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soyouareandrewdobson · 3 years

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…the ugly. SYAC: The Master Review 4

Last post I covered much of what I consider the good or passable strips of SYAC of the pre-Dobbear era. What I have admittedly not covered yet, were three certain characters of the strip that exist beside Dobson.

Persistent Pam

Curmudgeonly Carl

And… this guy I am not even sure has a name.

No, seriously. He shows up in like the 61th strip of the series for the first time and yet I never see his name mentioned once

All I know is that he is an accountant, who pities Dobson (for good reason)

And despite Dobson not liking alcohol, they regularly meet up in a bar as if they are some late 80s comedy duo

Funnily enough, he shows up way before Pam, who would have her premiere in these strips

And despite only showing up in a few strips after her premiere (mostly to make “fun” of overbearing and snarky commissioners I suppose…)

She actually managed something no other character or series by Dobson managed to get: A fanclub

Not that she would really be of any major importance afterwards.

As for Carl, he is supposed to be something like an antagonistic embodiment of Dobson’s “old” art teachers and people being stuck in old ways, who shows up for the following strips forming a sort of arc.

In addition, it is very obvious, that Carl is supposed to be a mockery of people flaming Dobson. Not helped by the fact that THIS character sheet of him made by Dobson assures us, that there were quite a few even less “endorsing” things he wanted to name the character.

Yet funnily enough, Carl turned into such a popular character with readers, Dobson was essentially “forced” to make him reappear in other strips. Not of the “classical” SYAC strips, but he showed up as the “antagonist” to Tenku in the storydriven multi pagers. Though even antagonist is a strong word, as he is essentially more of a jerkish art teacher and college advisor who is harsh on Tenku, but actually has his best interests in mind. To the point he even offers him to be his “harsher” art critic in the years till he enters college, because he wants to see him grow artistically.

However, Carl was also more of an “accident”. Cause when it came otherwise to tackling criticism or things that irked Dobson (and were not anime related) he would end up more or less creating strips that painted him in a manner where he would supposedly always look like “the better” compared to his opposition or mock it. Which is where a lot of the irk Dobson would earn over the years eventually comes from.

Now to be fair, I do not want to call every comic in that regard “strawmanning”, nor do I want to say that Dobson doesn’t have the right to also mock to a certain extend the mentality of certain “snobs” and so on. For example…

On one hand, I know there are people out there who think they are “special” by having the best tools at their disposal. When in reality you can achieve good results also with less expensive stuff. So mocking that sort of attitude is fine to me to some extend

BUT, when you also make down the line a comic like this…

… essentially making yourself come off as a “better” artist or person than others because you have “chosen” the better mass produced crap (btw, that is coming from someone who types this review on a Mac that runs Windows) , then the hypocrisy ends up to be rather strong with you.

Which is also essentially the biggest issue with the strips I am about to show. The hypocrisy of Andrew Dobson. And no, I do not mean the tumblr blog by that. I mean the simple fact, that the content of some of the soon to follow strips gets kinda muddled when you take into consideration some of the things real life Dobson had said and done either at the time or in the years to come. Well that and the way how he tries to mock issues people have with his work, not realizing how he is essentially just reassuring those “silly critics” in their opinions while making his flaws more obvious to people that may have been previously unaware of them.

But enough talk, let me just show you in quick succession examples to confirm said point.

Considering Dobson’s longterm disdain for DnD you have to wonder what the joke really is outside of him portraying DnD players as ugly nerds, supposedly too geeky even for him. Which is hilarious in hindsight as he would years later become a fan of TAZ among other things.

Less hypocritical but the set up is kinda flawed. Like, you are obviously at a convention trying to sell stuff. Why would some old dude not interested in “kids crap” be at the convention anyway? Is he just bringing someone there and just wants to go, but first needs time to belittle your life choices?

Rather hilarious in hindsight to me. Cause for someone claiming he has ideas that last for a life time and who seems rather distraught on the idea of others giving their input, he turned out to be so in need of ideas. Alex ze Pirate e.g. became from 2015 onward only defined by Dobson talking about the sexualities of his characters (and not even in comic as by that point it was discontinued, but rather in tweets and so on). Formera, which ran heavily on cheap shonen anime tropes ended up cancelled after two volumes, Cabin Rest was a failure after 20 strips, 2019 he relied primarily on cheap comics about Miraculous Ladybug and his understanding of certain genres is so bad, he can’t even think up the most basic ideas for a magical girl story.

Weirdly enough, that pitch of a garbage truck driver who fights crime? I think that could make for an enjoyable short story about a vigilante a la the Punisher or Sin-City.

The way Dobson perceives criticism, while also essentially giving a quick rundown how he appreciated criticism in his childhood way better than in adulthood. Yeah, because criticism by your parents as a kid was always VERY constructive. (looks back at certain drawings from own childhood) brrr. And sorry Dobson, but sometimes criticism by strangers is better than criticism from friends. Cause friends may mince their words. Plus people have over time given you quite some insightful criticism aside “U SUX” when it comes to comics. You were just never willing to listen

Hey Dobson, you hear that? That is the sound of your career, dying and no one caring.

Yeah, I think someone who made such “brilliant” comedy as in these comics, totally has the right not to listen to what seems to be solid theoretical advice.

BTW, that Talus comic… I swear to god the worst “joke” Dobson ever told.

Wow. You essentially make a point why you suck at drawing. While still not trying to change.

And as someone else once said: Don’t play with fire if you can’t deal with the heat, BLOCK-son!

This is not how I perceived your shit over the years. See, on one hand it is true that Alex ze Pirate e.g. has its own webpage to read the comic for free. HOWEVER most of his comics Dobson would hide from the start behind a paywall. The idea being that he would e.g. put a small reading sample of 10-15 pages up somewhere and then expect people to buy his comic for full price to get the rest. And you know, if you are e.g. a professionally published writer, that is fine. But when your average art output looks like THIS

And you expect people to pay more than 10 dollars for something that is only around 70 pages long while most people can get 200+ pages for the same amount of money that look like this…

You can frankly go and screw yourself.

On one hand I get that the joke is meant to be, that as an independent content creator you may find yourself in a weird spot where your “child friendly” work may be put in a palace between edgier stuff other creators sell at conventions. On the other hand, I find it rather insulting in hindsight, that self declared feminist Andrew Dobson portrays such competition as either psychopathic murderers or stereotypical cartoon bimbos. If modern day Dobson saw the same strip by any other person, he would be insulted on behalf of the female that she is portrayed as a bimbo, when she could also be a very smart and attractive woman who knows how to tell brave and sexy stories.

Also, I have read your “child friendly” stuff, Dobson. I would call Atea or Alex abusive bitches who like to bully orphans but child friendly? Not to forget that your work is so basic and shallow in depth, it’s like the someone tried to create a chimera out of some of the worst traits associated with Dora the Explorer, 80s toodler cartoons and the Fairly Oddparents.

I frankly hate this theory on comedy. It is true, a lot of comedy can be deprived from conflict, misunderstandings etc. Looney Tunes, Tom and Jerry and other cartoons as well as screwball comedies such as Rat Race can depend on it. Heck, one of my favorite comedians of all time is Christopher Titus, who based his entire career on the misery and absurdity of his life.

But comedy is not just defined by misery and conflict.

There are for example also the following theories when it comes to comedy…

And to get back e.g. to Titus, yes, he has build a lot of his comedy on the bad stuff that happened in his life. But he is also someone who in his comedy has build a lot of punchlines on the absurdity of certain situations he has been in life but which in a way have enriched his life positively.

What I am trying to say is, comedy (and entertainment in that regard) does not just have to be defined by misery. And all things considered Dobson, you could have really tried to also just make comics wherein either you or your characters are just happy with their situation in life.

For example, this page from an Owl House fancomic?

I think it holds more entertainment value than your “joke” right here, despite not even telling a joke.

Simply because as a page overall, it tries to convey a positive emotion. Which is more than I can say about the strip.

Because of a lack of different level of thickness regarding your lines, which would trick people into perceiving depth, the fact that the fill bucket and shade layers can only do so much to cover for the rather monochromatic dull nature of your comic, the fact that your characters are not really all that complex and look rather simplicstic even compared to stuff from a comic like this…

And that is just coming from the top of my head as someone who never studied art. If any reader has something to add, I am willing to listen

And considering you could in later years never keep up to any release schedule, which among other things resulted in only three SYAC strips in total being released in 2016, I say go fuck yourself. Not to forget that even some of the worst newspaper comic strips out there tend to actually find a decent following and good jokes eventually, otherwise they would not manage to stay popular for years, if not even decades.

As someone who has worked internships a lot in life, I just want to say fuck you in all our names. Glad to see you having just as much respect for interns than any other scumbag on the planet. Probably even less respect, cause you know, in some places interns tend to get paid.

Also, there is supposedly an entire real world story going on about Dobson having worked at his former university at the time the comic came out and Chaz is based on a fellow intern.

Things are unfortunately rather vague in that regard and only hold up by demonstrative evidence such as the name of Chaz showing up in certain pages of the university and Dobson’s internship being mentioned somewhere.

Well, would you look at that: People have different opinions on your stuff.

