm.

It makes him scowl in the dark, something sitting heavy in his chest which he’s quick to dismiss as annoyance. Because it is annoying, how all over each other they are all the time. God, do they ever take a break? Do they really need to be so clingy, resting so close there seems not to be a single inch of space between them, like he’s not even there? It’s… rude.

As though to rub salt into the wound - wait, what wound? - Héctor chooses that moment to shift and let out a content sigh, no doubt while snuggling up against the bruja he decided to marry after a moment… well, more like about a couple of years of mental blackout. It makes him scowl, but that is not unexpected.

What does catch him by surprise is the unexpected pang of something when he hears Imelda yawning and shifting as well, when he imagines the smile on her face while she sleeps in Héctor’s arms. She smiles a lot at her husband, Ernesto thinks, until her gaze turns to him. Then, she sneers. It used to annoy him, it really did.

But now that he thinks about it, the weight on his chest heavier and heavier, Ernesto de la Cruz is not annoyed: he’s livid. He turns on his side without thinking, a hand reaching out for what should be Héctor’s shoulder. And his hand does touch skin - but too soft to be his.

Imelda.

There is an unintelligible mumble, the hand beneath his own shifts, and Ernesto pulls back as though the touch alone has burned him. He waits, heart hammering in his throat, for her to awaken, to utter something scathing - but she does not. There is only another yawn, the creaking sound of springs and she and Héctor shift and then, again, silence.

Except for their breathing, of course. That keeps going, slow and regular, while Ernesto holds his own for what feels like a very, very long time.

Tomorrow’s fuck had better be worth this nonsense.

***

Ernesto does not, in fact, get to fuck Héctor the next morning.

He doesn’t even try to, which strikes Imelda as more than slightly odd, given how keen he was on the idea. There is no attempt to touch him, nor the suggestion is even uttered, after they wake up. Or as they shower - again, she and Hétctor shower together and Ernesto goes in later, which he pretends doesn’t bother him - and then have some breakfast.

There are a few digs at her, but they’re half-hearted and hardly warrant a response. She can see Héctor wondering about it, too, the looks he shoots Ernesto even as they talk about a new song he has decided to write, as they go through possible titles and lyrics, which part each of them should sing. He seems distant, and for once he’s not talking over her husband; he’s hardly talking, and has has the unmistakable expression of a man who has hardly slept.

When Héctor leaves the room to fetch his notes for the new song, she decides against uttering a jab about the dark shadows under Ernesto’s eyes and just pours more coffee in his empty cup. He stares at it as though not comprehending for a few moments, then nods.

“Gracias,” he mumbles, and brings it to his lips to drink it in one gulp, black and hot and bitter as it is. That is odd, too: he won’t drink coffee without sugar and milk in it, usually. Imelda raises an eyebrow when he puts the cup down with a grimace.

“Not of your taste?”

“... I think I burned my tongue.”

That makes Imelda chuckle. “And here I thought you’d take the chance to complain about my coffee,” she mutters, and waits for a moment for Ernesto to latch on that excuse to resume a more… normal sort of conversation between the two of them.

He does, and there is something soothing about how familiar it is. It feels far more natural than Ernesto quietly thanking her for a cup of coffee.

“Oh, right. It did taste awful,” Ernesto mutters, glancing up at her, but she could almost swear she’s seen the corners of his mouth quirking upwards. “As most of what’s on your table. Héctor should have picked a better cook.”

“Which would rule you out as well, from what I’ve heard of your cooking. What was that again about the eggs in the microwave?” Imelda mutters, and smirks when Ernesto stammers, face reddening. “How did you even make to adulthood?”

“That was-- it was one time!”

“Or the time you microwaved the fork and almost set the kitchen on fire?”

“That was also only one time!” Ernesto protests. “I can cook just fine!”

“And yet you live on delivery food,” Imelda says, glancing at his stomach. “It kinda shows.”

“Wha-- it does not! This is muscle! Just… just well-padded!” he protests, and sits up straight. Imelda decides against pointing out how painfully obvious it is that he’s sucking in his stomach. Truth be told, she feels just slightly bad for pointing it out: she remembers how chubby Ernesto used to be when they were kids, and how self-conscious he was about it. He may not have a visible six-pack now, but he is in a pretty good shape… although he does tend to get winded while in bed with her and Héctor. But then again, who wouldn’t?

“Fine, fine,” she concedes. “But I still have doubts over your cooking skills. If you have any.”

“I can cook better than you do!” Ernesto snaps, and turns to the door just as Héctor steps back in with his notes. “Héctor! You’re coming for dinner at my place!”

