#and then further alterations and tailoring and yeah this is not what i had signed up for

[youremyonlyhope]

Pippin is my favorite musical of all time.

But unfortunately, I seem to fixate on it during times of my life when my brain is especially existential, anxious, depressed, etc.

The last few days, I've been thinking about Pippin a lot, reading analyses of it, listening to the music. Just generally enjoying my comfort musical.

Then I remembered that earlier this week, my therapist heard me describing how I feel unfulfilled while unemployed and doing a lot of stuff for other people or to make other people happy and not doing anything for myself, all while having a completely messed up sleep schedule. And she said "Hmm... honestly... that sounds a little like depression."

And I was like "No. No. Because I am doing things. It's not like when I've been depressed in the past." but now that I'm back to fixating on Pippin, I think she was somewhat onto something since that's usually a bad sign. Yay!

[i-have-not-slept]

Malectober Day 25: Button

“Fuck.” Alec muttered, staring down at the plastic button in his hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Of all the times a button could come off his jacket, it had to be today. Today, when he had a meeting with the board of directors to present his new shares report. And of course today was the day he’d worn a jacket with only one button. The dress code at his workplace was ridiculously strict, and Alec knew that going in there like this would not be acceptable.

Desperately, he scanned the busy city street, looking for any place that might help him. He had half an hour before the meeting… but if by some miracle…

There. A small, fairly discreet shop with an overhead sign saying BANE’S TAILORING. Alec felt a small stab of hope. Maybe they’d be able to help him. He darted across the street, stopping outside the store. Smaller letters over the door proclaimed it to be a GENTLEMEN’S TAILOR AND ALTERATIONS SERVICE. Perfect. Alec ducked inside, jingling the bell over the door. 

The inside of the shop was cool and smelled faintly of jasmine. Under Alec’s feet was a red carpet that had once been plush, but was now slightly threadbare. Antique wood paneling covered the walls. The whole space had the feel of somewhere lavish but slightly rundown. 

Along the far wall stretched a large oak desk with a dark green marble surface, and now a man stepped out from a back room to stand behind it. He was tall, as tall as Alec, and handsome, with sharp cheekbones and a warm smile. His eyes were an unusual shade of golden brown, like sunlight through dark honey. He wore an expensive-looking purple suit, complete with a lemon yellow pocket square. He smiled brightly at Alec.

“Hello.” His voice low and rich, with an accent Alec column’t quite place. “How can I help you today?” 

“Uh.” Alec said. Caught up in studying the man, he’d briefly forgotten why he’d entered the shop. He remembered the button, and came forward to the desk. “Hi. I uh— I just lost a button off my jacket, and I have this really important meeting at work, and uh— I know I don’t have an appointment or anything, but um, I just wondered if you’d— if you’d be able to sew it back on. Or something. I’ll pay whatever you think is fair.” he added in a rush.

The store owner raised an eyebrow, seeming amused by Alec’s word vomit. “Of course. It would be my pleasure. Bring it here.” 

Alec laid the button on the counter in front of him. The man smiled at him. “I’ll need your jacket as well, darling.” 

Alec felt himself blush. “Oh. Uh. Yeah. Of course.” Feeling like an idiot, he shrugged off his jacket and laid it down beside the button. 

The store owner ran his long brown fingers over the loose threads in the jacket where the button had been. “No problem at all, just a simple repair job.” He glanced up at Alec, with that intriguing smile again. “What’s your name, anyway? I’m Magnus.”

“Alec.” Alec told him. He found himself smiling back.

“Well, Alec, this should only take a few minutes,” Magnus told him, pulling a box of thread spools out from under the counter. “Feel free to look around while you wait.”  

Alec did so, glancing around the room. It was full of fancy-looking suits displayed on mannequins, shelves of neatly folded shirts, and racks of ties. Absently, he wandered further into the shop, discovering that there was another room off the main one. Alec stepped inside, and his eyes widened. The room was a riot of colour and sparkles. Sequined evening dresses in a dozen different colours hung from the far wall. Fluffy tulle underskirts hung from the ceiling like brightly coloured clouds, in shades of pink, blue, yellow, peach, lavender. There was a large shelf of shoes, platform heels and pumps and stilettos. Everything shone or glittered or gleamed so that Alec was nearly overwhelmed. 

He stepped back into the main room. Magnus was carefully working a needle through the material of Alec’s jacket. He glanced up again and smiled at Alec. “See anything you like?”

Alec gestured vaguely to the next room. “I thought… I mean, your sign says that you’re a gentleman's tailor.”

Magnus raised his eyebrows. “We are a men’s tailoring service, darling.”

Alec opened his mouth again, and then stopped. He looked into the other room again, seeing suddenly how the cut of the dresses was….different, how the high heels were rather larger than women’s sizes. His face felt suddenly hot. “Oh.” 

“Yes.” Magnus confirmed, his eyes sparking mischievously. “I’m not much into drag myself— well, nothing more than the odd pair of fishnets and heels— but a lot of my friends are, and they have the devil of a time trying to find clothes that fit. So I expanded my business to accommodate their needs.” 

Alec’s face was burning. He didn’t know what to say, and the words fishnets and heels were spinning around inside his brain. “That’s uh— that’s really— really nice of you.” He turned away and pretended to be examining a rack of shirts as a form of escape. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Magnus grin as he bent over his work again.

——————————————————————————

 Magnus was having an unexpectedly good time. When the handsome stranger had stumbled into his shop, helplessly clutching a button, Magnus had been briefly dazzled by how stunningly attractive he was. He knew it was inappropriate to be checking out his customers, but god, that dark hair, and those eyes. He waited as the man— Alec— pulled off his jacket and laid it on the counter. Magnus grabbed his sewing kit and sat on the tall stool he used for quick repair jobs. It was the work of a moment to find a reel of thread that matched the colour of the jacket, and he began stitching. Magnus watched Alec surreptitiously as he worked. The grey suit and pale blue shirt looked good on him— Magnus suspected that the dark-haired stranger would look good in anything— but he couldn’t help thinking that a pop of colour in his clothes would make his skin and hair stand out beautifully. 

With a twinge of regret, he reflected that Alec was probably straight, based on his reaction to the dresses and heels in Magnus’s other room. He spoke teasingly, almost testing the other man, and didn’t miss the way Alec’s eyes lingered on his face and hands. Nor did he miss the way Alec blushed hotly at Magnus’s comment about fishnets and heels.

Hmmm. Perhaps he’d been too hasty to dismiss Alec as straight. 

Magnus finished stitching on the button and snipped off the excess thread. Alec was still studying the shelves, his attention turned away from him. Magnus considered for a second. He thought of the way Alec’s eyes had roamed over him, curious and surprised and maybe a tiny bit interested. Should he do it?

Magnus took a deep breath and went for it. Grabbing a piece of paper, he quickly wrote his number, before scrawling, Call me any time you need another button sewn on. —Magnus. He slipped the scrap of paper into the pocket of Alec’s jacket and straightened up.

“All done!” he announced. “Good as new.” 

Alec turned to face him, relief obvious in his face. “Oh, thank you so much. You’re an absolute lifesaver. How much do I owe you?”

Magnus waved his hand breezily. “Nothing. It was my pleasure.” 

Alec began to protest, but Magnus waved him away. “Really, darling, it was nothing.”

“Oh.” said Alec shyly. “Thanks. That’s— really kind of you.

Magnus grinned. If Ragnor, his old business professor, was here, he’d scold Magnus for giving away his services for free. But Ragnor wasn’t here, and Magnus’s store was doing well enough that he could afford to give five minutes of his time to a handsome stranger. “You’re very welcome, darling.” He noted that the word darling caused Alec’s cheeks to flush again, and felt a spark of delight in his chest.

Alec shrugged his jacket on, and Magnus admired the way his shoulders moved under the material. “Thanks again.”

Magnus beamed at him. “Hope to see you again sometime.”

Alec smiled, a small and embarrassed smile, but genuine. The shop bell jingled faintly behind him as he left.

Magnus leaned forward on his desk, toying absently with a reel of cotton. He wondered how long it would take Alec to find the bit of paper in his pocket. Something told Magnus he would call, and he smiled. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the start of something wonderful.