There are ways to draw memes funny and then there are ways to fail at them

You failed.

Funnily enough, that comic rings a lot truer to text than you expect. Considering how Dobson would often emulate certain aesthetics in his comics of shows that were rather passee by the time he published his stuff, plus how he will obsess over certain trends and games for years to come (like Skyrim or his Quiet Hate Boner) while also being unaware about current trends (how do you e.g. not have heard of My Hero Academia by 2018 at least once by accident?) Dobson has always been kinda late to the party. Missing the “zeitgeist” of nerd culture and as such never quite finding an audience.

Yeah, what Pam says. Not helped by the fact that yes, the floating eyebrows are real. Look at some earlier sketches or “professionally published” comics by his and you will see that each time characters get excited, their eyebrows will suddenly split into sets of three and float higher than Pennywise’s victims.

Ironically, that fits real life Dobson at the time and later on even more so than this comic version did. Sorry, but what am I supposed to call a person who has an hate boner on anime for years for superfluous reasons, made Danny and Spot a “gaming webcomic” deliberately to piss on non Nintendo fans and has admitted in some by now deleted youtube video, that he kept a list of usernames from an old forum just to remember even years later the people that were mean to him online?

Fuck both of you. I do not expect the Sixtin Chapel in the background, but something to filll up the empty space behind you is at times needed.

The comic here is actually called politics. … ironic how things changed once a certain reality show host turned president.

Jesus Christ. I am not even that much of a Transformers fan (Prime fan for life however) but even I know that this is not supposed to be what you design the head of a Transformer like. Not even if they ever produce the Transformers equivalent of Teen Titans Go.

Too bad you still can’t stand the heat, otherwise you wouldn’t have completely disappeared last year.

When you know you are in a no win situation, and still manage to choose an even dumber option to escape. I really don’t get it. I just think the Portal reference makes the comic dated and Dobsn’s attempt at a smug face looks so stupid. Like his cheeks are falling in and his mouth is about ready to get raped by a garden hose or something.

Yeah, considering Dobson’s later constant need for safe spaces and to be in control of a situation and the narrative, which led to so many blocks over the years… if you know anything about Dobson, how this comic becomes harsher in hindsight is rather self explanatory. I just want to say one thing: There is a difference between genuine agoraphobia and just wanting to be by yourself. And I think Dobson just prefers the later on average. Which is okay, but humans still need to interact with other human beings in one form or another, even just for the sake of keeping their mental health stable. Why do you think are so many people getting depressed in times of covid lockdowns, despite many having all sorts of technical gimmicks at their disposal to at least keep boredom at bay?

And by putting himself into a bubble like that, I think Dobson has deprived himself of some of the most basic human interaction, which was likely a severe factor in his mental degeneration over the last years.

It is still a valid suggestion! Just draw some cartoon characters or a nice fantasy scenario on a mural and earn yourself some bucks. Just be sure they are not by Disney or the Mouse will tear down the school!

… Just google up the words Andrew Dobson and Samus Aran commission by ED and you will see how this comic just further shows how much Dobson seems to actually be proud of being an unproductive asshole.

And by the way, I know that any form of artistic work takes time. Just writing these review posts takes a lot of time for me. But that doesn’t change the fact that people should post and create stuff in a timely fashion, especially when there are e.g. deadlines to hold up too. And by the way, Sloth’s don’t have fingers, they have claws!

And that is it.

Sorry if I missed anything folks, but I just saw how many pages in word this is already filling up, so I call quits for this part here right now. I think I made my point about how Dobson trying to badly deflect arguments people may make against his art and work ethics via jokes clear enough, while also showing some posts that are either harsher or hilarious in hindsight.

Next time we will however address one certain issue about our main character, that has been not directly addressed here. In the meantime, have a little fun video that shows hopefully how entertainment and a certain amount of comedy can be gained NOT via misery.

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#adobsoncomic #Andrew Dobson #Tom Preston #comic #webcomics #syac #so...you are a cartoonist #review #master review

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baezdylan · 3 years

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LITTLE WOMEN FANFICTION

CHAPTER 2, PART 1: INVISIBLE STRING

Horizons and Sunsets

"Time, curious time, gave me no compasses, gave me no signs"

- invisible string, Taylor Swift

Concord, Massachusetts, 1868

Rays of sunshine playing on her skin. Soft grass under her fingers. Little specks of dirt scattered across her face. Leaves tangled up in her hair. It's not a common happening to be able to see yourself in such a way. A way that makes it seem like you are not you, but somebody else wearing somebody else's clothes, guarding somebody else's heart, owning somebody else's thoughts. Like you are only an observer, a background noise in your own life. These descriptions are usually used in unpleasant connotations, usually as metaphors, usually as another way of saying you feel transparent, forgotten and small. But in Jo's case, the phenomenon is not even a tiny bit metaphorical. Maybe it's the impact of the books. Maybe it's her imagination. Maybe it's just her. Whatever it is, Jo has always been able to see her life as a theatre piece, herself an audience member, her past self, no matter how far back she might travel to reach a certain memory, a performer. And Jo craves those moments of remembrance. She craves the feeling of transparency. She craves to exist less.

Everything she remembers, she remembers in flashes. Her memories do not understand concepts such as "chronology" or "order". Her brain resembles an unsolved puzzle. Every piece of information she has makes sense. But when to be put together with another aspect of her being, it does not fit. Nothing about her ever seems to fit. And now, she doesn't fit within herself.

No, Jo March is not a puzzle. Puzzle, no matter how difficult and complex, can be put together.

She's a living breathing contradiction.

What else to describe the utter ridiculousness of her mind? She is not happy and she is not sad. One second she is completely content with her life, the other, she is not. She wants to receive love, love and love, but she is afraid to offer it.

When Josephine March loves someone, she does not tell them. She does show, but never tells. She never uses the famous simple phrase. Never not once.

Her best friend burns for the people he loves. Jo burns for them in secret.

And here, as she is seeing herself splattered in sunlight, Jo March is preoccupied with three actions of extraordinary importance.

One is chasing ghosts.

Other is rearranging thoughts,

Final is accepting sunsets.

***

Paris, France, 1868

Theodore (yes, he is "Theodore" now) is not exactly sure where he is or how did he get there. His vision is blurry and his body feels heavier than usual. What is fascinating about his situation is the fact that consuming certain "substances", (and substances being of alcoholic nature), were supposed to prevail him from feeling like this. From feeling the way he's been feeling his entire life. Like everything around him was frozen and he was the only one moving. He was just too fast, too warm, too different. Enormous in emotion, reckless in thought. All of this often led to conclusions too horrific to comprehend, so he tried to avoid thinking.

The thought of having too many emotions might be terrifying. But the thought of having too much love for everything and everyone but himself was rather paralyzing. It was ridiculous to expect anybody to feel with as much passion as he did. It was ridiculous to demand such a thing from people. Why would anyone put all of their energy into someone else when there were so many things to be done in the world? But those other things rarely sparked an interest in him. Adventures, boarding schools, trips and experiences seemed irrelevant and hollow unless they were intended to be shared. It's funny how he always craved the one thing he never had. And when he finally got a glance of the love he so desperately wanted, he lost it because of his stupid absurd annoying emotions.

When Theodore Laurence loves someone he does not tell them. He screams it until his lungs are on fire.

His best friend loves with her whole entire heart. He loves with his whole entire being.

And now, vision blurry and body heavy, Theodore Laurence finds himself preoccupied with three actions of extraordinary importance.

One is chasing ghosts.

Other is rearranging thoughts,

Final is accepting sunsets.

***

Concord, Massachusetts, 1862

Step one: chasing ghosts

Sand beneath her bare feet. Water. Silent whispers of the sea. Birds. Colors. Nothing. Everything. Oh, to be crafted in such a way to believe you shall always be sixteen and silly and reckless and real. That is how Jo feels right now. Real. Right here, observing, enjoying, doing nothing but existing. And the sea! So mystical and wide, appearing endless in its presence, it looks like something in possession of a dream rather than this time and place. And the best part of this? Her family. They all resemble a painting in their natural messiness. Amy with her hair half wet, positioned in a way she believes to be ladylike, smiling at the horizon, sketchbook in hand. Meg, holding her hat so that it doesn't leave her in its desperate wish to follow the wind, shoes untied, eyes glistening from laughter she experienced seconds before. Beth, oh sweet Beth, kneeling by the water, touching the shining surface, mouth moving as though she is singing to the sea itself. Teddy is by her side, like he always is, sitting with his eyes closed, head held high up to the sky. He would probably refer to his current position as a way to "suck out all the marrow out of life", which always sounded a bit inappropriate coming from his mouth, but Jo loved the symbolism of the phrase, so she decided to put her friend's foolishness to the side.

"Isn't it simply ethereal, dearest Teddy?"

"Yes, I did indeed think my face had a particular glow to it this morning, your kind remark is very well appreciated, Miss March" came a teasing response shortly followed by a light smack to the arm (because Jo, being an experienced bookworm, always had a book weapon down her sleeve).