Her husband stop in his tracks, blinking at him. “... We are?”

“Yes,” Ernesto mutters, glaring at Imelda. She responds with a smile.

“Oh, I look forward to it,” she says with the sweetest voice she can muster, and her smile widens a bit at Héctor’s confused expression.

***

“Hello?”

“Sofía? It’s--”

“Ernesto, yes. Cell phones have a screen, and the names of contacts show on it when they call. It’s been a thing for a while.”

“So you didn’t delete my contact.”

“Not yet. I’d love to keep talking, but I’ve got a client with her head in the dryer and--”

“You can cook.”

“... Guilty as charged?”

“I need you to teach me how.”

“Trying to impress your next prey?”

Ernesto reaches up to rub the back of his neck with his free hand, looking at the blackened lump that has solidified on the pan. He’s not sure he can salvage his only pan; maybe, if he chisels away at the lump… “You could say that.”

“Just take him or her or whatever out for dinner. Spare yourself the embarrassment, and them a bad case of food poisoning.”

Granted, giving Imelda food poisoning wouldn’t be the end of the world, but Héctor might not appreciate it. Ernesto shakes his head. “I can’t. I said I’d cook something.”

There is a long sigh at the other side of the line. “All right. I can think of a few easy dishes you could manage. How long do you have to learn?”

Ernesto glances at his watch. “About five hours.”

“En serio?”

“Five and a half?” he tries, and he can hear the smacking sound of skin on skin. The mental image of Sofía smacking her forehead in the middle of the hair salon makes him smile a bit.

“Forget it. Have you tried cooking?”

“Yes. It… didn’t go that well.”

“Good, at least your kitchen is a mess and it will make things more believable. Now follow my instructions closely: slowly step away from the stove, close the door, end this call, arrange some food delivery and then hide the boxes.”

“... Really?”

“Welcome to the world’s easiest cooking course. I’m amazed you didn’t think of it yourself.”

He did, truth be told, but a very stubborn part of him refused to give up without trying. He wants to see Imelda impressed, and he wants it to be over something he did do himself.

“So you’re telling me to lie about it?

“Why not? You lie about your size all the time.”

“I do not--”

“Sure, sure. Look, I have to go before someone’s head catches fire. Just get dinner delivered, move it on nice plates and call it a day. Don’t call back unless it’s with an update,” Sofía cuts him off, and ends the call. Ernesto scoffs, and glares at the pan.

“I don’t need to lie about my size,” he informs the charred remains. Somewhere in the back of his mind he’s mildly thankful for the fact that, despite all the jabs between them, that is not something Imelda had brought up against him by comparing it with Héctor’s.

Not that she’d have any reason to, after all: his cock is perfectly fine, and Héctor is the one with the ridiculously long dick. He checked online and his is perfectly average. Or just slightly below it, but it’s thick and that’s what counts, surely.

With an indignant huff, Ernesto turns his back to the stove and marches out of the kitchen, looking for the number of his usual delivery service.

***

Everything is delicious and very, very suspicious.

Of course Héctor is about ninety-nine percent sure that Ernesto cooked none of this; they used to share that small apartment before Imelda came in the picture, after all. He was subjected to his best friend’s attempts at cooking more than once… and Ernesto to his. It did not go down very well for either of them.

Ernesto has many talents; he can play, he can sing, he was born to perform… and to get them in touch with just the right people to get them exposure, venues to play in and paid work. For all of his talent in songwriting - perhaps the one thing he’s really good at - Héctor knows he would likely amount to nothing without Ernesto by his side. Without him, he’d probably still be in Santa Cecilia, without a family and getting by with a few odd jobs while writing music he’d play for fun and nothing else.

Imelda won’t even hear it, and insist he could do just fine on his own, but she also refuses to see what her parents saw from the first moment: she has married down. Maybe she loves him too much to see it, but if Héctor has a chance to somehow be worthy of her, to provide for her and not make her ever regret her choice of a husband, he owes it to Ernesto.

But there are two things he knows Ernesto cannot do: songwriting, and cooking. Imelda knows it as well and she certainly look suspicious, but alas, she has no proof. She eats, joins some small talk, and keeps eyeing towards the door leading out of the dining room. Héctor is not in the slightest surprised when she excuses herself to go to the bathroom.

“You did get rid of the boxes, didn’t you?”

Ernesto shrugs. “I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” he says smoothly, pouring some more wine in his glass. Héctor snorts out a laugh.

“Very well. If, by chance, you had some food delivered - which you did not - would you have thought of getting rid of the boxes, in case someone hypothetically went to check your bin?”