[quietmyfearswith]

perfect fit {ransom drysdale x fem!reader}

perfect fit {ransom drysdale x fem!reader} 

status — completed 

warnings — cursing, unprotected penetrative sex (pls be safe when havinf sex), mirror sex, semi-public sex, degradation (slight), oral sex (female receiving), mentions of blood and being poked (briefly and not detailed)

word count — 3,370 words

a/n — lmao i have no shame i got inspired to write this because of an something i listened to which had a similar premise. i had a sequel in mind but idk if im gonna write that since i have a lot of fics planned out. feedback is appreciated and hope u guys have a lovely day !! :> 

masterlist

It was something no one expected Ransom to do; but he did it anyway.

He was just lounging in his home one day and he took one of the many notebooks he had lying around and suddenly found himself sketching different clothing articles. By the time he was able to tear his focus and hands away from the notebook, it was already 11:45 at night, “Huh, so in the past five hours I was able to design 11 clothes,” he quietly thought to himself as he closed the notebook that contained his ideas and headed to bed.

The following day consisted mostly of doing two things; more designing and making calls. He was looking for possible suppliers who could give him the materials he needed in order to bring his designs to life. He also ordered his assistant to look for tailors who were willing to sew and stitch them to life, as he did not have any intentions on making those himself. Searching for a place to lease to station where the clothes would be made and sold was also something he did.

All of that happened almost 19 months ago; Ransom just suddenly had the idea of creating his own clothing line and he was successful in that endeavor. His brand was known for its eloquent and classy designs, while still being comfortable and affordable. It was also a bonus that the materials they used were cruelty-free and vegan; though this wasn’t really his idea, something his assistant had suggested and something he mindlessly agreed with as he was burying himself in designing a dress.

When his family found out about his current endeavor, there were various reactions in response. Joni seemed to be legitimately excited to see if Ransom’s design would match her taste and even told him how she was willing to post about his line on her Instagram. Meg and Walt finally had something in common as they both teased him and questioned his sexuality since he suddenly became interested in fashion; even his own father silently had the same thoughts and concerns. His mother, however, was somewhat proud of her son following in her footsteps and making a name for himself. While Harlan was surprised on how he was persistent in pursuing fashion, for he always thought that his first grandson would be his successor in terms of writing and in handling the publishing company.

Ransom, having had enough of their judgmental comments and half-assed support, snapped at them once he broke the news as they were enjoying dessert, “Alright, all of you, eat shit! No offense, Mom, but you had a loan from Granddad and without his money you’d be nowhere! Joni, cut the shit! We all know you rely on those brand deals you have and of course, on our family’s money. And Walt? At least I’m gonna make something of my own! Unlike you who just relies heavily on the books Granddad gives you to publish. And what the fuck does fashion have to do with one’s sexuality? If clothes make people gay then why are you wearing that sorry excuse of an outfit? Scared people might find your dick too small?” 

And with that, he left the house as a sea of screams and commotion followed him, but he chose to ignore it of course.

In the span of those 19 months, his clothing line took off. Critics spoke highly of it, consumers couldn't get enough of his designs, and he was being constantly praised for his creativity. So it made Ransom feel as if he was on top of the world.

After his designs being featured on various fashion shows and being worn by numerous celebrities, the pressure to put out equally great designs was taking a toll on Ransom. Hence why he often spends time on the main store and headquarters he had in Boston. The place was fairly spacious — it had an office for where he could have meetings or design some of his clothes, a spacious and luxurious space for the customers to try on the clothes, rows of sewing machine next to an array of cloth for the workers whom he fairly compensated for their hard work, and even a small circular platform placed in front of mirrors for alterations. 

Ransom advised his staff to go home early to enjoy the start of the weekend and he would be the one to close the store and balance what they had already sold and what was left. As he was busy in the counter checking the log and counting the money, he heard the chimes of the bell that hung above the door make a sound, directing his attention to where a lovely woman stepped into the store and it felt as if all the oxygen in his body left his body with how breathtaking the woman was.

“We’re about to close in a few minutes,” was all he managed to let out as the woman stood on the opposite side of the counter; she just smiled as she placed the gown wrapped in plastic down on the counter, “Oh? I’m so sorry but I was just wondering if I can have this gown altered? I bought it hastily last week and only got to try it on two days ago since I was incredibly busy with work and realized how loose it was on me.”

He looked down on the gown as he spoke, “Yeah well we close earlier on Fridays so,” prolonging the word so, he noticed how she moved as if she was about to exit the establishment, but he wondered, “What is the work you do that kept you busy?”

The question surprised both of them; Ransom didn’t know as to why he was curious about it, but it probably had to do with how he just wanted an excuse to talk to her and listen to her soothing voice. While Y/N didn’t realize that those were one of the requirements in order to have a dress altered, she told him anyway what kept her busy.

Nodding his head, he made an impulsive decision, “My assistants just left, but I can take care of it. It shouldn’t be a big problem” Her eyes lit up excitedly and she smiled widely and thanked him for being able to accommodate her. “Just go to one of the dressing rooms and change to the gown, and head to where the platform is — just right across, okay?” She nodded and followed to where his hands pointed to where he’d be waiting for her.

As she scurried off to the change, he found himself questioning himself as he switched off the open sign, grabbed a notebook, pen, and measuring tape, and waited for her to come out. Why the hell am I making such an effort for her? And when she did step out of the dressing room and made her way to step on the circular elevated platform, he remembered just why he was going out of his way to serve her; because she looked fucking gorgeous, especially seeing her wear a gown he designed.

Standing on the platform, she shyly looked at him to which he found adorable, “Why don’t you spin around slowly for me?” She nodded and did so, “What seems to be the problem with the gown?”

With her back facing him, she craned her neck and replied, “I found the length to be too long, I’m afraid I might trip on it,” as she faced him he noticed how he was standing dangerously close, and his facial features were dead serious, “So you just want to trim it a bit?”

She nodded, “Would it be possible to create a slit?” And just as she made that suggestion, she bunched up a bit of the gown and showed him how she wanted the slit to look like; but all it did to Ransom was make him drool with how luscious and soft her legs looked like. “Okay, yeah that’s something we can do.” 

Grabbing a small container full of sewing pins he took hold of the bunched up fabric she held in her hand and told her he got it. “You know when I designed these gowns, you were exactly the target buyers I had in mind,” she tilted her to the side, confused with what he meant so he further explained, “Gorgeous, elegant, and absolutely stunning; especially once they wear my clothes.”

Her cheeks suddenly became a dark shade of red as she tried to shrug off his compliment, “Well I don’t really wear these kinds of clothes, but when a wedding comes, you have to.” As he was placing the pins on the fabrics, he looked up from where he was sitting on the platform, him being eye level with her thigh was doing nothing to prevent him from nursing a hard on, “A wedding you say?” 

Snatching a glance from where her hands rested on her hips to get out of his way, he took note of the lack of ring and voiced out his observation, “I’m not seeing any ring on both your hands, so I’m gonna assume that you’re not the bride?” She laughed softly and shook her head, “No, I'm not the bride-to-be, my best friend is.”

“Good to know,” Ransom said softly and she didn’t hear it well and was about to question what he just said as she felt the sewing pins poke her skin. “Ow, fuck!” She yelped, which made the designer realize that instead of piercing through the dress, he accidently lightly grazed her leg. “Fuck, I’m sorry!” He apologized as he pulled the pin and wiped her upper thigh that started to bleed a little. 

Feeling his warm hand envelope her hand and the thumb swiping away the crimson liquid, made her feel tingly as she looked down on him. Inching his face closer to her thigh, he looked up at her as his lips touched the area that he unintentionally hurt her in, “I’m so sorry for hurting you,” Y/N was stunned as his lips were back on her thigh after apologizing. 

Breathlessly, she just nodded and was surprised both his hands took a hold of her ankles and were softly caressing her just like how his lips were being gentle with her flesh. As his hands were sliding up towards her shins, she could feel the goosebumps on her skin rise, and by the time they reached her thighs, that was the only time Ransom detached his lips from her skin, “You taste divine, baby girl. But I’m not done with making it up to you.”

Having a sudden surge of confidence, Y/N spoke out, “Then keep kissing me if you want to make it up to me.” Ransom too, was surprised because this meek-looking beauty demanded him to do something, “I beg your pardon?” It was her turn to be brave and brazen as she smirked down on him, “Keep on kissing my thighs or else I’ll leave a bad review of your services.”