"Oh Teddy, you're such a boy sometimes. I find it quite disappointing really." said Jo being perfectly aware of the effect the comment might cause. Teddy shot her a look of a supposedly hurt individual, put a hand over his heart and exhaled loudly, as though he was a character in a Shakespearean tragedy. Jo rolled her eyes at the glamorous gesture, but pretty quickly, her features were changed with a thoughtful expression. She turned her head to Teddy timelines after, only to be greeted with a no longer playful, but a reassuring smile. He knew her too well.

"You know, it doesn't make it any less beautiful. The fact that it's all going to end one day, I mean. Quite the opposite actually."

She does not answer that. She gets up from the ground and extends her hand to him.

��

"If it's going to end, we might as well suck all of the existing marrow out of it."

"Oh, what a wonderful choice of words, dearest Jo!" he exclaims theatrically while gladly accepting her hand

"Oh, what a wonderful life, dearest Teddy."

And with that, they run to the sea, their lungs almost too full, smiles almost too big. Spirits almost too free.

Childhood is a thing of dreams.

Concord, Massachusetts, 1863

Step two: rearranging thoughts

Trousers under skirts. It's scandalous. Scandalous and inappropriate. At least that's what society will label it as. And society loves labels. But Laurie finds a solace of sorts in his friend's choice of clothes. He isn't sure how to explain it (he is not as good with words as Jo is), but it's comforting to see someone be so unapologetically themselves, whoever that person might be. He tells her this one day because he's Laurie and he isn't familiar with the concept of "silencing your emotions".

"Teddy, don't flatter, I told you I do not enjoy nor support such doings. You might as well go practice your gentlemanly manners on Amy, I'm sure she will accept your words of so called admiration with much more enthusiasm than yours truly." says Jo, her voice a tiny bit too loud, her thoughts meeting the outside world in grave speed. Laurie often finds himself wondering how one speaks with so much passion and rush, it's like Jo's sentences are running instead of flowing. She shares her mind without looking at him, her hands busy with rearranging the dining table previously covered with Amy's unfinished drawings and Beth's beloved dolls.

"I meant what I said, Jo. But since you believe I'm incapable of offering sincerity, I shall escort myself out."

He gets up from the place he was sitting at and rushes out of the March house, leaving his waistcoat behind him. Jo knows better than to follow him right away. She will bring him the forgotten object later, once he's ready to start unravelling burdens.

***

Night.

Light.

These two nouns aren't supposed to get along very well, yet here we are. Jo finds herself awake in the middle of the night, which circumstance she is no stranger to, but this time it is not her restless mind that steals her from the arms of dreamland. It's light. Jo gets up, careful not to make a noise, and looks out the window to further investigate the strange occurring. And the sight her eyes are met with is a sight so undoubtedly Teddy-like that she isn't sure if she will be able to forgive herself for not coming up with such a conclusion sooner. The house of her neighbour, who happens to be her dearest friend, is shining with what she presumes is light of about two dozen candles. The scene would've been inspiring, if not captivating, especially for a person of her making, but Jo knows Teddy and this cannot mean anything pleasant. Therefore, she decides to pay her fellow pirate a visit, armed with a forgotten piece of clothing as a faithful enough excuse.

Proud of herself for avoiding all the obstacles successfully (and the obstacles being sleeping family members who have yet to be introduced to the pleasures such as "sleepless nights" or "windows"), Jo runs to the construction once known as a house, now as a gothic castle and knocks. Her efforts are answered with a voice of not a person, but a peculiarly human like ghost.

"Who is it?"

"Do you really think I will dare share information of an importance so big, oh so grand, without seeing your face, kind sir?" says not Jo, but a righteous, noble knight, his devotion as admirable as amusing.

Laurie opens the door only to be met with a grinning Jo.

"I believe you have forgotten this, my friend."

exclaims an unlike lady, kneels down and offers him his waistcoat in a way so grandiose, some might think she actually was a knight in shining armor, sharing sunlight, providing hope.

"Don't be a goose Jo" came a gentlemanly response followed by an annoyed sound and indifferent expression. Laurie turns around, but leaves the door wide open. Jo, understanding the message quite well, follows him inside to a candle lit room. Laurie approaches the piano and sits down as though he is about to start playing the instrument, but he doesn't confirm the logical assumption. Instead, he closes his eyes and remains like that for what feels like eternity, looking like a human statue. It would've been comical if it were anybody else, but Jo was familiar with Teddy's passion for extravagance. His behaviour does not spark laughter, but concern.

"Teddy, I think you should start explaining whatever it is you need to explain. Keeping it in won't do anybody any good despite you believing it will. I promise, you won't be a burden."

Laurie shifts in his position and exhales loudly, his eyes still closed. When he starts to speak, his voice is not his. It's distant and decorated with occasional trembles which he is desperately trying to avoid.

"When I told you today how I find solace in the way you carry yourself and how you wear trousers and don't care about what people think of you, I wasn't trying to mess around or anything. Sometimes... Sometimes I feel like I am not me... Like I'm not a good match for myself and I..." he opens his eyes at that, not sure if he wants to receive a response to any of the things he has just said.

"I am deeply sorry Jo, this doesn't make any sense, you can go, I don't know what came of me."

"Oh Teddy, but it does make sense! It makes so, so much sense." Jo doesn't say that like she wants to comfort him. She really seems to mean it. Their gazes meet at the exact same time, their eyes glossy (which observation they will both dismiss in immense respect to one another), their faces now beautified with soft smiles.

"You do realize you are wearing a night gown right?"

"I am not the one randomly lighting up candles, impersonating ghosts now, am I?"

"It's called dramatic effect, Jo! Dramatic effect! And keep the waistcoat, I never really liked it anyways."

***

After that day, Jo and Laurie's closets were left grieving for lost members of their separate societies. Blouses, neckties and waistcoats were introduced to the idea of travel and adventure. And even though the closets were left in grief, their owners were more than satisfied with the not so sudden change.

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destielreboot · 3 years

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Something Worth Celebrating

Summary: Dean’s tired of Cas not understanding his not-so-subtle hints that he’s in love with him, so panics his way through using a movie to make his point clear, as if that makes any more sense.

Words: ~3.8k

Read on AO3

Dean never really celebrated his birthday, not in any way that mattered. It was a date that marked him maybe surviving another year, and he figured it couldn’t be all that accurate a marker anymore given that he’d died so many times. Was he supposed to subtract the four months in Hell? Was his birthday now after Sam’s? None of it mattered much, and he was not about to accidentally jinx himself or something by celebrating an arbitrary day. Instead, he grumbled all the way home about the snow and salted roads being bad for Baby, then immediately went to his room and started flipping through his movie collection with the hope a new case wouldn’t come in for at least a few hours.

“Dean?” Cas knocked once and swung the door halfway open. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to find something to watch. I figure I deserve a bit of R&R after the week we’ve had.”

“Of course. Ghouls are never particularly pleasant, although the hunt went well, all things considered.”

“Hell of a lot better than the last one. You stickin’ around for a while?”

“I have no plans to leave.”

Dean looked back down at the drawer full of DVDs and smiled softly. “Good. It’s nice to have you here.”

“Dean? Can I… watch the movie with you?”

“Uh, yeah, as you wish.”

Dean’s hands shook slightly as he picked up a DVD case. It was dumb—so recklessly stupid—and if it didn’t work out, he’d have to live with that, but Cas hadn’t said a word about the mixtape. Not a damn thing about something he’d spent hours anxiously perfecting. Odds were good this would go over his head as well, but hey, at least they were spending time together. And not even Cas would leave during a movie unless there was an emergency, right?

“What are we watching?” Cas timidly sat on the edge of Dean’s bed, the usual comfort level gone as this was Dean’s space, and Cas had become nothing if not respectful of that boundary.

“A classic from my childhood.”

“It’s designed for children?” Cas narrowed his eyes and frowned.

“No, it’s—it’s about… pirates and thieves, sacrifice, rewriting destiny—” The words slipped out of their own volition, as they weren’t quite true, but then again, Dean wasn’t solely focused on the plot of the film. “Um, it’s about overcoming evil forces, fighting for those you care about, and outsmarting the enemy.”

“No cowboys?”

“No cowboys,” Dean chuckled as he put The Princess Bride into the DVD player. He plopped down onto the bed and kicked his feet up, instinctively patting the place next to him so Cas wouldn’t stay perched on the edge. “Settle in, I think you’re gonna like this one.”

Cas inched closer, far too conscious of Dean’s repeated complaints about lack of personal space to get close, but he let himself relax slightly as the movie started.

“This time period is inconsistent with most pirate-centric media. Dean, what does this ill child have to do with the plot you described?”

“Shh, just watch.”

Cas begrudgingly obliged, although biting his tongue was never his strong suit. He’d joined Dean for enough movie nights to know his questions would not be answered, and silence was the preferred initial viewing state—aside from laughter, that is; the uproarious joy that bellowed from his best friend never failed to elicit a smile from the angel.

The first few times he heard Westley say “As you wish” seemed inconsequential, as Dean had been incessantly quoting movies at him for years, and it wasn’t difficult to see why he would relate to this roguish character. He was vaguely aware of Dean glancing back and forth between him and the screen, no doubt to make sure he was paying attention, a task that would be much easier if he didn’t feel Dean’s eyes on him quite so often.