That gains him a wide grin. “Of course. I’d leave nothing to chance, hypothetically speaking,” he says, and pours some wine in Imelda’s half-empty glass just as she walks back in the dining room. To her credit, she looks just mildly annoyed and it would be unnoticeable to anyone who doesn’t know her as well as Héctor does.

“I noticed your frying pan is done for,” she comments, not casually at all, as she sits down.

Ernesto gives her a bright smile, resting an elbow on the table and leaning his chin on his hand. “The first attempt didn’t go too well,” he says, his voice dripping false modesty. “But practice makes perfect.”

“Oh, it does,” Imelda says, her voice rotting honey, and leans her chin on her hand as well. She smiles back. “The pozole was delicious. Mind sharing your secret?”

Ernesto’s smile falters. “... Qué?”

“Well, for starters, what part of the pork did you use?”

“Oh. I, uh… the… the leg. Clearly.”

“Clearly. And how long did you let it cook?”

“Uh… I wasn’t really checking the time. Until it was tender,” Ernesto replies, and shoots a very, very quick glance at Héctor, who’s staring at the scene - God, it’s like watching a car crash in slow motion - while biting the inside of his cheek and trying not to laugh.

Ayúdame, that look says. Héctor holds back a laugh and gulps down some wine.

“When did you add the chile guajillo?” Imelda is still asking, her voice sweet as her smile is sharp. “How much of it?”

“I, well--” Ernesto starts, only to trail off when Héctor lets out a grito and slams the empty glass down on the table, causing them both to wince and turn.

“Oh! I had an idea!” he exclaims, grinning widely. All right, so it’s not a sudden idea as much as something he’s had in mind for a few days now - the embryo of a plan - but this seems the best moment to bring it up. “About that song I’ve been writing! I know why it didn’t work!”

They both blink. “... You did?”

“I thought it worked just--”

“It needs to be a duet, but it shouldn’t be the two of us singing,” Héctor says, grinning. “I’ll stick to playing. What this song needs is a woman’s voice.”

The mixture of confusion and relief on Ernesto’s face turns into annoyance, but of course he pays no mind at all. He’s saving his sorry culo, after all, and he’ll thank him later. On the other side of the table, Imelda is raising an eyebrow.

“A woman’s voice,” Ernesto repeats, and makes a face. “If you say so. I suppose I could see if someone is available…”

Oh no, amigo. You know exactly where this is going and we’re doing it on my terms.

“Why bother? We have a singer right here,” Héctor says, and turns to smile at Imelda. “She sings wonderfully, you should know that.”

“But--”

“The song still needs work,” Héctor speaks up, and his smile widens at Imelda’s unimpressed look. “You’d be perfect.”

“I’m not singing on stage.”

“Not on a stage. Just among us, so that I can figure out how to make it work,” he says, and some of the tenseness in her frame fades. Then she glances at Ernesto, and Héctor can see her lips twitching just a little at his annoyed expression. As much as he enjoys - he will claim he tolerates it, but the truth is plain - Imelda’s presence in the same bed, he draws a line at singing with her.

Sucks to be him, Héctor thinks, and clearly Imelda shares that thought.

“... Well. If you really need me, I figure I can help,” Imelda says slowly.

“We don’t really need--” Ernesto starts, only to trail off with a wince when Héctor’s foot - clad in a nice Rivera leather shoe - connects with his shin. “I mean-- fine,” he grumbles, and empties his glass. Héctor holds back a satisfied grin, and stands.

“All settled, then! But we’ll worry about the song later. Now, I think there was something on offer,” he adds, and tilts his head towards Ernesto. “It would be a nice thank you for the dinner. If you’re still up on it.”

Ernesto blinks at him and Imelda, clearly confused. “Something on offer? What are you-- oh. Oh! Right!” he exclaims, and stands - only to pause, and make a noticeable effort to appear nonchalant. He clears his throat while Imelda hides a smile behind her hand. “I mean… if you’re up for it.”

And oh, yes, he is. He really is.

***

The sound of Héctor’s moans is almost like a song, and it is one Imelda never tires of.

She loves that sound as much as she loves his breath against her breast, his hair tickling her skin, his arms around her, the warmth of his body as he clings to her, shuddering. She loves the few jumbled words he manages to gasp out from time to time, and how her name sounds spoken like that, when she murmurs back to him that he’d doing so well, he’s so good. She loves it all so much that she can even tolerate Ernesto panting like a bull as he grips her husband’s hips and drives into him again and again with deep groans, pushing him against her.

He fucks like a mindless animal and really, it’s not surprising. He was never very imaginative… but at least he seems to make up for it with sheer stamina. Imelda has to concede a grudging point there.