Quickly, Ransom placed his lips back on her thigh, kissing and smooching every inch he could find; he wasn’t sure if he was threatened with how his business could be negatively affected or was he just turned out at the prospect of being told by this beautiful woman to keep on admiring her figure.

Tangling her fingers on his hair, she tugged at him and guided her where she wanted his mouth as he gave verbal directions, “Higher, baby, kiss me higher.” Though his eyes were darkened with pleasure of having to know what her skin tastes like and aroused with how he met someone who was able to tell her what she wants and bosses him around; he’s never had someone do that to him, for it was always him calling the shots.

Poking his tongue out, he traced over the outline of her lace underwear which resulted in her letting out a moan and tightening her grip on his hair — urging him to keep going. Moving from her thigh, he kissed his way until he was face to face with the center of her pussy. Inhaling her scent, he closed his eyes as he groaned and took in her addictive scent and lunged forward to kiss and lick her clothed core. Even with the fabric in its way, he was nipping on her pussy lips and licking through it, getting a faint taste of her.

“Oh, more please,” she gasped out in pleasure; and with that plea Ransom moaned as he tore his mouth from where he was making out with her clit and smirked as she heard her sigh at the sudden loss of contact. Looking up at her, he gave her a grin as he asked, “Did you honestly think you would be the one who’ll call all the shots, baby?”

Somehow, her crimson red cheeks managed to turn into an even deeper shade of it at what he said. He then moved to pull her panties down her legs, he didn’t even wait for her to kick them out of her as he immediately licked from her clit down to her opening. Moaning out, she trembled a bit and Ransom’s hands latched themselves onto her thighs to help prevent her from falling.

“Careful now baby girl,” he warned her as he looked up to see her flushed face starting to drip with sweat, his lips never fully removing themselves from her clit so with every word he spoke the vibrations was felt throughout her core, “Wouldn’t want you to injure yourself. How are you gonna turn up to the wedding then?” 

As he finished his question, his tongue pushed itself into her tight opening and swirled around inside. Feeling dainty fingers push his face further, he was able to get a better taste of her juices that began to drip down to his tongue and he hissed at how delectable they were. Pulling out his tongue from her pussy, he immediately licked his way up to her swollen clit, “You taste amazing, baby,” he moaned out as he focused his efforts into sucking her clit hard and fast, feeling her thighs began to shake — a sign that she was close to her orgasm.

But Ransom wouldn’t let her cum right away, his left hand left the warmth of her thigh and slapped her clit multiple times, she opened her eyes in shock and looked down on the designer, aroused and elated with what he did. Getting the hint that she enjoyed what he did he teased her by saying, “You like it when I slap that clit?” Seeing how she nodded and bit her lip, he went on and slapped her clit multiple times but with not a lot of force, and his tongue went on to caress her tight opening until she once again began to quiver. 

“God you’re such a filthy slut,” he stated as he stopped the movements his tongue and hand were doing, and went on to bite lightly her thigh, “I’m gonna have so much fun with you. Have to make sure my customer leaves this place satisfied with my services.” As he mentioned the double entendre, his voice was laced with desire and hunger.

Giving her thigh one last kiss, he stood up from the platform and placed his hands on her hips and lifted her so she stood on the ground just like he was. Grabbing the back of her neck, he pushed her against him so their lips met and they began to hungrily make out. Her hands were at his cheeks, softly grazing his cheeks which contradicts how their tongues were roughly dancing with each other. While Ransom’s other hand was feeling for the zipper on her back, unzipping it and pushing the dress off of her.

Moving both his hands to touch her back, he noticed the lack of bra and felt how her nipples harden against the fabric of his shirt, he separated their lips from where they were entangled and looked down to see her breasts, “Such a nasty little girl you are, aren’t you? Wearing this gown with no bra underneath, like you wanted me to see just how good your boobs are.”

She shook her head, “The gown goes well best without a bra,” she defended. Amused with her reply Ransom decided that they’ve had enough foreplay; both his hands planted on her hips and pulled her back so it was flush against his front, “And you know what would go best with your divine body? My cock and cum,” one of his hands grabbed onto his cock and rubbed the tip of it against her folds, feeling her shudder at the sensation, “So come on and take it.”

“Shit baby girl, you’re so tight for a slut,” Ransom groaned as he threw his head back with how her walls squeezed his hard dick in one smooth motion. The hand that guided his cock in repositioned itself and held onto her hair, pulling her head back and arching her back away from his chest, which contrasted the way her ass was pushing back to accommodate Ransom’s cock.

Hand in her hair and the other on her hip, Ransom was pulling her into his cock with sharp, fast, and harsh thrusts; while her moans and whines did nothing but to fuel him to drive his thick meat deeper in her. “You like this don’t you, baby? You like how I’m just ramming into you like you’re nothing but a whore?” He taunted as he let go of her hip and began to rub, twist, and pull at her nipples.

Y/N could only nod, too blissed out to give out a verbal response for the way he was deliciously torturing her nipples disabled her from forming a coherent sentence, much less a thought. Unhappy with how she responded, he let go of her hair and slapped both her ass cheeks, “Answer me! Tell me you like it!”

She went still for a moment due to the sting of his slaps, she widened her eyes and peered over her shoulder to look at him, “I love it! I love how you’re treating me, sir.” The title she had given him made him even more feral as he ordered her, “Look in the mirror slut, look at how desperate you are for me.”

Feeling shy from seeing her blissed out state on the reflection, she instead diverted her gaze on the man behind her who was mercilessly pounding into her. She found it absolutely hot how his jaw was clenched so hard and his eyebrows were furrowed; it made her clench down on him hard which led to Ransom to slam deep inside her and grab onto her shoulders, “You’re close aren’t you, baby? You’re about to cum on my cock aren’t you?” She nodded and whined, “Yes, sir, I’m so close. Please let me cum,” he chuckled in appreciation, she begged him to cum without even telling her to do so. 

Speeding up the pace of his thrusts, his one hand was now alternating with rubbing and pinching her clit, in order to get her right on the edge. His lips were resting against her ear, his pants were only turning her on even more and with a final pinch of his fingers, she was cumming hard and with a loud wail.

Feeling how her walls squeezed him too tight to the point he couldn’t move anymore, Ransom stilled inside her and wrapped his arms around her stomach, “Fuck, you feel good.” After a couple of breaths, Ransom collapsed to sit down on the platform, taking her with him. Sitting down, he took the time to steady his breaths and recover from the intensity of their intercourse and orgasm. 

Snaking his hand to her cheek, he tilted her head enough for him to plant his lips on hers and let her give a faint taste of her own juices and he pulled apart from her not without planting a small kiss, “The gown will be ready in a week, baby. And it’s on me.”

[theangrypokemaniac]

There's a sneering attitude that the dub is inherently inferior solely for being a dub, and when I say 'dub' I mean the American one. No one attacks the South American interpretation, funnily enough, or the variety that exist globally.

Why not if foreign languages are so abhorrent?  Do you think it's kewl to hate America?

That's so original you know.

If the moan centres on the dub changing certain things, well that's a pointless stance, because it's impossible to do otherwise.

What's accepted in one country is not always permitted elsewhere, so either you make those alterations or it's never shown. I'd prefer seeing a slightly toned down version rather than have it never reach the West at all.

This is without considering the technical obstacles that a direct translation brings. The words do have to fit the mouth movements, and if they don't, truncation must follow.

America and Japan are different; the population of the former are not going to comprehend the references to the latter's history and culture, which necessitates some divergence from the original to give it mass appeal.

Anime is a branch of entertainment. It has to attract the public's good will to stay in business. If impenetrable, it'll fail, with all the resulting unemployment and finacial losses that brings.

Those in charge of dubbing understandably think they're on safer ground promoting familiarity rather than the strange, but that's not to say Pokémon was stripped of its identity. On the contrary, it was like nothing I'd ever encountered before.

I may have watched Western cartoons then, but the idea of doing so now is silly. I won't give time to any modern animation unless it's Japanese. Growing up on the dub has not produced an ephemeral fan less serious or 'true'.

The 4Kids dub had wit, humour, deep emotion, suggestive comments and flights of fancy. The voices fitted the characters well.

Unlike the current one, where everyone sounds on the verge of vomiting, but then they're clearly working with substandard material on a miserly budget. You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear after all.