For the most part, Cas did well at keeping quiet, though certain absurdities in the movie had him itching to ask questions.

“What is the point of her throwing herself down this hill? I understand that it’s too steep for comfortable walking, but there has to be a more convenient way to reach the bottom.”

“I guess it’s supposed to be sort of romantic?” Dean shrugged. “She’s just been reunited with Westley after believing he’d died; she doesn’t want to waste time getting to him.”

“Hmm.” Cas looked pensively at Dean for a moment, then turned back to the tv with a hint of a smile.

“Death cannot stop true love. All it can do is delay it for a while,” Westley declared.

“Do you believe in the existence of true love, Dean?” Cas asked innocently.

“I—uh—um—I’m gonna go grab a drink,” Dean stammered. He did his best to nonchalantly leave the room, an action made far more difficult by his pounding heart. Once safely in the hallway, his pace quickened dramatically. If he was going to have a panic attack, it’d be away from prying eyes. Jack may have been at Jody and Donna’s, but Sam was home—he couldn’t see him like this. Diverting his path, he headed for the Dean Cave instead and sunk into one of the recliners.

He knew it was stupid to be panicking over something so small, but this was the closest he’d ever come to outright stating how he felt, and it was scary, goddammit. Growing up, he would’ve been beaten for even entertaining the idea—John didn’t raise no goddamn fruit—and that intense unease had settled itself into his very being, become a core tenet of his identity. Undoing several decades of damage was more difficult than he’d ever imagined, but fucking hell, he wanted to try.

It took longer than he’d hoped for his breathing to return to normal, which amped up the fear that Cas would come looking for him, and he realized on his way to the kitchen that he’d probably need an excuse. He grabbed a couple beers out of the fridge—maybe Cas would drink one, maybe Dean would end up chugging both—and turned to go back before thinking better of it. He pulled some popcorn out of the pantry and tossed it in the microwave, hoping Cas wouldn’t know how quickly it cooked. Once it was done, Dean took a few deep breaths to steady himself, dumped the popcorn into a bowl, and walked as calmly as possible back to his room.

Coming back with a snack seemed to somewhat assuage Cas’s concern for Dean having been gone so long, but Dean could tell he would be asked about it later.

“You missed the Fire Swamp and something called the Pit of Despair? I can’t find much validity in the mechanics of the machine, although the concept is interesting. Taking time off the end of life, which is by its very nature uncertain, rather than reducing to a set number of years.”

“Try not to think about it too hard.” Dean smirked, holding out the second beer as he settled in. Cas habitually accepted the offer, even though everything tasted like molecules. He didn’t mind too much; partaking always seemed to make Dean happy, a sight Cas didn’t see nearly enough.

“I agree with the pestering child on this one, killing off the hero of the story this early makes no sense. Unless, of course, they live in a world like ours? Is there someone who can return his soul to his physical form, as I did with you?”

Dean choked on the handful of popcorn he’d just stuffed in his mouth. Cas looked on, worried, as Dean coughed and took a swig of his beer.

“Uh, no, nothing like that… They’ll, uh, they’ll explain it.”

“Hmm. Are you alright, Dean? You seem… preoccupied.”

“What? I’m fine.” He picked up the bowl and held it out. “Popcorn?”

“Dean.” Cas took it from him and set it further down the bed as he pivoted to face Dean, sliding a bent leg across the blanket between them.

Dean made a show of rolling his eyes. “I said I’m fine, Cas. You’re missing Billy Crystal.”

“We could pause the movie, if you’d like. Ordinarily I wouldn’t push—”

Dean snorted. “Yeah, sure. Can we just… not do this right now?” He raised his hands in resignation and let them drop without looking, one landing on the outside of his left thigh, the other on Cas’s knee.

Dean immediately felt heat rush to his cheeks as they stared at each other, unmoving, for an undetermined amount of time. He was vaguely aware of the Miracle Max scene happening in the background, containing yet another discussion of true love, and he prayed Cas wasn’t paying attention. This had to happen now?

“Dean?” Cas asked softly, finally breaking the silence enveloping them despite the continuing movie, which was obviously oblivious to the quiet scene of bi panic unfolding in front of the screen. “You seem uncomfortable and in distress. Can I—”

“I’m fine!” Dean responded a little too loudly, too quickly. He jerked his hand back, unconsciously clenching and unclenching his fist, his thumb rubbing over his fingertips, as if trying to force the feeling of touching Cas’s knee into his memory.

Cas continued to fix him with that concerned gaze he was all too familiar with, so he downed the rest of his beer as a distraction. Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he saw Cas run his own fingers over his leg exactly where Dean’s hand had been, but surely it was out of discomfort, right? Friendly pats on the back and occasionally the knee were common enough, but accidental lingering touches? Not so much.

“I need a refill. You?” Dean asked, although he didn’t wait for an answer, once again quickly making his way down the hall.

“Dude, are you okay?”

Dean just about dropped his empty bottle, having not noticed Sam seated at the kitchen table with some sort of preposterously healthy grain bowl in front of him.

“Will everyone stop asking me that?” he huffed, his free hand on his chest. “I’m fine.” He set the bottle on the island and pulled the fridge open. They were down to their last few beers, and, simultaneously thinking too much and not enough, Dean turned around to search for something stronger instead.

“Don’t bullshit me.” Sam gave Dean his best bitch face—probably the best he’d seen in years—and stood, crossing his arms. “Is this about what happened with the ghoul? Because there’s no way we could’ve—”

“Yep, that’s it. Congrats, Dr. Phil, you’ve done whatever psych crap and managed to cure me. How on earth do you do it?”

“Dean.” Sam followed him out of the kitchen and back toward the library, where they’d most recently stashed their rolling booze cart—yet another feature of the bunker Dean still couldn’t quite wrap his head around, although he had to admit it was rather nice.

“Don’t ‘Dean’ me, I’m fine. It’s been a long week, cut me some slack.” He unscrewed the top of the whiskey bottle and poured a generous amount into a glass. Sam shot him another exasperated look. Dean sarcastically saluted as he backed out of the library.

He stopped just outside his door and took a quiet breath, releasing slowly, urging the tension in his chest out with it. He glanced in and couldn’t help but soften at the view in front of him: Cas was engrossed in the wedding scene, albeit a bit confused by the clergyman. Dean watched him take a drink of his beer and wince, an instinct he almost always suppressed around others.

Once Inigo, Fezzik, and Westley were back on screen, Dean sauntered back in. Cas immediately turned and smiled at him, but his brow furrowed at the sight of the whiskey glass. Dean shrugged and took a sip, savoring the slight burn and the slow spreading warmth. He flashed Cas a reassuring grin as he sat down on his side of the bed.

Everything was fine, it had to be. Besides, Cas had definitely missed some important dialogue, so all Dean had to do was get through the end of the movie and shrug all his anxious behavior off as lingering effects of the hunt; there was a good chance Cas wouldn’t believe him, but if he got adamant enough, he’d be left alone. Not that alone was what he really wanted, but it was better than rejected or ridiculed, and he was far too accustomed to being by himself—yet another thing to thank his father for.

They got through the rest of the movie without another incident, even if the silence was a tad tense. As the credits rolled, Dean glanced over and noticed Cas was frowning.

“So… uh, did you… did you like the movie?”

“I still have many questions that have gone unanswered. Or, rather, we were otherwise occupied while they were explained, I suppose.”

“We did, uh, miss a few things.”

“Also, I’m no expert on the matter, but I’m old enough to know with relative certainty that there have been kisses more ‘passionate and pure’ than that one. I assume this particular kiss isn’t leading to the consummation of their relationship, as carnal desire would prevent it from being pure, I suppose, but I’m afraid I cannot agree with the story’s assessment.”

“The slow-burn romance wasn’t drawn out enough for you, huh?” Dean laughed.

“She only believed him dead twice, Dean. I think our own experiences have reduced the impact of that. Besides, their relationship required more exposition. With what we were given, you can’t expect me to be truly invested.”

“Maybe she should’ve died at least once, just to shake it up a bit.”

“My sentiments exactly. Westley cannot understand the same levels of grief without experiencing it firsthand, and it’s always more interesting to allow characters beyond just the hero the chance to die. Imagine how monotonous our lives would be if we only consistently lost one of us.”

Dean closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, a goofy smile plastered on his face. His shoulders shook as he laughed, the bed eventually shuddering along with the movement.

“I don’t understand what’s so funny, Dean.”

“It’s just… Our lives are so ridiculous. No one else watches this and thinks it’s not realistic enough because only Westley dies and gets resurrected.”

“I’m aware it’s outside of the usual human experience, of course, but I also can’t help but—” He paused, eyes widening slightly. “Never mind.”

“C’mon, Cas, you know you can’t do that! Say it.”

“I’d really prefer keeping it to myself, thank you.”

“Cas, dude, just say it.”

“You won’t let this go, will you?”

“You know I won’t.” Dean smirked.

“Fine,” Cas sighed. “I can’t help but see similarities between the characters and, well, our family.”

“Oh, of course, I project us onto characters all the time! I’m Westley, right?”