A harder thrust than others tears a strangled cry from Héctor’s mouth, and he muffles it against her breast. Imelda murmurs something soothing, trying to ignore the head pooling in her lower belly - not her turn, not yet - and finally glances over at Ernesto for the first time in several minutes.

In all the years she’s known him, she has never seen the appeal; she doesn’t really see it now, either. There is no logical reason, as far as she’s concerned, why he would be such a hit with women with Héctor standing right there. Good for Imelda that no one had snatched him up first, really, but it still puzzles her.

Still, she has to admit she doesn’t find the sight unpleasant, either. He sounds like a bull and he’s built like one, too, broad-shouldered and deep-chested; it is a stark contrast to Héctor’s lean frame. He’s breathing fast, skin covered in sweat, as he thrusts mercilessly into her husband; his hair, usually styled so carefully and kept in place with hell knows how many different fancy hair products, is falling in messy bangs in front of his eyes.

Still, it’s his expression Imelda’s gaze lingers on - the way he’s squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth - and again, she finds she likes him best like this, when all conceit is gone from his face and he’s not keeping up some stupid act. If he looked like that more often, then perhaps--

“Ah-- aaaah...!”

A twist of Ernesto’s hips causes Héctor to cry out, and the head in her lower belly turns into raging need. Imelda presses her lips against Héctor’s temple for a moment before she glances back at Ernesto and speaks.

“Sit back.”

Her voice is like the crack of a whip, and it causes Ernesto to still and look back at her. He’s still panting and she expected annoyance at the interruption, but he seems too far gone to be annoyed: he just looks rather confused and very, very needy.

Good. It makes him easier to work with.

“Sit back,” Imelda repeats, and strokes Héctor’s hair. “With him on your lap. Don’t pull out.”

There is only a moment of hesitation, then Héctor rocks back against him with a whine of protest, and Ernesto recoils with a hiss. He does shift to sit back - good for them, Imelda thinks, that Ernesto’s bed is king-sized - and within moments Héctor is sitting on his lap, Ernesto’s cock still deep in him. He moans, skin flushed and hair tousled, lips still red form when he’s bitten them, and he’s the most alluring sight Imelda has ever rested her eyes on.

“You should see yourself now, mi amor,” she murmurs, and he looks up at her with clouded eyes, licking his lips. His cock is hard and leaking, and she shifts forward to sink on it without a second thought, letting it fill her to relieve the need that has now turned into ache.

They groan at the same time, all three of them, and Héctor is the loudest of all. He jerks beneath her, trapped between their bodies, with Ernesto in him and Imelda around him, and her hands on his chest and Ernesto’s mouth sucking marks on his neck. And it feels good, all of it - the warmth and the hardness and the sounds, Héctor’s scent and even Ernesto’s, beneath the cologne.

“E-Ern… ‘Melda…” Héctor is stammering, breathing fast and desperate, arms reaching back to grasp Ernesto’s head, hips shuddering as though he’s not sure what to do, if push back against his best friend or up into his wife. Imelda looks at Ernesto over his shoulder, and he meets her gaze; his eyes are clouded with pleasure, but she sees the challenge a moment before he twists his hips and makes Héctor moan.

Try to do better, the look on his face tells her, and Imelda gladly takes that on.

They both move fast and hard and relentlessly, each trying to make Héctor moan louder than the other, but soon enough the challenge is unimportant, their thoughts lost in the wave of pleasure. Soon enough, it’s about their own pleasure as much as Héctor’s… although his cries of pleasure still are the sweetest sounds Imelda has ever heard.

For a time there is only that, moans and groans, the occasional cry and muttered pleas, skin on skin and fast breathing and whispered praise, touch and motion and warmth as pleasure builds and the ache at her core fades into ecstasy.

In the throes of her climax, she feels Héctor’s mouth on her breast. A warm hand is cupping her ass, calloused fingers digging into her skin; she cannot tell whose hand it is, and she finds she doesn’t care.

***

They stay there for the night.

It wasn’t the plan, because Imelda never had any intention to sleep in Ernesto’s bed, but after they collapsed on the pillows, amongst rustled sheets, none of them felt like getting up again.

“Do we have to pay for boarding?” Héctor joked, gaining himself a light smack.

“Heh. Make breakfast tomorrow, and we’ve got a deal.”

“Why us? You’re such a great cook,” Imelda muttered, and there was some snickering - even from Ernesto - before they settled down to sleep. It didn’t take long for Héctor to doze off, and now she’s about to follow suit.