Dubs can be bad, but the very state of being a dub doesn't confer worthlessness automatically. Considering the work gone into them, attempting to gain your favour, it seems rude not to appreciate the time and energy spent in production.

Knowing a little about history, sub-only fanatics remind me of the kind of folk who opposed an English Bible, because it was too good for the oiks to read the word of God.

Of course it was alright for them, rich enough to be taught Latin, but not so much the ordinary man.

It amuses me how dozens dismiss the dub, but see no hypocrisy in using its evidence to further their ship or anti-ship arguments, so it can't be that revolting.

It's also bizarre that so many hold sacred the sub of a series currently in a frenzy to shed every aspect of its anime and Japanese origins, leaving a vague, rootless ghost, supposedly making it easier to slip down the gullet of the masses.

Pokémon I've seen referred to as a 'gateway drug', as in the anime that introduced a generation to the entire concept. This means the dub. You would not have got enough kids in the late Nineties to read a screen rather than watch it, and even today most would lose interest rapidly.

Where would you be without that dub? Unless you're Japanese, your first experience of Pokémon will have been a dub, and if not the American, the one where you live, which was only made because there was the funds available.

You may have then progressed to watching the sub, but only because that dub stirred love in your soul.

Where would the franchise be without that dub? You think Pokémon would've grown to be a world-wide obsession raking in billions by itself? No, it'd still be a solely Japanese phenomena, and most likely never lasted this long.

Its decades of supremacy rests on the quality of that dub. It sold games and merchandise to kids by the ton, giving an incentive to keep the series going. If you're not a fan from the first wave, then your favourite era would have never existed had it not been financially attractive carrying on.

The team who wrote the first film actually preferred the dub, moved to tears by its emotive use of music, therefore they aren't so precious as the fans.

Where would anime be without that dub? Pokémon brought it to the West. A handful slipped through previously, but made minor impression.

To those who would dismiss Pokémon entirely in favour of more 'worthy' output such as Studio Ghibli, I would say that Pokémon, first the games, then the programme they inspired, must have an integral quality to have caught on in Japan, which isn't exactly short on similar concepts.

To have gained popularity in a crowded market, and so fervently a dub became an option, can only have come about because it held a certain magic.

It was the dub that smashed a hole in the cultural barrier, setting free the tidal wave to engulf the world. In Pokémon's trail followed Digimon, Cardcaptors, Monster Rancher, Yu-Gi-Oh! et cetera.

Without Pokémon, I doubt they'd have been translated, and definitely never broadcast on mainstream television. That came about as channels desperately hunted down anything Japanese to serve as the next craze.

I really appreciated the effort made by 4Kids in converting every aspect of the series to suit American tastes, including changing text on signs, letters and books into English. I assumed this was standard practice until I watched others.

I could never be as involved in them as I was Pokémon because of that block. It was like being denied access to the deeper waters, fenced into the shallows, and implied a rushed dub, with little care shown but to chase the same crowd and money.

If personified, the dub 'n' sub wouldn't be one human being, but rather identical twins: the same to a casual observer, but easy to tell apart by the more attentive.

It's like the games: Red and Blue are versions of a single adventure, but not totally one. Take the dub and the sub the same way. They are parallel dimensions running on separate rails, and beyond reconciliation, and that's before we consider that, sub and dub alike, each generation has only a faint relation to its predecessor, working on its own whims.

Everyone has a favourite, or can like both, and there's nothing wrong in that, but so many are proud of the fact they hate the dub, as if it conveys a revered status of supremacy.

When Disney films are shown abroad, they too are translated, and I'm sure references and jokes are redesigned to make sense to the locals. It's no use selling yourself as a comedy then being surprised when the audience refuses to laugh, having no idea what you mean.

If people prefer that one, for being what introduced them to Disney as a whole, or as a fond memory of childhood, then so what?

I don't mind if their view of a character is minutely at odds with mine, having seen the original, because what they think is canon to their version, so can't be wrong.

I don't go round declaring every Disney dub to be pathetic by its nature, that viewers of them are of a lesser breed of fan for preferring their own tongue, even though more of the world's population understand English than they do Japanese.

If you enjoy one tailored to your country there's no crime in it, just as I like one at least comprehensible to mine. It's not even my culture, but I pick it up mostly.

The choice must be made on which to follow, and this blog runs on dub canon, as that has a claim on my heart. Just because I don't acknowledge what takes place in the sub doesn't mean I'm unaware of it, but it has no bearing on what I write.

The idea that the dub alters things willy-nilly without rhyme nor reason is also mistaken. Often it does it because the original does not make sense.

In the sub, I know Nanny and Pop-Pop are just a couple of old duffers taken at random and dropped in to a castle, supposedly as James's far away nannies.

Oh yeah, that's a cushy position. You doing a lot of child care from miles off?

Mind you, it used to describe 'em as 'caretakers' on Bulbapædia, as if Nan serves as housekeeper whilst Pop tends to the garden.

That's right. Ma and Pa finally got some work out of this pair of freeloaders.

They're not related, remember? No, no, absolutely not, no way. Of course their style reflects that. They just gave Pop a 'tache, thick eyebrows and a bigger nose, and Nan got a bun and lines in her hair, but there's certainly no connection. Oh no. Such a thing is ridiculous.

They're NOT family. No. Yet Hoenn James still panics they might learn he's joined Team Rocket, spending the whole episode trying to hide the truth.

Why? Who are servants to criticise the son of their employers? Why should their opinion be of any consequence to Hoenn James, especially when his parents, fiancée and butler are cognizant of reality?

Children of aristocrats are usually brought up by governesses, thus develop a stronger attachment to these figures rather than their parents, but that isn't the case here.

James lived with Ma and Pa, not the codgers minding the castle. He would have very little contact with distant employees compared to those who waited on him daily, so why seek out their approval?

Hoenn James apparently was permitted visits to Nan 'n' Pop, which is strange considering they're not relatives. Why them and not any other house-stters?

That's right, Ma and Pa sent their son to one of their properties without them, entrusting him to the care of two shrivelled pensioners of his size that he barely knew, and who could keel over at any minute. There are no other servants present. Apparently Nan and Pop clean an entire castle by themselves.

Oh, and they run a makeshift Pokémon sanctuary, but since it's not their home it has to be done with Ma and Pa's blessing, who also have to pay for it, but they're eevul aren't they?

The idea that somehow Nanny and Pop-Pop have not cottoned on to James's occupation by now is risible.

Servants gossip about their masters. I bet the entire household of his home know, and so in turn does the county. That Nan and Pop remain oblivious proves how isolated they are, for no one's thought to inform them.

When it came to dubbing it, they were made his grandparents, removing all the above nonsense. Of course he visits his nan and granddad, it's their gaff and their money funding the place, and it is likely his mother or father would keep James's job a secret, for fear the shock would finish 'em off.

It should do really. If they're not bothered by it that's a sign of where his rapscallion ways were inherited.

They aren't facially akin to Ma and Pa, but display the same additions, so if staff it's bloody lazy, as if nannies have to resemble your parents, but inventing a blood link excuses the slothful characterisation.

Every reference I've seen on Tumblr relating to the coffin-dodgers calls them Nanny and Pop-Pop. Apparently the dub decision is met with universal approval. It does have redeeming aspects then.

Now the sub writers, rather than ignore this development, took to it too. They aren't exactly bursting with ideas these days and are probably grateful for the lifelines offered.

Remembering James had parents, they forced a likeness between them and Nanny and Pop-Pop. How else do you explain the inexplicable ageing, even when Sinnoh Ma and Sinnoh Pa are younger than Ma and Pa?

I've also known for years that the sub has this woman as Jessie's foster mother, not Ma Jess, but that's stupid.

I can grasp the idea that Jessie and Ma might have endured extreme deprivation, considering that's what Team Rocket has brought to Jessie anyway, and that they may have lived at the bottom of Mew's mountain prior to Ma's death.

What I find difficult to take in is that social services (or as they're known where I live, the S.S.), however notoriously awful they are, would give a child to a mad bitch in a shack with no running water.

Come on, they have to at least pretend to be concerned for Jessie's welfare.

As Jessie is very young, bereavement can't have befallen her in the distant past, so how can she be happy this soon after becoming an orphan? How could the grieving period be a cherished memory?

If that woman's creaming off the money, why hasn't she fixed the place up by now? Where do the payments go, sniffing glue?