“Buttercup, actually.”

“I—” The smile slipped from Dean’s face. “You see me as the princess? Why?”

“You’re both stubborn and remarkably willing to sacrifice yourself for those you love.”

“You know, I did not show you this movie just so you could turn around and attack me,” Dean grumbled, but he flashed Cas a small smile so he wouldn’t take the complaint too seriously.

“I feel it’s a proper evaluation of your character.” Cas shrugged and grinned back.

“Does that make you Westley, then?”

It took Dean approximately two seconds after the words left his mouth to process what he’d said, fear twisting his stomach into knots as he realized the implications of it. Cas, on the other hand, chuckled quietly and looked down at his beer bottle.

“I suppose Westley saving Buttercup from the quicksand does mirror me pulling you out of Hell, at least a bit.”

“Lightning sand. Way cooler than quicksand,” Dean corrected, latching on to anything that would distract from his question.

“Ah, yes. Lightning sand. It’s no match for Hell, but I don’t need to tell you that.”

“Yeah… Hey, I don’t think I’m ready to turn in for the night yet, would you want to watch something else? You can pick, if you’d like.”

“As you wish.”

Dean froze, his hand halfway to his whiskey glass, the gears in his head screaming into motion. It wasn’t every day that Cas made a movie reference, especially one with such a blatantly romantic connotation. He was well aware of his own intention in saying it before the movie, but was Cas just emulating him? Picking up on yet another of his habits? Or— No, no. Dean had to remind himself that Cas wasn’t human, that he couldn’t experience affection the same way, that everything else had completely escaped his understanding.

He figured he’d put his foot in his mouth enough times that evening, he should just change his mind about stretching this out any longer, just go to bed. But the thought gnawed at him, the silence had continued to the point of becoming awkward, he needed to say something.

Dean turned to face Cas and swallowed down his pride and insecurities, hope and fear clashing across his features. Cas was waiting patiently with a soft smile, his bright eyes crinkling beautifully.

“Did you just—” Dean whispered, his voice getting caught in his throat.

“I believe so. Did I use the line incorrectly?”

“No—I… I just never thought—”

“That’s fine, too,” Cas quickly cut him off, his shoulders sagging slightly.

“Cas.” Dean reached out and tentatively brushed his fingers lightly across the angel’s stubbled cheek before settling on his shoulder, thumb resting softy on the side of his neck. “Why do you think I said it?”

It was as if someone had just powered Cas back up, he so nearly glowed with joy, and Dean thought to himself that this was the most angelic he’d ever looked. Messy hair, glassy-eyed, and all, he was stunning.

Dean felt the knots in his stomach unravel, the weight he’d been carrying for so long lessened. The hesitation of entering unknown territory faded as it started to sink in that Cas wanted this, too, and he stopped thinking, painfully aware that if he thought about it too much, he’d never do it. And he so desperately needed to do this.

He leaned forward, making his intent clear while also looking for consent, and Cas eagerly met him in the middle. It wasn’t the most graceful kiss, as they were both a little out of practice and had yet to learn each other’s rhythms, but Dean was looking forward to learning.

Cas rested his forehead against Dean’s and sighed contentedly.

“With a little more practice, I think we could top Buttercup and Westley’s kiss.”

“I’d like that,” Cas laughed, his warm breath tickling Dean’s nose.

“Their slow-burn seems almost boring next to ours.”

“Oh, speaking of…” Cas straightened up suddenly, causing Dean to have to catch himself before he fell face-first into the angel’s shoulder.

“Speaking of?”

“I missed how they brought Westley back,” Cas said sheepishly. “Would you mind explaining?”

“A little distracted, were you?” Dean smiled cheekily and leaned in for another kiss, something he could never imagine getting tired of doing.

“More than a little.”

Dean launched into a detailed explanation of the Miracle Max scene, the chocolate-coated miracle pill, and the plan to break into the castle before the wedding, going so far as to include all the dialogue he could remember off the top of his head. Cas tilted his head to rest on Dean’s shoulder and laughed at the exaggerated voices, each distinct and absurd in their own way. When the story was over, they slipped into a comfortable silence, Dean’s arm snaked around Cas’s waist, personal space no longer a concern.

After some time, Cas glanced at the clock on the nightstand and was startled to find it was nearly midnight.

“Oh, before it gets too late…” He lifted his head and placed a hand gently on Dean’s cheek. “Happy birthday, Dean. I would’ve gotten you a gift—”

“There’s nothing I want more than this.”

…

The following morning, Dean woke up early and decided to make breakfast, tossing some slabs of bacon on a baking sheet to crisp up in the oven. Sam stumbled in a few minutes later, drawn in by the aroma. He gave Dean a questioning look and was met with a broad grin.

“Rise and shine, Sammy! Are you going to eat like a normal person, or do I have to separate your eggs for you?”

“I… uh, just the whites would be great, thanks.”

“Normal person breakfast, it is!”

Sam rolled his eyes as he turned on the coffeemaker, but he smiled quietly to himself, glad to see Dean had gotten over whatever had been bothering him the night before.

Cas wandered in as Dean pulled the bacon out of the oven, and Sam just about choked on his coffee; instead of his usual trench coat and suit, Cas was wearing a soft purple and blue flannel he’d most definitely pulled from Dean’s closet, and he’d neglected to button nearly the entire top half.

“Mornin’, sunshine!” Dean slapped his hand away from the hot tray and passed him a mug of coffee instead. “You lookin’ to burn yourself?”

“I’m an angel, you ass,” Cas chuckled, stepping around him to reach the bacon. “I can do what I want.”

“You can’t even taste it properly.”

“Dean, too much grease is bad for your health,” Cas deadpanned as he took a bite of the still steaming rasher. It was hotter than he’d anticipated, but nothing a little grace couldn’t fix.

Sam cleared his throat loudly and gestured at the stovetop, where the eggs were burning.

“Fuck!”

“Good morning, Sam.” Cas took a sip of his coffee as he walked toward the table. “How was your night?”

“Evidently not as good as yours.” Sam looked up at him in stunned disbelief. “You two finally figure your shit out?”

“Hell of a way to phrase it, but yeah.” Dean beamed as he set the plate of bacon on the table, his other arm slung around Cas’s shoulder. “This idiot’s in love with me. Who knew?”

“Practically everyone else,” Sam laughed. “But I’m really happy for you guys, I don’t know anyone more deserving of this. One request, though, seeing as Jack and I live here, too.”

“Shoot.”

“Minimal PDA in communal spaces?”

“No deal.” Dean grinned and promptly pulled Cas in for a kiss.

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frightfurtabby · 3 years

Text

HimiKiyo Week Day 7: Hunting- Ghost Pirate

// The final day is here already? damn. Have this short paranormal story to cap things off, its an AU I could do more of in the future probably. And this turned out to be the shortest one this year.

Word Count: 913

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34249483

Amino: (coming soon)

Himiko loved her girlfriend, but sometimes she really wished things could be normal. As in “not needing to salt and burn the drowned corpse of a dead pirate captain to stop the attacks from his ghost ship against a town on an island somewhere in the South China Sea. That certainly wasn’t part of her Himiko’s Magic Show Tour itinerary at all. It just kind of happened when Korekiyo vanished from the backstage area a few hours before her show was to start and she had to frantically search, managing to call and locate them right before one such attack led to the show’s cancellation.

An anthropologist by day and a hunter of the paranormal by nightfall, Korekiyo was used to things being more than meets the eye. Their collection of ancient artifacts, the most powerful of which are locked away in a safe room, was a testament to that. They were always bouncing from place to place, more recently with Himiko in tow after a few years of going at it alone after Sister was no longer around to lead them.

They’d always tell people who asked that they had met “on the job” and that was true, however the part about saving Himiko from a cave dwelling cryptid was glossed over. Nobody was supposed to bear the burden of knowing everything Kiyo had found out during their real job, even dragging Himiko into it at first they weren’t sure about but she insisted. She felt lonely when they would leave without her, and offered to use her skills to help.

There was always something going on and “never a dull moment” and similar expressions practically became a catchphrase as though it were a television program. Lots about Kiyo’s life struck her as something straight out of movies or TV.

It took an absurd amount of money to pay for all the travelling they had done, the Shinguji family was loaded. Every continent save for Antarctica had seen Kiyo hunting something. Frankly, after a few months with them she wouldn’t be surprised if the next job really was down there. It just better not be related to any alien parasite like from The Thing.

She was shivering, still cold even after drying off all the sea water. The saltiness was stinging her eyes slightly. To win this particular battle they had to dive into a cave to retrieve that body. And the ghost wasn’t exactly fond of them digging around.

As they started to drag the body back up to the surface, it manifested in its “drowned” form and even got so far as pulling Himiko’s diving outfit shoe off, which would have killed her without quick thinking from her beloved, who deployed the old ‘deploy a secret stash of holy water’ trick.

That gave enough time to get to safety. Of course the spirit wasn’t done. Enraged, the spirit reformed the ghost ship and prepared its canons as it turned to its right. Slowly it lined up its shot.

They had to hurry further away from the shore, both helping to lift the decomposed bones.