Imelda yawns, and her hand slips from Héctor's hair on his upper back, rising and falling steadily with each breath; she likes falling asleep like this, matching her breathing with his own. She closes her eyes, smiling a bit, and she's about to surrender herself to sleep when a sudden touch on her hand startles her.

Ernesto.

Despite the pang of annoyance, Imelda feels more than a little smug at the thought she's placed her hand on Héctor's back first. She waits a few instants for Ernesto to pull back his hand as thought the touch burned him, because of course he would, except that he does not. To her surprise - and annoyance, but mostly surprise - his hand rests over hers and grips it loosely.

What the hell does he think he's doing?

Imelda lifts herself on her elbow, glaring towards him and opening her mouth to snap, but words die in her throat when she doesn't meet the smirk she expected: Ernesto's eyes are shut, his mouth slightly open against the pillow and breathing steady, clearly asleep. Unless he's pretending - but that would be painfully obvious to her - he's not actively trying to annoy her; he just reached out for Héctor in his sleep.

And grasped her hand.

Imelda's eyes shift from his stupid, sleeping face to their hands, both resting on Héctor's back. If she pulls her hand back, she's giving ground. If she shakes his off , she could wake both him and Héctor up and she's really too tired to deal with Ernesto's drama that night. She keeps staring at his hand over hers for a few moments before she rolls her eyes and, with a sigh, rests back down and closes her eyes. She expects annoyance to keep her awake but, truth be told, it fades quickly enough.

The next morning she awakens first and, when she pulls her hand from beneath Ernesto’s, he doesn’t even stir.

***

[Back to Part 4]

[On to Part 6]

#pixar coco #hector rivera #ernesto de la cruz #imelda rivera #coco #mind the gap

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vanquisher2099 · 6 years ago

Text

Part One: A Waitress Walks Into a Bar

Jennifer Stock woke up grumpy, which was nothing new. She was exhausted, because she’d had to work overtime the day before and she’d need to work overtime today too if she wanted to make rent. It didn’t help that her bed was barely held together and the mattress was, at a conservative estimate, at least twenty years old. The apartment had provided furniture, but it was clearly the same furniture it had provided its first tenant when the building opened decades ago, and everything seemed to have a patina of grime on it that Jennifer, at least, had never been able to get rid of.

The center of the apartment’s single room was dominated by a table which seemed to function as a place to eat as well as a place to keep an old analog computer setup, from a time when a computer meant a separate box connected to various peripherals. Jennifer activated the monitor just long enough to scan the news (which was mostly concerned with the anniversary of the agricultural scandal four years ago) before shutting it back off and making her way to the kitchen area to rummage through mostly empty cabinets in an effort to find something she could call breakfast. That turned out to be a half bag of chips and a cup of coffee which, at least, was relatively warm.

A quick shower later and she was out the door, headed for the diner to serve coffee and fried foods to the other people unfortunate enough to be awake at five in the morning. The diner, which was in the midst of its third redesign (it had started as a 1990s retro coffee shop, shifted to a sci-fi inspired Diner of the Future look, and was now deep in what passed for ‘modern’ design, meaning that it was a lot of stainless steel surfaces and natural lighting), was predictably empty, as the early morning rush didn’t really start until six. Jennifer was okay with this, of course, because it gave her an hour or so to actually finish waking up.

There was, of course, the usual crap from the manager, who had put quite a lot of his life into the upkeep of this place and would be damned if he saw it lack for anything. He also had a thoroughly annoying habit of ending most sentences with a “hmmm?” as if everything he said was a rhetorical question. “Jennifer, I noticed your tables’ condiment caddies have gotten a little disorganized, hmmm?” “Jennifer, table four seems like they want to speak to you, hmmm?”

Jennifer, for her part, ignored it and occasionally flipped him off when he wasn’t looking. It gave her a modicum of satisfaction, and her fellow employee, a young dark-haired woman named Clarissa, seemed to think it was hilarious. Like most service industry jobs, small acts of rebellion were often necessary in order to maintain sanity during a torrent of requests from customers convince they were right in all things (because they’d been told so by the sign on the wall that promised they were), even when they most definitely were not. Jennifer liked some of the regulars just fine, but it was the people passing through that tended to give her the most trouble – people who weren’t interested in taking time to realize their server was a human, and maybe worthy of the minimum amount of respect humans should get. Or worse, the ones who didn’t realize (or care to realize) the difference between being polite and being flirtatious. Unfortunately, customer service frowned on the practice of breaking fingers.