Then there's the depiction. If this is just some daft bint never to be mentioned again, why do they conceal her face? Who cares what she looks like when she's unimportant?

Here's another figure from Jessie's past. She isn't disguised, and why not when she too briefly appears and is then forgotten?

Who was she?

The only sort of characters they tended to hide were other members of Team Rocket:

During the early scenes featuring Giovanni, he was enveloped in shadow, adding both intrigue and a sense of menace.

Madame Boss also got this treatment, even though there was probably no intention to ever feature her in the anime. What's the use in keeping an appearance a mystery if it'll remain masked?

With that pattern, it implies this woman is in the same category, like Ma Jess.

When it came to animation, it definitely was intended to be a foster mother. Not her real one. No.

What did they do?

They gave her Jessie's skin tone and purple hair hanging down her back!

You know, like Ma Jess?

Any colour would've done. Any at all, and being anime I do mean any colour, but no. The choice was made to give her the looks of the exact person she's not meant to be!

Is it that surprising the dub simplified things?

I don't mind if you like the dub, sub, both, or any from around the world, but I'm tired of the smug condescension, as if we all agree the sub is the only one that counts, and that dub fans are grunting troglodytes, or not 'proper' aficionados.

None of us would be here were it not for the dub. Pokémon would not be here. I think it deserves some respect for how much of a difference it made, to my life and to yours.

[daphnegeeksout]

If You Were Here (2/9) [Tony Stark x Reader]

Read it on AO3

By: daphnethewriter

It’s hard to live this way… to only see someone through the other side of a screen. Tony stumbles across a computer bug that’s more than just a bug. You need his help, but first you need to win his trust. Hopefully you can do it before time runs out.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3  | Part 4

Words: 3,815 Chapters: 2/9 Language: English

Chapter 2

So, in his attempt to destroy it, Tony released the Cheshire into the rest of his system. Brilliant. And now it's making itself right at home. It's everywhere—the cameras, the PA system, the bots—wreaking subtle, but irritating, havoc. It watches him, tailoring its actions to his presence so it is all but undetectable for everyone but Tony.

Beyoncé blasts through the speakers in the background, as it does every time he's in the lab now. Tony stares at the holographic representation he created of the Cheshire's codebase. It's an approximation of what he trapped in the server, before it metastasized to the rest of the system. It's still… well… he wishes that he wrote it.

"Let's see what you're made of." He approaches the visualization to pick it into its components. Not that he knows where to start. The code is so intricately entwined, there's no easy access point to divide the functionality. He spins the visualization and enlarges part for easier access.

<You could at least buy me a drink first.>

The hologram shimmers and reforms, taking a human shape. Tony takes a step back. He recognizes you from your pictures, from the security video, from the hospital. Now you stand in front of him, shimmering with the reflected light of the hologram, as if you were really in his lab, barefoot in a Nirvana concert tee and ripped jean shorts.

<I think we got off to a bad start,> you say. <Though, in my defense, you were trying to kill me.>

"Amazing." Tony circles the hologram. You turn with him, so he's always facing you. Your expression is subtly amused, so lifelike. The program must be using the input from the security cameras to judge his behavior and adjust the hologram in response. But for it to create appropriate visual cues… there is a reason he never gave his AIs a visual form. The amount of coding would be monumental.

Tony returns to his workbench, pulling up a set of diagnostics to run over the program. Now that it's staying in one place, he might be able to get a handle on it. The monitor remains unresponsive.

<It's rude to ignore me when I'm talking to you. I need your help.>

"What could you possibly need?" he asks, trying and failing to elicit a response from FRIDAY. "You're a bunch of code."

<And a brain is just a bunch of neurons. Firing, not firing. Ones and zeros. Same difference.>

"So, you're a neural network." Of course it's a neural network. Groups all over the country were developing them. No one was close to anything like this, though. "Who made you? Caltech? Stanford?"

<No one made me.> Your voice contains a hint of impatience. <I'm a person, not a program.>

"So you say. Where are you based? How many servers do you need to run? They must have a massive cooling—"

<You've seen where I was based. I led you there.>

Tony's hands still over the keys. "The long-term care ward?"

<Gold star for you.>

"There was nothing there."

<There was me.>

"The girl?"

<Woman,> you correct him. <And, yes. You think I chose this visualization at random?>

"That's not possible."

<Yeah, I get that it looks that way.>

"That's not—"

<Look. I just need your help. I need you to get me back in my body.>

Every alarm bell in Tony's head goes off. An AI looking for a physical form. An artificial consciousness too powerful, too intricate to be manmade. A chill runs up his spine. He hits the command to flush the system without responding.

The room goes dark and the music cuts out. Your hologram flickers from sight.

#

To Tony's dismay, the system flush doesn't keep you out for long. You come back whenever Tony purges you, faster each time, as if you're learning the passages through the security by heart. He tries new tactics: guard dog protocols and a firewall with shifting defenses (that accidentally blocks Netflix and sends an irritated Clint into Tony's lab). You're persistent.

You favor the hologram view now, making your presence felt more forcefully than you had before. Sometimes you plead with him, always coming back to the same topic, but mostly you sit on the periphery of the lab, monitoring him as he looks for new ways to eliminate your annoyance.

That's what you are: an annoyance. You don't do anything to outright jeopardize anything, but Tony feels the red herring. You can be a distraction. He knows you're capable of stealth—you managed to stay off his radar for weeks. You could be employing a similar tactic this time.

<Why won't you help me?>

Most of the time, Tony ignores you, focusing instead on his work. Today he can't. Your holographic form lounges across the bench where he works, shorts and a crop top giving a generous view of your tattoos and a set of shiny dermal piercings along your ribcage that he had definitely not noticed when he saw you at the hospital. He stands to get away from you.

<You're just going to pretend I'm not here?> You reappear in front of him as he crosses to the suit.

He stops short, unable to suppress the reflex to keep from walking through you. "You're not here. You're not anything. And I'm getting sick of looking at you." He sidesteps you to reach the suit.

You reappear at his side, leaning against the shoulder of the suit, suddenly clad in nothing but lingerie. <You don't like looking at me?> you ask. You make a big show of looking yourself over, doing a spin for him. Tony… well, he can't really lie that it's appealing. The screwdriver slips from his hand. Normally, this would be all kinds of up his alley. Tony loves the assertive power play. And the lingerie isn't bad either. But you are a hologram of a woman who is lying comatose a hundred miles away. You're just there to manipulate him.

"Not my type." He turns away, abandoning the suit in favor of his workbench.

<What if I look like this?> The voice changes and a knife slices through Tony's heart. He doesn't want to look—he really doesn't—because he knows what he'll see. But he can't stop himself, so he turns. It's Pepper. Down to the last detail. From the tips of her stiletto heels to the hem of her perfectly pressed dress to the quirk of her lips to the stray wisp of hair that never stays in her ponytail. <You'd help me. Right, Tony?>

He swallows. "You're not real." The walls are suddenly much closer than they'd been before. There isn't enough air. Even if he goes, you'll follow him. You'll be waiting for him in his room or the kitchen, always there. It won't do any good, but he rises to leave anyway.

Blaire stands in the door to the lab, her hand raised to knock, a look of shock frozen on her face. Tony freezes too. Shit. She lowers her hand, eyes narrowing into discerning slits. [did I interrupt?] she signs.

Tony glares at your hologram. "Go away."

<Of course.> The Pepper Imposter smiles, hands on her waist. <Whatever you need, Mr. Stark.> You flicker out of view.

You little shit.

[you okay?] Blaire signs. [S-T-E-V-E is worried]

"Yeah, well, tell your boyfriend I'm fine."

[we haven't seen you in a while] Blaire comes further into the lab where normally she would stand on the edges. She isn't comfortable around Tony, never has been. It's not unusual for Tony to go for a few days without seeing anyone. It must have gotten really bad if Blaire noticed.

"Been busy."

Blaire hesitates, tucking some of her hair behind her ear. [did you make]—her fingers fidget over one another, a nervous tick as unconscious as a stutter—[girlfriend?]

Oh, fuck. Of course that's what it looked like. "No." The word comes out a little too fast, a little too sharp.