It was waterlogged, preserving a very twisted expression. Kiyo saw it too and sighed.

“As horrible as old Deadbeard is seeing that still etched in his face I… almost feel bad for him.”

“Well I don’t” Himiko helped to knock over a strategically placed drum of oil. Oil and water don’t mix so hopefully this would overpower how waterlogged the captain was. Kiyo’s big bag of salt came in hand.

The cannon of the ghost ship creaked. Too much more of a proper arch and they just might be fucked. Shame the match was ready to go.

Something that sounded like the cry of a whale emanated from the distance as the ghost ship slowly disintegrated.

Sitting several feet away from the currently burning corpse almost felt like they were around a campfire. A campfire that smelled horrendously, but it was a relief.

“Good work Himi, darling.”

“I don’t think I'll be able to go near a beach again for a while, so I hope I did good.”

“How about a spa?” They joked.

“Mmm, other watery places are on thin ice, but as long as you promise it’s not haunted I might consider it.” she giggled.

“I concur.”

Both of them stood up and collected the things they needed to start on the way back to the hotel holding hands. As they left Kiyo added “So I imagine the next show won’t have any kind of water tank escape trick?”

She socked them gently on the shoulder. “No, no there won’t. In fact. If you want one then you’ll have to do it yourself.”

“I don’t think I will, I err... would be too tall.”

“Pssh.” She stopped and dusted off some sand for a moment. So that trick might not show up until they’ve flushed out all the salt water. Luckily she knew plenty. “Maybe we’ll make the next leg of the tour fire themed. Just go ham on the complete opposite of what just happened.”

And so concluded that incident. After the next show on that leg of the tour they boarded a plane westward to Europe for the start of the next one. Perhaps one of them could get kidnapped by the fae folk or meet a vampire in an old castle or go to Scotland to see Nessie. The unpredictability wasn’t so bad sometimes, even if returning to normal felt tempting.

#himikiyo week #himikiyo #himiko yumeno #korekiyo shinguji #danganronpa #danganronpa v3 #fanfic #writing

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grubbyduck · 4 years

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No Man’s Land - an essay on feminism and forgiveness

I have always proudly named myself a feminist, since I was a little girl and heard my mum proudly announcing herself as a feminist to anyone who would listen.

But I believe the word 'feminist' takes on a false identity in our collective imagination - it is seen as hard, as baked, severe, steadfast, stubborn and rooted. From a male perspective, it possibly means abrasive, or too loud, or intimidatingly intolerant of men. From a female perspective, though, these traits become revered by young feminists; the power of knowing what you think and never rolling over! My experience of being a feminist throughout my life has been anything but - it has been a strange and nebulous aspect of my identity; it has sparked the familiar fires of bravery, ambition, rage, sadness and choking inarticulacy at times, sure, but at other times it has inspired apathy, reactionary attitudes, bravado and dismissivness. And at other, transitive times, it caused me to rethink my entire outlook on the world. And then again. And then again.

In primary school, I read and re-read Sandi Toksvig’s book GIRLS ARE BEST, which takes the reader through the forgotten women of history. I didn’t feel angry - I felt awed that there were female pirates, women on the front line in the world wars, women at the forefront of invention, science and literature. I still remember one line, where it is revealed that NASA’s excuse for only hiring six women astronauts compared to hundreds of men was that they didn’t stock suits small enough.

When I was 13, I tried to start a girl's rugby team at my school. I got together 15 girls who also wanted to form a team. We asked the coaches if they would coach us - their responses varied from 'maybes' to straight up 'no's. The boys in our year laughed at us publicly. We would find an old ball, look up the rules online, and practise ourselves in free periods - but the boys would always come over, make fun of us and take over the game until we all felt too insecure to carry on. I shouted at a lot of boys during that time, and got a reputation among them as someone who was habitually angry and a bit of a buzzkill. Couldn't take a joke - that kind of thing.

When I was around 16, I got my first boyfriend. He was two years older (in his last year of sixth form) and seemed ever so clever to me. He laughed about angry feminists, and I laughed too. He knew I classified myself as a feminist, but, you know, a cool one - who doesn't get annoyed, and doesn't correct their boyfriends' bulging intellects. And in any case, whenever I did argue with him about anything political or philosophical, he would just chant books at me, list off articles he'd read, mention Kant and say 'they teach that wrong at GCSE level'. So I put more effort into researching my opinions (My opinions being things like - Trump is a terrible person who should not be elected as President - oh yeah, it was 2016), but every time I cited an article, he would tell me why that article was wrong or unreliable. I couldn't win. He was a Trump supporter (semi-ironically, but that made it even worse somehow) and he voted Leave in the Brexit referendum. He also wouldn't let me get an IUD even though I had terrible anxiety about getting pregnant, because of his parents' Catholicism. He sulked if he ever got aroused and then I didn’t feel like having sex, because apparently it ‘hurts’ men physically. One time I refused sex and he sulked the whole way through the night, refusing to sleep. I was incensed, and felt sure that my moral and political instincts were right, but I had been slowly worn down into doubting the validity of my own opinions, and into cushioning his ego at every turn - especially when he wasn't accepted into Oxford.

When I was 17/18, I broke up with him, and got on with my A Levels. One of them was English Literature. I remember having essay questions drilled into us, all of which were fairly standard and uninspired, but there was one that I habitually avoided:

'Discuss the presentation of women in this extract'

It irritated me beyond belief to hear the way that our class were parroting phrases like 'commodification and dehumanisation of women' in order to get a good grade. It felt so phony, so oversimplified, and frankly quite insulting. I couldn't bear reading classic books with the intent of finding every instance that the author compares a woman to an animal. It made me so sad! I couldn't understand how the others could happily write about such things and be pleased with their A*. As a keen contributor to lessons, my teacher would often call on me to comment in class - and to her surprise, I think, my responses about 'women's issues' were always sullen and could be characterised by a shrug. I wanted to talk about macro psychology, about Machievellian villains, about Shakespreare's subversion of comic convention in the English Renaissance. I absolutely did not want to talk about womb imagery, about men’s fixation and sexualisation of their mothers or about docile wives. In my application for Cambridge, I wrote about landscape and the psyche in pastoral literature, and got an offer to study English there. I applied to a mixed college - me and my friends agreed that we’d rather not go if we got put into an all female college.

When I was 19, I got a job as an actor in a touring show in my year out before starting at Cambridge. I was the youngest by a few years. One company member - a tall, handsome and very talented man in his mid-twenties - had the exact same job title as me, only he was being paid £100 more than me PER WEEK. I was the only company member who didn’t have an agent, so I called the producers myself to complain. They told me they sympathised, that there just wasn’t enough money in the budget to pay me more - and in the end, I managed to negotiate myself an extra £75 per week by taking on the job of sewing up/fixing any broken costumes and puppets. So I had more work, and was still being paid 25% less. The man in question was a feminist, and complained to his agent (although he fell through on his promise to demand that he lose £50 a week and divide it evenly between us). He was a feminist - and yet he commented on how me and the other woman in the company dressed, and told us what to wear. He was a feminist, only he slept with both of us on tour, and lied to us both about it. He was a feminist, only he pitted me against and isolated me from the only other woman in the company, the only person who may have been a mentor or a confidante. He was a feminist, only he put me down daily about my skills as a performer and made me doubt my intelligence, my talent and my worth.

When I was 20, I started at Cambridge University, studying English Literature. Over the summer, I read Lundy Bancroft’s book ‘Why Does He Do That’ which is a study of abusers and ‘angry and controlling men’. It made me realise that I had not been given the tools to recognise coercive and controlling behaviour - I finally stopped blaming myself for attracting controlling men into my life. I also read ‘Equal’ by Carrie Gracie, about her fight to secure equal pay for equal work at the BBC in 2017-2019. It was reading that book that I fully appreciated that I had already experienced illegal pay discrimination in the workplace. Both made me cry in places, and it felt as though something had thawed in me. I realised that I was not the exception. That ‘women’s issues’ do apply to me. In my first term at Cambridge, I wrote some unorthodox essays. I wrote one on Virginia Woolf named ‘The Dogs Are Dancing’ which began with a page long ‘disclaimer for my womanly emotions’ that attempted to explain to my male supervisor how difficult it is for women to write dispassionately and objectively, as they start to see themselves as unfairly separate, excluded and outlined from the male literary consciousness. He didn’t really understand it, though he enjoyed the passion behind my prose.

The ‘woman questions’ at undergraduate level suddenly didn’t seem as easy, as boring or as depressing as those I had encountered at A Level. I had to reconcile with the fact that I had only been exposed to a whitewashed version of feminism throughout my life. At University, I learned the word Intersectionality - and it made immediate and ferocious sense to me. I wrote an essay on Aphra Behn’s novella ‘Oroonoko’, which is about a Black prince and his pursuit of Imoinda, a Black princess. I had to get to grips with how a feminist author from the Renaissance period tackled issues of race. I had to examine how she dehumanised and sexualised Imionda in the same way that white women were used to being treated by men. I had to really question to what extent Aphra Behn was on Imionda’s side - examine the violent punishment of Oroonoko for mistreating her. I found myself really wanting to believe that Behn had done this purposefully as social commentary. I mentioned in my essay that I was aware of my own white female critical ingenuity. For the first time, I was writing about something I didn’t have any personal authority over in my life - I had to educate myself meticulously in order to speak boldly about race.