It was, in short, another perfectly boring day – the sort of workday that feels just slightly too long than it should, where the body is convinced it’s worked for twelve hours about four hours in. Jennifer finally took her lunch break, which meant (for her) walking down the street to a different café that at least had an outdoor patio where she could sit in relative silence and begin mustering the necessary strength of will to go through another four hours of waiting tables. That was, at any rate, her plan until she was rudely interrupted by someone sitting down directly across from her. Jennifer was not easily startled, and merely looked up with a raised eyebrow.

“Normally,” she said mildly, “People ask before they sit down at a table that is clearly occupied. It’s considered polite.”

The intruder, an old man wearing a suit and an amused expression, did not appear to feel any particular chagrin for his rudeness. “You’re a difficult woman to find, Miss Stock. Were you aware of that?”

Jennifer snorted. “You know my name, so I’m sure even a cursory search on the net would make me shockingly easy to locate.”

“Ah yes, but knowing your name – that’s the real trick, isn’t it? You have so many of them.”

“I have two, assigned at birth by my parents, just like everyone else.”

This got a laugh from the old man. “Ah yes, of course. The esteemed Mr. and Mrs. Stock, who nobody seems to remember, even though they’ve got quite the comprehensive history – houses, birth certificates, parents of their own, even – going all the way back to their ancestors from the 1900s. A most notable family if they existed, which I think we’re both well-aware of that they didn’t.”

“That’ll come as a surprise to them,” Jennifer said evenly. “Dad will probably take it pretty hard.”

“You’re committed to the bit, I’ll give you that.�� The old man said, still smiling in a way Jennifer was beginning to find infuriating. “But no matter – I’m not here to debate whether or not your name is really Jennifer Stock, or if it’s Theresa Cunningham, or maybe Elise Karter, or whatever other name you’ve used in the last three years. I, certainly, am not paid to care who you claim to be. I was paid for a very simple task, which, if you’ll permit me just a moment, I shall complete now.”

It would have taken a very observant eye to see Jennifer’s body tense slightly, preparing to spring into action. The old man possessed, as it turned out, a very observant eye. He raised his hands gently. “Now now, there’s no need for that. I was paid to deliver a message, and, if you’ll permit me to reach very slowly and deliberately into my jacket here, I shall slide it across the table to you – face down, of course. After that, you never see me again, nobody in this café gets dragged into any kind of collateral damage situation, and you remain a simple waitress in a small town. Does that sound agreeable to you?”

The slight tension in Jennifer’s posture relaxed, and she shrugged. “Well, I have no idea who you think I am, but if there’s no dissuading you, feel free to pass on whatever message you think it is I’m supposed to get. Make it fast though – my lunch break’s almost over.”

With, as promised, a slow and deliberate motion, the old man reached into his pocket and withdrew a small piece of paper which he placed on the table and slid over to Jennifer. Then, with an equally slow and deliberate motion, he stood from the table and nodded in parting. “There, that was rather easy, don’t you think? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I too have other business matters that I must see to today. Goodbye, Miss Stock.”

Jennifer, for her part, nodded back and watched the old man slowly make his way down the street. When he was out of sight, she looked down at the message with an expression that was half-curious, half-annoyed. With a huff, she stuck the note in her pocket without reading it, paid for her lunch, and headed back to the diner for the rest of her shift. If she seemed to be a little more terse than usual, her boss didn’t notice. After the shift was finally over and Jennifer headed for her car, Clarissa waved her down to ask for a ride, and Jennifer, unable to think of a reason not to, acquiesced.

“Hey,” Clarissa said, with all the subtlety of the young, “You seemed kind of pissed after lunch today. Something happen?”

Jennifer sighed. “I ran into some old man who claimed we knew each other. The whole thing was awkward and uncomfortable.”

“Sounds like it. Who did he think you were?”

“No idea. He just kept trying to make conversation and I just wanted to be left alone. He got the hint eventually, but it kind of ruined my lunch break, you know?” Jennifer sighed. “Guess I should count myself lucky he didn’t get violent or anything.”

Clarissa took this all in and nodded agreement. As Jennifer pulled over in front of Clarissa’s building, she suddenly seemed to remember something. “Hey, some of my friends and I were planning a get-together later this week. You wanna come along?”

It was difficult to tell, Jennifer thought, whether Clarissa was just being polite, or if she genuinely was making some kind of overture of friendship, and both possibilities filled her with a low sort of anxiety. Either way, a little socialization would probably do her some good. Jennifer grinned. “Yeah, I think I do!”

Clarissa seemed delighted. “It’s a date! I’ll text you the details as soon as I’ve got ‘em, okay?” She bounded out of the car and headed into her building before Jennifer had the chance to change her mind. Jennifer spent the few minutes it took to drive to her own house torn between feeling pleased with herself for being social and wondering if she’d made a mistake. She only remembered the note in her pocket when it fell out as she was changing out of her work clothes, and it brought a decisive end to much of any thinking about future parties.