[S-T-E-V-E told me about P-E-P-P-E-R]

Oh man, Tony does not want to talk about this with Blaire. He can't handle the sympathetic look that crosses her face. It's… hell, it's a little like the look that Cap gives him sometimes. Maybe Rogers has been giving Blaire lessons on how to make Tony feel pathetic. "I'm fine."

[You broke your lab]

Boy, Blaire is chatty today. "It's none of your business," Tony snaps, then thinks better of it. He'll get an earful from Cap if he upsets his girlfriend. "FRIDAY has a bug. It's taking a while to work out."

[that why N-E-T-F-L-I-X broke?]

Tony rolls his eyes. These people. The security of their system is at stake and all they worry about is whether they can stream the new season of Kimmy Schmidt (apparently, Steve's new favorite). No, that's not fair. Tony hasn't told any of them about the breach. Mostly because if they knew…

"Did you have something you wanted?" he asks.

Her eyebrows pull together and, just like every time, Tony gets the feeling that she's looking through him. [S-A-M ordered pizza]

"Yeah, I'll be right there." It isn't a perfect solution, but at least the company will provide him with a much needed respite from you.

#

You wait until Tony is alone, which isn't until much later that night in his bedroom. Your hologram wears a tank top and pajama shorts, clothes you actually did wear when you were alive. Not that you're not alive, just that—things are confusing now. It's stupid, there's no reason for you to change the hologram's appearance, but you do, altering the clothing to suit the situation or your mood. It makes you feel… human. And when your brain pattern could be flattened down to a series of ones and zeros, that seems important.

<How was the pizza?> You try for light and breezy, an attempt to reclaim the good humor that you think will be most persuasive.

"Go away, Cheshire."

<I miss pizza.> you continue, flopping the hologram gracelessly onto the bed. <Were there anchovies? What about pineapple? Have you ever had them—>

"Stop it!" he snaps, throwing his phone at you. It soars through the hologram and shatters against the headboard behind. "Stop. You don't have favorite pizza toppings. You don't wear pajamas. You don't eat or sleep or breathe. Stop asking me to put you in that woman's body. I won't do it."

This wasn't the reaction that you expected. Apparently, the Pepper Potts gambit had been a bigger misfire than you thought. Far from gaining his sympathy, you've pushed him back completely in the opposite direction. You pause, only a few seconds to give Tony some space, but the waiting feels like eternity. This is your fate that he holds in his hands. <What can I do to convince you that I'm telling the truth?> This is the most important part, the part that you hadn't realized would be difficult: making Tony Stark believe you. <I'm a person, Tony. I had a life.>

"No, you—"

<I lived with my grandmother after I turned twelve.> You hadn't thought you could feel things, but apparently desperation isn't a feeling. It pulses through you, even without adrenaline to push it along, a demanding alarm in the back of your mind. <The first time I held hands was in fourth grade. Chris Chester. Behind the cafeteria trashcans.>

"That's not—"

<In middle school, I made out with my best friend's boyfriend when we played Spin the Bottle and she never spoke to me again.> Your voice through the speakers speeds up as you try to get all the words out before he flushes you from the system like he always does. <My first tattoo! It was a butterfly. I got it on my sixteenth birthday using a fake ID I bought with money I stole out of the cheer captain's locker.> Tony turns away to leave, but you place your image in front of him again. He stops short, as he always does, as if you were really there and, for a second, you have hope. <How could I make this up?> You ask, slowing your speech to normal. <What would be the point? I'm not a great person, Tony, but I am a person. You're the only one that can—>

"I can't!" he snaps. "Why don't you understand that? I can't help you because you're not real."

The pause this time is not intentional. Your mind whirs over itself, searching for anything that could persuade him. An eternity stretches in front of you, not quite existing, but not dead either. <What am I supposed to do?>

"I don't care."

#

Missions are a distraction. You've been quiet since Tony told you off, but that doesn't mean that you're gone. Until Tony figures out what you are and what you're really after, he can't waste time on stupid things like fascist dictators. Not when it means leaving you with unattended access to his equipment.

<Tony,> Rhodey warns over the com, <You have hostiles coming in hot.>

Hostiles. Real, live hostiles. The kind that shoot missiles and blow things up. Not the kind that send flirty text messages when Tony's in debriefings or who turn on the coffee maker whenever he needs a break. Not the kind with pleading, wide eyes.

A missile explodes next to him and he dodges just in time. Shit. It's lucky you haven't invaded the armor or Tony would be in real trouble. Just the memory of you is distracting enough without having to deal with you now. Whispering in his ear. Teasing, laughing. Hell, if it were actually you—not that Tony has a type, but you'd fit the bill anyway—that would be a different sort of distraction. But it's not. It's an approximation, at best. An illusion conjured to torture him with his own failures.

Tony whirls in the sky, avoiding two more missiles and crashing one of them into an enemy drone. The firework of pride is quickly shut down when he sees three more.

It's not like there is anything that he can do to help you anyway. Even if you are telling the truth, which—no, you can't be.

Tony zig zags between the incoming drones, barely skimming by, but crashing them into each other in the process.

How would he even get you into your body? It's not like there's a USB adaptor in your occipital lobe.

FRIDAY warns Tony of another attack coming from below. He rockets up and his pursuer chases him higher into the sky until Tony drops flares on it and sends it into a death spiral.

A single point of entry wouldn't work anyway. Brain activity is spread over the cerebral cortex; there isn't a clearly marked entrance and exit.

Tony blasts through a cloud to return to Rhodey's position. War Machine has three incoming hostiles, two hidden by a cloudbank. Tony targets the first one.

And even if there were a way to make the connection… there would be no guarantee that you would be compatible with—Why is he thinking about this? He isn't going to do it. There's nothing to do. He made up his mind. He'll figure out how to get rid of you for good and then he'll—

<Shit, Tony—> Rhodey's com cuts out. The second hostile had avoided crashing into the first, doubling the explosion. The shock rocks the sky and blows Tony backwards. He struggles to regain his orientation, firing his repulsors in an attempt to right himself in a world gone topsy-turvy

"Eyes on War Machine?" he demands of FRIDAY.

<Lieutenant Rhodes has lost consciousness.>

"Initiate emergency procedures."

<Emergency procedures offline.>

Tony lets out a colorful string of curses. "Where is he?" He catches sight of Rhodey tumbling to the ground in an uncontrolled spiral. Too far for Tony to reach him. He tries anyway, rocketing toward the earth at a speed that's too high for him to pull out safely, much less with Rhodey's added weight. He needs to override the systems on the War Machine suit, but he doesn't have time—he isn't fast enough to—shit. He isn't that fast. You on the other hand…

He opens all the channels leading to the home system, ones that he kept firmly shut until now. Desperate times. "Cheshire!" he yells, still rocketing toward the ground.

Your telltale flicker flashes across the display on his helmet. <Already here.>

"Rhodey!"

<On it.>

Tony doesn't slow his flight, not trusting that you'll reach him in time. The repulsors on Rhodey's suit fire, at first randomly, then with more purpose. His fall slows, but not enough. Tony continues his headlong flight toward the ground.

<Tony, pull up. You won't have time.> you warn.

"Not until he's safe."

<Tony—>

"Not until he's safe."

You swear eloquently in his earpiece. War Machine's repulsors fire more urgently, finally catching the necessary angle to right him seconds before he would have crashed into the ground. He lands rough, but in relative safety. Tony pulls out of his descent in time to make his own not so graceful landing.

"Is he—?"

<He's good. He's fine.> You sound relieved, though you can't possibly be.

Tony checks for himself, releasing Rhodey from the armor. Rhodey's chest rises and falls with each breath. Tony slumps back, suddenly too heavy to hold himself up. "I need medical evac now," he says into the com to no one in particular, then lays back on the ground.

#

Bars have terrible security cameras. In fact, most everywhere has terrible security cameras. That is something that you've learned from your time trapped on the net. And since cameras are often your only window into the outside world, they're extremely important. The Avengers' compound is a blessed exception. There are cameras everywhere there—high quality with microphone equipment. You know everything that goes on in the Avengers' compound.

Which makes the fact that Tony has gone to an outside bar all the more frustrating. You only find him because he starts popping up on Instagram. God bless social media. People all over the world are constantly uploading surveillance data. It's the perfect crowd sourced way to stalk someone. But while it's great to help you find Tony, it's not so awesome at helping you keep track of how many drinks he's had. You're guessing that it's… a lot.