As I found myself surrounded by more women who were actively and unashamedly feminist, I realised just how many opinions exist within that bracket. I realised that I didn’t agree with a lot of other feminists about aspects of the movement. I started to only turn up to lectures by women. I started to only read literary criticism written by women - not even consciously; I just realised that I trusted their voices more intrinsically. I started to wish I had applied to an all female college. I realised that all female spaces weren’t uncool - that is an image that I had learned from men, and from trying to impress men. The idea that Black people, trans people, that non binary people could be excluded from feminism seemed completely absurd to me. I ended up in a mindset that was constructed to instinctively mistrust men. Not hate - just mistrust. I started to get fatigued by explaining basic feminist principles to sceptical men.

I watched the TV show Mrs America. It made my heart speed up with longing, with awe, with nerves, sorrow, anger - again, it showed me how diverse the word Feminism is. The longing I felt was for a time where feminist issues seemed by comparison clear-cut, and unifying. A time where it was good to be angry, where anger got stuff done. I am definitely angry. The problem is, the times that feminism has benefitted me and others the most in my life is when I use it forgivingly and patiently. When I sit in my anger, meditate on it, control it, and talk to those I don’t agree with on subjects relating to feminism with the active intent to understand their point of view. Listening to opinions that seemed so clearly wrong to me was the most difficult thing in the world - but it changed my life, and once again, it changed my definition of feminism.

Feminism is listening to Black women berating white feminists, and rather than feeling defensive or exempt, asking questions about how I have contributed to a movement that excludes women of colour. Feminism is listening to my mother’s anxieties about trans women being included in all-female spaces, and asking her where those anxieties stem from. Feminism is understanding that listening to others who disagree with you doesn’t endanger your principles - you can walk away from that conversation and know what you know. Feminism is checking yourself when you undermine or universalise male emotion surrounding the subject. Feminism is allowing your mind to change, to evolve, to include those that you once didn’t consider - it is celebrating quotas, remembering important women, giving thanks for the fact that feminism is so complex, so diverse, so fraught and fought over.

Feminism is common ground. It is no man’s land. It is the space between a Christian housewife and a liberated single trans woman. It is understanding women of other races, other cultures, other religions. It is disabled women, it is autistic women, it is trans men who have biologically female medical needs that are being ignored. It is forgiveness for our selfishness. It feels impossible.

The road to feminism is the road to enlightenment. It is the road to Intersectional equity. It is hard. It is a journey. No one does it perfectly. It is like the female orgasm - culturally ignored, not seen as necessary, a mystery even to a lot of women, many-layered, multitudinous, taboo, comes in waves. It is pleasure, and it is disappointment.

All I know is that the hard-faced, warrior version of feminism that was my understanding only a few years ago reduced my allies and comrades in arms to a small group of people who were almost exaclty like me and so agreed with me on almost everything. Flexible, forgiving and inquisitive feminism has resulted in me loving all women, and fighting for all women consciously. And by fighting for all women, I also must fight for Black civil rights, for disabled rights, for Trans rights, for immigrant rights, for homeless rights, for gay rights, and for all human rights because women intersect every one of these minorities. My scoffing, know-it-all self doing my A Levels could never have felt this kind of love. My ironic jokes about feminists with my first boyfriend could never have made any woman feel loved. My frustration that my SPECIFIC experience of misogyny as a white, middle-class bisexual woman didn’t feel related to the other million female experiences could never have facilitated unity, common ground, or learning to understand women that existed completely out of my experience as a woman.

My feminism has lead me to becoming friends with some of those boys who mocked me for wanting to play rugby, and with the woman that was vying with me over that man in the acting company for 8 months. It is slowly melting my resentment towards all men - it is even allowing me to feel sorry for the men who have mistreated me in the past.

I guess I want to express in this mammoth essay post that so far my feminist journey has lead me to the realisation that if your feminism isn’t growing you, you aren’t doing it right. Perhaps it will morph again in the future. But for now, Feminism is a love of humanity, rather than a hatred of it. That is all.

#Feminism #yooo i have written a thesis lol #didn’t mean to do that it all kind of flowed out #intersectional feminism #forgiveness #carrie gracie #mrs america #why does he do that #lundy bancroft #equal pay #equal rights #literature #university #school #oroonoko #aphra behn

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sun-summoning · 4 years

Text

Summary: Aang’s parents need to talk to the headmaster. Note: AU where Zuko joined the Gaang at the end of Book 2

When Aang explained his day of going to school, playing with some new friends, and making a noodle rendition of the Fire Lord, everyone was a little on edge. He mentioned they’d be learning about a secret river that might help in their mission though, so Sokka let them stay a bit longer. Zuko knew Aang had been lying, but he decided to let Aang have his fun. And really, the Noodle Lord that Katara hung up on the cave wall was kind of hilarious to look at.

But after his second day of school, Aang tells them about a boy who tried to fight him and how now the headmaster wanted to talk to his parents.

Sokka and Zuko look at each from across the fire, silently debating who would have to be the one to play the role of his father. Before Zuko can protest, Sokka stands up and declares, “Zuko’s going to be your dad!”

“I never agreed to that!”

“Too bad.” Then he turns to Katara. “And I guess you have to be Aang’s mom.”

Toph snorts. “Isn’t she already?”

Aang pouts. “Hey!”

“Alright, you guys will be Wang Fire--” Sokka turns to Katara, “--and Sapphire Fire.”

Zuko and Katara both frown. “Wow.”

“You really need to stop naming things.”

“Hush!” Sokka scratches his chin as he paces. “Now, your cover story is that you met when you were young and fell deeply in love. Then you got married and had baby Aang.”

“That’s...” Katara blinks. “Why is it so boring?”

“Well what else do you want?”

“Fell and love and got married is pretty basic, Sokka.”

“Oh, can you do better?!”

“Obviously!” Katara points to Zuko, oblivious to the way his cheeks were turning pink. “Like, why not something like...okay. Okay! So Zuko got captured by pirates...”

Sokka narrows his eyes as he nods. “I like where this is going.”

“I don’t,” Zuko mutters.

“Yeah,” Aang agrees, crossing his arms. “It sounds kind of--”

“Quiet!” Sokka orders. “The creative geniuses are talking.”

“Yeah.” Toph punches Aang’s arm. “I want to see how dumb this can get.”

“And then,” Katara loudly continues, shooting their audience a warning glance, “I came to his rescue. I was all, ‘I can save you from the pirates’ which I did and then he got super flustered and was extremely grateful and all but became my man slave because he was so in awe of my prowess. Honestly, it was really embarrassing for both us.”

“This is good!” Sokka exclaims.

“Right!” Katara is positively beaming. “And then blah, blah, blah. Love, marriage, baby Aang. There.”

“That’s basically the same as Sokka’s story!” Zuko points out.

Katara scowls at him. “How dare you! My story had pirates!”

“Your story sounds weirdly familiar!”

“My story did not go like the real story at all!”

“What story?” Aang asks.

“There is no story!” they both yell.

Toph slouches further down her chosen boulder. “Yeah, and nobody kissed under Ba Sing Se,” she mutters. Only Zuko is close enough to hear her and he doesn’t bother with a response.

“Whatever,” Sokka interrupts. “Okay. So. Wang and Sapphire Fire met when Sapphire saved him from the pirates--”

“I saved her from the pirates!”

“You didn’t save shit!”

“--and then they moved to the colonies. And got married. And had baby Aang.”

Aang makes a face that says he doesn’t really appreciate being called ‘baby Aang’.

“I think it’s fine,” Sokka concludes.

“Yes,” Toph drawls. “Because surely the headmaster is going to ask Aang’s parents how they met when they’re there to discuss him getting into a fight.”

“You never know, Toph!”

Katara sighs. She turns to Zuko with only a slight flush on her cheeks. “I’m okay with it if you’re okay with it.”

Zuko nods. “I’m okay with it.” After all, the backstory means nothing when the bottom line is that Katara is going to be his wife. Well, his pretend wife. For now. Who knows what the future holds.

“What about if I’m okay with it?” Aang protests.

“You don’t get a choice,” Sokka says. “You’re the one who got into a fight and now needs parents to come meet the headmaster.”

“I didn’t start the fight!”

“Doesn’t matter.” Sokka picks up a discarded blanket and throws it to Katara. “Here.”

She looks at it, confused. “What’s this?”

“Baby Sokka, obviously. Kuzon Fire is getting a little brother named after me.”

Katara, clearly enjoying the farce, fumbles with her clothes to see how to best make herself look pregnant. “His name can’t be Sokka.”

“Of course it can be!”

“Well what if it’s a girl?”

“Then--”

“Agni,” Zuko groans as he sits down beside Toph to let the siblings battle and/or plan. “Sometimes I wonder if I should have just gone with Azula.”