The note, as it turned out, was handwritten in a small, difficult-to-parse script, perhaps as a way of displaying its authenticity. Certainly, Jennifer thought wryly, it would offend a forger to write so sloppily. The note consisted of two sentences. The first read, “You could have told me.” The second, “She’s still looking for you.” At the bottom of the note were two letters which served as the signature: M.M.

“Well.” Jennifer said, to nobody in particular. Then, after a moment, “Fuck.”

Part Two

Prologue

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agentverbivore · 7 years ago

Note

Jewish FS prompt: Academy era, Jewish Fitz teaches atheist Jemma about Hanukkah

1) I know I’ve said this to you a couple times now, but I’m still really sorry how delayed this is. irl is lame. 2) this ficlet is inspired both by @buckysbears’ Chanukah headcanons/prompts and the second part of @theclaravoyant‘s prompt! Rated G, canon-compliant Academy era FitzSimmons (in their 3rd year).

Head in hands, Fitz stared at his third year holographic engineering textbook and tried to convince the letters to stop swimming on the page in front of him. The final exam was in exactly seventy-six hours, but after introductory xenorganic chemistry, propulsion engineering, and his “SHIELD in Literature” elective, he was starting to feel like a wrung-out sponge. It didn’t help that the exam was scheduled for the absolute last slot in the week, which meant that half the campus was in a festive mood and he was absolutely itching to be able to join them. (From an acceptable distance, anyway.) With all the best of intentions, he had sequestered himself in one of his favorite private study rooms right after dinner. Four hours later, however, and he felt like he actually remembered the salient parts of the class less than he had before. Only having nine-tenths of the textbook memorized was really not up to par.

Just as he was giving serious consideration to dropping his face directly onto the book and taking a nice multi-hour nap, the door banged open and he nearly fell out of his chair.

“Fitz!” Simmons chirped as she plopped into the seat in front of him. “I have a question for you.”

“Bragg diffraction won the Nobel in 1915, seven years after Lippmann,” he managed to get out through a jaw-cracking yawn.

“As refined as your powers of telepathy are becoming,” she deadpanned, neatly dodging the slow kick he aimed at her red Cons beneath the table, “that’s not what I had in mind.”

“I was right, though, yeah?”

Her smile widened ever-so-slightly. “Yeah. And what crystals did they use to conduct the experiment?”

“Rock salt,” he replied promptly, sitting back in his chair. “And you’re late.”

“I ran into Professor Niehaus outside of Carter and had the most fascinating discussion about the reading for next semester. She thought you had some good points about the fall assignments, so she’s thinking about adjusting her syllabus.”

Fitz blinked at her. “I had some good points?”

“Yes. I told her what you said over spagbol at Mario’s a couple weeks ago.” The self-assuredness on her face made him want to give his head a cartoon-dog-esque shake.

“Okay, right, sure, ‘cause why wouldn’t you.” Taking in a deep breath and letting it out in a laugh, he waved one hand at her. “Alright, so, what question’d you wanna ask?”

“Oh!” she exclaimed, reaching into the purple knapsack she had placed neatly on the empty seat next to her. “I wanted to know the precise purpose of dreidel.” Simmons primly placed a lime green, plastic dreidel on the table almost perfectly between the two of them.

He squinted across the table at his best friend. “Dreidel?”

“Dreidel,” she repeated, straightening the top so that it lay parallel to the table’s edge. “The game, not the object.”

A thought occurred to him, and he arched an eyebrow. “Did you steal this from my room?”

The Academy’s Jewish Student Union chapter had held their annual Chanukah celebration the weekend before, aiming to catch students right before most exams began, and this year the party favors had included cheap plastic dreidels. Although Fitz had pretty much only shown up to grab latkes and rugelach and leave, he had swiped a couple of the trinkets to keep on his desk for fiddling with while he studied.

Simmons fought back something that resembled a sheepish smile. “Borrowed, with every intention of returning.”

Scratching at the back of his head, he tried unsuccessfully to figure out what had prompted the question, and why she had asked it now. “Why? It’s not Chanukah yet, doesn’t even start ‘til Christmas day this year.”

“I’m curious.” She continued to stare expectantly at him, and he let out a mildly annoyed huff.

Ever since having discovered that he was Jewish their first year, self-avowed atheist Simmons had taken it upon herself to pepper him with all manner of questions about his religion, only half of which he could answer on the best of days. Being mostly secular in observance himself, he found himself surreptitiously looking things up on the computer just as often as he had a response off the top of his head. One time, she spent forty-five minutes grilling him on the minutest details of his bar mitzvah, and he had ended up needing to email his mum questions when he couldn’t remember everything.