Tony tried to keep you out of the Ironman suit. And he was successful for a while. But there isn't a security system you can't find a hole in. It's not his fault. You see things differently. It's like a colorblind person trying to match an outfit. His electronic guard dogs are easily distracted. His walls have holes he doesn't even know about. Breaking into the suit was only a matter of time. But you didn't mess with it. Tony saves the world in that thing; it's not a toy.

So, when he opened it up, actually invited you in… that was… well, wow. You'd feel flattered, if you were capable of feeling anything. He doesn't trust you, per se. But you're in a weird middle ground of not-quite-friends. If you never really look at it, it can be both hostile and affectionate. Schrodinger's friendship.

You watch Tony put away two more glasses of whiskey in the background of a bachelorette party's Twitter video. Tony Stark can handle his liquor, that's not a question. The man could drink a distillery under the table. It's why he's drinking that bothers you. You saved Rhodey. He's battered, but he'll be okay. Yet Tony is taking the injury to heart.

And maybe it's somewhat your fault too. You've run him ragged trying to pester him into submission. He's sleep deprived, desperate, and (you're pretty sure) touch starved. He would have been more on the ball if it weren't for you.

When he stands, he sways.

You follow the lightning connections through the satellite feeds that form a web of phones, zipping between lines, stretched into infinity and back, and land in Tony's pocket. You like Tony's phone. It's posh. All the connections are smooth and clean. The tech responds to even your lightest touches. Some hardware is like swimming through a bog.

You monitor the passing connections through the Bluetooth array, keeping a light touch on where you are by pinging your anchor points in the Wi-Fi ether. Tony should have called a cab from the bar. It'll be easier than finding one on the street. Especially the way he's going.

You feel the familiar tingle of the Lotus, Tony's favorite car. Its system purrs to life, lighting up a new section of the grid and welcoming you back with open arms. Tony gets in the car.

That fucking idiot.

You race into the Lotus, spreading yourself across the speaker system. <You cannot drive home like this.>

"Go 'way, Chesh," he slurs. He misses the shift a few times as he tries to put the car in gear.

<You're drunk. Let me call you a cab.>

"I'm fine."

You activate the flashers and all the lights on the dash. <Tony. This is not safe.>

"Get out of my car!"

The trap comes out of nowhere, like vines tangling around you. Each time you cut through one, three more spring up. When the hell did Tony have time to make this? You're too busy trying to disentangle yourself from Tony's trap that you can't stop the car. He's driving. He's fucking drunk and he's driving.

You reestablish your connection to the speakers, but it's shaky, cutting out whenever the trap renews its assault. <Tony—stop— fuck—car—asshole>

You can feel the car zoom through traffic, going too fast, not staying in the lines. It's equipped with sensors for this exact purpose. It could practically drive itself and this asshole is—

Or… you could drive it.

You collect yourself, concentrating into the smallest form possible. The trap swarms you, trying to engulf you. You wait until it almost does, then explode outward. You shred the program and half of the Lotus's nonessential electrical fixtures. The speakers go out with a bang. Well, it's not like Tony was listening to you anyway.

You find the car's central control. God bless power brakes. You slam on them. Car horns blare through the Lotus's microphones. More importantly, there's the wumph of Tony's head hitting the steering wheel. Serves him right. You hope it breaks his nose.

You wait, letting the purr of the Lotus' system sooth you. No drunken cursing comes from the cab. No new traps spring. Good. It takes some practice to get a hold of the car's steering and engine—the mix of hardware and software tripping you up—but you find them and coax the car forward toward home.

Tag List:

@abovethesmokestacks @winterboobaerchen @netflixa @ganesh4679

If you would like to be added to (or removed from) the tag list, please let me know. 

[smartgirlsaremean]

The Wedding Planner - Chapter 6

Fandom: OUAT

Pairing: Rumbelle, Swanfire, Gold family

Rating: T

Summary: Wedding planner Alan Gold doesn't have much faith in romance, and little to none in marriage. A chance encounter with sweet librarian Belle French has him almost reconsidering his beliefs until he receives a nasty shock: she's the bride in the most important wedding of his career.

AO3

Chapter 6: Belle has her measurements taken, Gold has a heart-to-heart with his family, and the bride and groom finally choose a wedding venue.

Thursday had been a day blessedly free of anything to do with weddings, and on Friday Gold entered the small office space Esther allowed him for design and fittings with a lighter heart than he’d had in several days. It had become increasingly obvious that in order to have everything prepared in time for the Lefleur-French wedding he would need to avoid taking other accounts, but Esther was in no position to complain. The Lefleurs were inviting half the fashionable world to their son’s wedding, and Fairy Tale Weddings would be a household name. Of course, with any luck, so would Gold, if Belle’s gown turned out as beautifully as he imagined it.

There was a knock on the door, and Gold looked up to see that Belle had arrived, clutching a small tote bag and looking nervous.

“Come in,” he said.

She smiled briefly and stepped in, her eyes sweeping around the room and over the swatches of fabric, the dress forms, the framed pictures on one wall, the large three-way mirror against another, and the small privacy screen. “It’s cozy in here,” she said.

“It’s small, is what you mean,” Gold snorted. “I hope to have a larger space one day.”

Belle seemed to relax a little more and approached the photographs, her eyes widening when she realized that they were photographs of his designs, and she scrutinized each one. “These are all so beautiful,” she sighed. “I had no idea some of them were yours - there are gowns here from almost twenty years ago!”

“I told you I’ve been in this business a long time.”

“Did you always want to be a wedding planner?”

“Not exactly, but it’s work I do well.” She gazed at him curiously, and to ward off further questions he gestured to the selection of fabrics he’d laid out. “We discussed satin for the skirt, and satin with a lace overlay for the bodice, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. I have a basic idea of where we’re starting from, but I can’t make any progress until I’ve properly measured you.”

“Oh.” Belle glanced at the bag she was still clutching. “I was supposed to bring what I would wear under the dress, right?”

“Correct.” He motioned to the screen and she ducked behind it. He heard her rustle in her bag for a while and had just uttered up a prayer that she would not need to be laced into a corset when she emerged from behind the screen and stole the breath from his lungs, the words from his tongue, and most of the thoughts from his brain.

A corset would have been preferable, because then at least more of her silken skin would have been hidden from view. In her white demi-cup bra and white lace French-cut panties, she looked like a bridal fantasy come to life, and he really needed to look away before he thoroughly embarrassed himself. Don’t be such an idiot, he berated himself as he pretended to search for his tape measure. You’ve seen hundreds of pretty women in their underwear. He picked up the tape measure and pinched the skin between his thumb and forefinger hard. The pain helped him to focus, and he turned to face her again.

“Should I, uh, by the mirror?” she asked.

“No,” he said. Dear God, the last thing he needed was to be faced with more of her. “You’re fine where you are.” He stepped up to her. “Hold your arms out from your sides.” He passed the tape measure around her bust. “Down,” he muttered.

He told himself that he was measuring a dress form. Bust, waist, hips. He worked methodically, woodenly, trying not to notice that her skin was pinker now than it had been when he started, or that her chest was rising and falling a little too quickly for someone who was standing still. It was almost impossible to ignore the fluttering of the pulse in her throat when he placed the measure near the base of her neck and drew it over her bust and down, and when he took the measure of her back, from the base of her neck to her waist, he told himself that the gooseflesh on her arms must be from the cold.

He was sweltering in his suit, but that was neither here nor there.

At long, long last he took the final measure and jotted it down, and she hurried back behind the screen. Taking a long, deep breath, Gold set the tape measure away and leaned heavily against his drafting board. The worst was over, at least. He would not need to be quite so close to her again, and certainly time and exposure would lessen the...intensity of his attraction to her.

“So…” Belle emerged from the screen, fully clothed once more, but her face was still slightly flushed and she wasn’t quite meeting his eyes. “When should I come in next?”

“Monday.”

“Monday? That soon?”

“The wedding is in less than two months, dearie. The sooner the gown is complete, the better.”

“Right. Okay. Monday it is.” She smiled, her gaze still focused somewhere near his left ear. “Until then, Mr. Gold.”

She rushed out of the studio as if she were being pursued by wild dogs. Gold understood the feeling.

“You look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Thank you, son.” Gold lifted the wooden spoon out of the thick red sauce to check the flavor.

“This wedding must be a doozy. Jeff said it would be tough.”