During the pause in which he was deciding how to reply, Simmons waited briefly and then continued: “And you’re the only Jewish person I know.”

Feeling abruptly tired and cranky, Fitz crossed his arms over his chest. “I dunno the purpose of dreidel, Simmons, it’s a kids’ game. Why don’t you just look it up instead of asking me?”

Anyone who didn’t know his best friend as well as he would have missed the wince that flashed briefly across her face at his words. Her shoulders sunk slightly, and she withdrew her hands to her lap. “Oh. I….”

“I mean,” he continued, feeling an odd need to defend his impulsive response, “you do this all the time with Jewish stuff. You’re an atheist, why d’you even care?”

Looking down at her lap, she took in a small breath. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “I mean, you care about it. I thought that… that was what friends do. Be interested in things their friends are interested in. Or, I mean, that’s important to them.” Simmons tucked hair behind her ear and reached over to rifle through her bag. “Never mind. Sorry, we really should be studying.”

Discontent twisted into his stomach, and he scrunched his face up as he resisted the urge to just pretend like nothing had happened. “No, I’m – sorry, Simmons, sorry. I’m just knackered, you took me by surprise.”

“No, really,” she interrupted, piling textbooks on the table in front of herself. “I don’t want to bother you about your religion, it’s not –”

“It’s not bothering me,” he spoke over her, prompting her to actually look up and meet his gaze. “I just – I mean, I don’t like not knowing the answer.” He let out a sheepish laugh, flicking one finger at the pages of his book. “Dreidel isn’t significant or anything. It’s just a game. Think my mum said something once about how it’s adapted from some other European tradition, kinda like how Christians took bits and pieces from the Romans to make Christmas popular. But I don’t even remember what that was, so….” Fitz shrugged. “I just like the gelt and winning.”

Simmons was watching him with renewed interest now, an expression he recognized all too well from their first day of class every semester. “What’s gelt?”

“Those gold chocolate coins. Some parties use candy, too, but I like the chocolate.”

“Is it easy to win?”

Fitz chuckled, and reached out to pluck the green dreidel from the table. “Takes a lotta practice.” With that, he gave the dreidel a rapid flick onto the table, watching as it predictably flipped and spun into a standing position, making minute circles around the table.

Eyes glued to the long-spinning top, Simmons made a skeptical hum. “That doesn’t seem difficult.”

“Wanna try it, then?” He glanced down at the gold watch on his wrist. “What about we study for another hour, and then take a break to play dreidel. I can teach you. Winner brings the other tea before the exam.”

His best friend lit up at the promise of a competition, and she sat straighter in her chair. “Okay. Oh, but – we don’t have any gelt.”

Frowning, Fitz swiped up the dreidel just before it could stutter and jump to a stop. “We could use….” He spent a few seconds rifling through his bag. “I have peanut, crispy, and regular M&Ms. What d’you prefer?”

“Peanut,” she replied, watching as he laid out the three unopened bags of candy next to his work supplies. “How much candy do you have in there?”

“Gotta keep the blood sugar up, Simmons,” he retorted, pulling the nearly forgotten textbook towards himself. “Important for keeping the brain working at optimal capacity.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I think just one bag would have sufficed, but – anyway. Good idea, Fitz. Incentivization is an excellent study methodology.”

Grinning, he ducked his head, both of them settling in to be productive for exactly the following 59 minutes and 35 seconds. Fitz felt rather guilty now for having snapped at Simmons so unnecessarily, but he thought that her eager return to curiosity signaled that she wasn’t upset by his unwarranted response. Even though it didn’t make much sense, he had always been a little guarded about her questions regarding Jewish traditions, feeling that perhaps her atheism would lead to an argument between them. (An argument of a more serious nature, anyway, than the bickering that made up half of their conversations.) Yet, after about two years of friendship, the topic had only yielded them opening up about their families and traditions, and he supposed that was actually a good thing, in retrospect. In truth, Fitz found the explanation Simmons had given for her curiosity rather touching – even if he would never, ever admit it.

[Other ficlets.] [Chanukah ficlet 1 & ficlet 2.] [AO3.]

#FitzSimmons #Agents of SHIELD #fsfic #fstag #thefitzsimmonsnetwork #unlessimwrongwhichyouknowimnot #Fitzsimmons fic #aos fic #Verbivore writes #minifics #holidays #Chanukah #I hope you enjoy it!!!#they're such nerds lol #In some ways queue are far superior to my cocker spaniel

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