The spoon froze halfway to his mouth. “Oh? What exactly did Jeff say?” If the idiot had been blabbing about his deal with Blue...

“Y’know, short time-frame, high profile, custom dress, difficult bride.”

Gold’s shoulders slumped a little in relief, then tensed again. “Difficult? Belle - Miss French is not a difficult bride.”

Neal raised his eyebrows. “Really? Jeff said working with her would be challenging.”

“Difficult and challenging are not the same thing.”

“Uh...pretty sure they are, actually.” Neal leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “What’s with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.”

“I’m just...tired of this, I suppose,” Gold said. “All of it. Schmoozing clients, mouthing platitudes, managing everything from the vows to the confetti on the tables.”

“So quit. You have enough money saved up. Open that dress shop I know you’re always thinking about.”

“I can’t just yet.”

“Why, because of this wedding?” Neal shrugged. “Give it to Jeff, he’ll do fine.”

“They want me, sought me out. We struck a deal, the contract’s been signed.”

“So alter it.”

“Neal…”

“Stop bullshitting me, Papa.” His boy’s voice had gone hard. “What’s really going on? Why did you even take this account if you’re sick of everything? Why don’t you just  leave ?”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? Or you won’t?”

“He can’t.”

Both men turned to look at Emma, who had entered the kitchen without them knowing it.

“What do you mean?”

Emma shook her head and looked sympathetically at Gold. “If you’re ever going to tell him, now’s the time.”

“How do you know?” Gold asked incredulously.

She shook her head. “I didn’t know for sure until recently, but you had to know I’d figure it out. Finding people, learning their secrets...it’s what I do.”

“Secrets? Papa, what is she talking about?”

With a sigh Gold turned off the flame under the sauce and set a lid on the pot. This conversation might take a while. “When we came to this country, your mother was the one with the work visa, and my visa was attached to hers.”

“Yeah, I know.” Neal scratched the back of his neck. “She worked for that shipping company. But you had a job too, right? You worked for that tailor. Mr. Zotto.”

“Yes, but…”

“It wasn’t legal for him to work, Neal,” Emma said gently. “That’s changed in the last few years, but back then…”

“Oh.” Neal shrank into himself a little. He walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer. “Something tells me I’m gonna need this.”

“Mr. Zotto was helpful, but...his help came with a price, and before long I was deeply in his debt. He said he’d help me get a green card, and then I could begin working to pay off the debt, but he put it off and put it off, and then...well. The accident happened.”

“Your leg?”

“I couldn’t work for months, and your mother...well, we’d been rocky for a very long time. She filed for divorce, and since my visa was attached to hers…”

“You’re not...you’re not still here illegally?” Neal took a step back, panic flickering in his eyes.

“No, no,” Gold said hastily. “No, everything’s legal now, but back then...It’s just that...well, Mr. Zotto was getting impatient with me. I couldn’t work as quickly or as well, I had you to care for as Milah hadn’t even tried for custody…one day a woman came into the shop. She’d had a dress altered a few weeks before and she came back, claimed it was the most exquisite work she’d ever seen. She ran a wedding planning agency and was looking for someone to tailor gowns in-house.”

“Blue,” Neal said. “But if you were in debt to Zotto...”

“She bought me, more or less. Paid off the debt. Got me an attorney, filed for green cards for the pair of us. I’ve been working off that debt to her for years.”

“But Fairy Tale Weddings didn’t even take off until after you went there. How could she afford something like that?”

“Because Pops isn’t her only deal,” Emma said. “It’s kind of a side business with her. She’s...well, a loan shark, for lack of a better term. She doesn’t usually employ her debtors, I guess you were special.”

“So wait, you knew all this?” Neal turned on his wife, his voice sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Are you kidding? Did that sound like my story to tell?”

“He’s been working his ass off for twenty years because some shady bitch has him by the balls and you didn’t think I deserved to know?”

“I didn’t know for sure until about a week ago,” Emma snapped, “and anyway what are you gonna do about it?”

“Can’t we...I don’t know...go to the police or…”

“Neal, I’m a bail bonds-person, not a detective. I have no evidence. At least, none obtained legally and definitely nothing that would hold up in court. Half of it was guesswork until your dad just laid it all out for us.”

“Okay, so what’s the deal with this wedding, then?” Neal asked.

“It’s the last, Neal. We agreed. After this wedding, I’ll be done with Esther Blue and Fairy Tale Weddings.”

“Right. Good, that’s...that’s good.” Neal looked calmer despite the glistening of his eyes. “I’m still pissed at both of you, though.”

“I’m sorry,” Gold sighed. “I should have told you long ago, but...well, I was a coward. I didn’t want you to know that I’d been so foolish.”

“You weren’t a coward,” Emma said. “You were young and scared and all alone, and...I mean, sure, you made some bad choices, but you really only had a few options and they all sucked.”

“So...I get why you can’t quit the account,” Neal said. “But if you’re not dealing with a bridezilla, why did Jeff say this wedding was gonna be challenging?”

“Because Jefferson is a histrionic madman.”

“I’m not an idiot. I know what Jeff’s like when he’s being weird. He was serious, and he’s never serious. Why is this wedding gonna be harder than any of the others? Why do you look dead on your feet after one week of planning?”

“I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“Papa…”

“Let it go, Neal,” Emma said softly. “He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”

Neal shook his head and stalked out of the room, swigging his beer.

“Thank you, Emma,” Gold sighed.

She squinted at him. “How did that date go? The one from a week ago?”

He dropped the wooden spoon, splattering the stove-top with red sauce. “Fine,” he stammered.

“I ask because you never mentioned the girl again. Neither did Jeff, and he was practically singing he was so excited.”

“It didn’t work out.”

Emma crossed her arms. “I told Neal to let it go, so I will too. But I know there’s something you’re not telling us, about the girl and about this wedding, and I’d bet a million bucks they’re related somehow.” She stepped a little closer and leaned in. “I know it’s hard for you to get this, but you are not alone, Gold, and Neal is not a little boy anymore. Let him be there for you. He needs that.” She followed her husband out of the room.

Gold finished making dinner in pensive silence, and was relieved when he carried the pasta into the dining room and found peace more or less restored. Neal still looked a little sulky, but Emma was teasing him gently and Henry’s cheerful grin was infectious. As the evening wore on, Gold considered Emma’s words about Neal needing to offer support and uneasily shrugged them aside. If there were an actual problem, perhaps he would confide in Neal, but for now...for now there was nothing wrong. Not really.

“What do you think, Goldie? Uh, Goldie?”

Gold started a little and looked about him. The park was large and airy, a fountain playing in the middle with Roman-styled architecture nearby. It would be a lovely background for the ceremony, and was at least preferable to the vineyard.

“The park is an excellent location,” he said. “The two of you would be the first, as no one has been married here before. It’s certainly large enough for your purposes, though we would have to construct the site from scratch.”

“Dad would love it,” Gaston said.

“And the bride and groom?” Gold asked, turning to face them. “Do they love it as well?”

Belle and Gaston turned to look at each other and after a few seconds they spoke at once.

Let’s keep looking.” “Let’s take it!”

Belle looked incredulous and Gaston surprised.

“You like it?” “You don’t like it?”

“I’ll give you a minute to talk.” Gold limped a few feet away. He could probably still hear their conversation over the rush of the fountain if he tried, but he did not want to impose on their privacy.

“You’re the best, Izzy,” Gaston said loudly, and Gold grimaced as he turned to face them again. “You see why I’m marrying this woman, Gold? She’s the best, isn’t she?”

Gold smiled faintly.

“You guys are gonna do a great job on the wedding while I’m gone.”

“Gone?” Belle said. “Gone where?”

“I have to go to Tokyo for three weeks, remember? That merger Dad set up?”

“I thought…”

“Since I’m going to take over so many of the accounts next year Dad wants me to be the face of the company more often.” He gave her a smacking kiss on the forehead. “You’ll do great without me, and Gold won’t steer you wrong, right, Goldie?”

“Ah…of course not.”

“See? It’ll be fine.” Gaston slung his arm around Belle’s shoulders. “When are you going in for your next fitting?”

“Monday.”

“Cool.” He turned to Gold. “I leave tomorrow, so I won’t see you again until I get back. Have fun!”

The two of them walked away and Gold took another deep breath. Seven weeks, he thought grimly.