Life on the ship as they fled had been tense, but, admittedly, the five of them travelling towards the capital has been oddly fun. Zuko enjoy’s Toph’s snark, Sokka’s plans, Aang’s kindness, and Katara’s...self. They’ve slowly forgiven him and welcomed him into their group. He’s become part of their routine and their plans and their lives. He’s one of them now.

“What if,” he hears Sokka begin in a soft tone that means he’s having a revelation, “you’re having twins? A boy and a girl! And then they can be named after me and Toph!”

“No!” Toph protests. “Leave me out of your weird family!”

“No way!” Katara laughs as she pats her fake belly, which has gone from being that of a seven month pregnancy for one child to a five month pregnancy for two. She makes a weird dent, so Sokka curses and begins to fix it. “We’re all in this family now.”

“Aw!” Aang begins to laugh. “Group hug time!” He grabs Toph and the two of them rush over to Katara’s arms.

They’re clearly crushing baby Sokka and baby Toph, but the blanket can be fixed later. They all look at Zuko expectantly, so Zuko decides to close his eyes and pretend he’s asleep against Toph’s boulder.

“Zuko!” Aang calls. “Come join us!”

He pretends to snore.

Sokka glares at him so strongly that Zuko can feel it. “If you don’t join us, we’re all going to jump on you.”

“Yeah and then we’re going to cuddle,” Katara adds like it’s a threat.

Muttering curses, Zuko stands and joins them.

“Family hug,” Sokka coos.

Zuko tells him he’s an idiot, which only starts a back and forth of increasingly immature insults. They eventually separate so Katara can fix her fake belly even though it won’t be necessary until tomorrow. Toph asks Aang to show her whatever new art he made that day, and he does so eagerly, oblivious to her latest blind joke.

They’re all kind of annoying and kind of absurd, but Zuko knows without a doubt that he made the right choice by joining them.

#zutara

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irwinkitten · 4 years

Text

coffee shops and seasons | a.i

notes: so a couple of months ago @5-secondsofcolor had put forward an idea in the gay!sos gc and with Alma’s permission I took the idea and fuckin ran with it. Like I sprinted, then forgot about it and then carried on sprinting again. It’s a soft writer!ash concept and I’m very uwu over it. warnings: none word count: 2.1k!

also, i’ve got myself a ko-fi. i erred over this for a while before deciding to go with ko-fi as i fell this gives more freedom to the writer and those that donate, so feel free to donate.

Ashton enjoyed having routine.

Routine was something that his chaotic life could not take away from him, no matter how close his deadlines were for the publishers.

If anyone studied him, he always went to the small coffee shop that was tucked away in the suburbs of the city.

It held a small garden that he never sat in, preferring the sounds of the coffee shop to become his soundtrack of his writing. However, he often stepped out under the canopy of vines, taking a moment to appreciate the beauty of the moment, in any kind of weather.

It happened a year ago when the smallest change occurred in his routine.

You showed up, wrapped up in a jacket and scarf, the almost childlike glee in your face as you reached the barista, exclaiming softly how this was your first snowfall.

Your eyes met his, and the two of you shared gentle smiles as you sat on the table in the corner of the window, eyes watching the world pass by as your attention eventually slid to a book in your lap.

At first he only saw you twice that week, both of you sharing smiles with each other when you entered into the coffee shop. And for a few months that was all he saw of you.

Then the next change came when you walked in, your eyes red and face slightly swollen and a part of him wanted to ask you how you were. But he didn know how to ask you that question.

So instead of asking you, he listened to your order, and when he left, he quietly paid for another drink for you before heading out.

Had he waited, you would’ve gone to him to say thank you, but when you’d looked up as the barista explained that he’d paid for your drink, he’d already gone.

That week he’d had to give up his routine for the publishers and he had never felt so gutted to have missed something so pivotal as seeing you in the shop.

When he got back to routine, there was a coffee waiting for him at his usual table, but you weren’t in the shop. Glancing to the barista, they smiled slightly.

“She paid for it in advance and said to make sure you got it. I’ve wasted seven coffees on you.” Ashton laughed.

“I can pay for those.” And the barista shook their head.

“I’m kidding with you Ashton. I know that your deadline came up. I realised that every time you hit a deadline, you vanish for a week.” Ashton couldn’t stop the blush rising in his cheeks.

“It gives me a break. I get to write for me until they decide on book tours that I’ll refuse. It’s the same routine.” The barista chuckled before returning to work and Ashton found himself crafting a new world of characters.

There was a break in the routine four days later.

You hadn’t been in the coffee shop that week, and he found himself missing that small thing, and his mind started to craft up elaborate daydreams and ideas as to why you hadn’t come, but he left them as that, daydreams and ideas of a person he couldn’t quite have.

When you showed up, he glanced up and watched as your face lit up when you realised he was sat in his usual spot.

He heard you make your order and he expected you to be nestled in your little spot, people watching like you did every time, but it took a moment for him to realise that he hadn’t heard the scrape of the chair against the floor.

Lifting his head, he found you stood there, uncertainty shifting across your features before you finally spoke.

“Would you mind if I joined?” And it took him a second before a smile bloomed across his face and your shoulders relaxed.

“Please, take a seat.” He motioned to the chair sat opposite him, tilting the laptop screen down so that he could focus his attention on you.

“I figured that we’ve been dancing around like this for a while now. And you bought me a drink...” Your words trailed off and he could feel the warmth rushing to his cheeks as you acknowledged his small gesture of kindness.

“It was nothing, really. You looked so sad the day you came in, and I wanted to ask if you were okay but we’re two strangers who don’t know one another and I knew that it could’ve come off as strange if I just asked that.” He hesitated before a soft smile graced his lips. “I hope you’re better now, though.”

The chuckle that left your lips was void of any humour, it was dry and almost sarcastic in nature. And Ashton found himself being drawn into you, wanting to learn more.

“I wish I could say I am, but I’m not. I will be though.” You hadn’t elaborated and he didn’t push.

You were simply two strangers.

“I just realised that I hadn’t even introduced myself.” It was almost like the same thought had hit you both, but you’d vocalised it in such a way that had him grinning as you introduced yourself with a dramatic flourish, earning a small laugh from him.

“It’s not often that people willingly laugh at the dumb shit I do.” You muttered, earning a grin in return.

“Since you’re the dramatic one, I’ll be the calm one. I’m-”

“I know who you are.” He paused as you cut him off, your eyes refusing to lift off the table. He could feel the palpable of emotion rolling off your shoulders, the near embarrassment surrounding you as your eyes refused to meet his.

“I’m always curious about what other people think of me. Who am I?”

The silence that filled the space between you a your eyes finally lifted up from the table, meeting kind eyes and a gentle smile. He watched as you seemed to be gathering steam, your teeth sinking into the skin of your lips before you finally spoke.

“You’re Ashton Irwin. You’ve written some really good stuff, but that’s not really important to me.” You paused and he raised an eyebrow, a silent question at your statement.

Somehow his silence seemed to make your words that much louder.

“Y-you’re the man in the coffee shop who was kind to me on one of the worst days of my life. You’re the writer that sits and taps his feet to the beat of the song playing in the shop. You’re the man who types something, laughs just once and then carries on as if you hadn’t done a single thing.” You kept your words calm despite the slight stumble.

Yet the smile on his face continued to grow and it set something in your heart on fire at the joy in his features, his eyes lighting up.

“You’re observant, but then I guess you’d have to be for someone who people watches.” At this, you grinned at the playful accusation.

“To come in and shut away from the world, it’s a small relief in a life of stress.” He understood your words, knowing how important it was to shut away from time to time and just allow yourself to be. He did it often enough.

“Not many people understand that need. It’s why I like finding places like this coffee shop is a dream because people don’t come out of their way for something like this. It’s hidden enough that the only people who find it are the ones who need it.”

A smile blossomed across your face as the two of you continued to talk until you had to go.

For the rest of the day, Ashton had the biggest smile on his face.

The following day, he decided to sit in your seat, to try and understand your fascination with people watching. The people who did walk by, seemed to distract his mind, but it opened new avenues to explore.

And when you arrived, sitting in your customary seat, he spoke up.

“So many lives walk past and you never know what’s going on in them. The little old lady across the street, I’ve decided has been waiting for a bus that changed the route and she never found out.”

He hadn’t expected the bubble of laughter to escape your lips as you realised the small game he’d fallen into.

“The biker that’s sat on his bike is waiting to hear from a job interview. He’s a baker that only bakes cakes for birthday parties. This interview was for a bakery that only specialises in weddings.”

More laughter.

You kept up a quiet commentary for him whilst he continued to write, pausing and chipping in his own two cents which you thoroughly enjoyed.

And slowly this became normal for the two of you. He found more enjoyment writing with you sat beside him, crafting up little stories about the people that walked by the coffee shop, oblivious to the pair of fast made friends creating absurd stories to pass the time.

He stopped dreading his deadlines and began to enjoy the moments of peace and joy you gifted him with those small stories.

Some days you were quiet, and he never pushed you to open up to him. Instead he told you elaborate tales of the characters he’d created, some of them over the top and others just entirely out of character from the character’s you knew. It always got a giggle.

That was when he told you about how he started writing when he was younger because he always told his siblings stories. Even as a child, his imagination was one which made elaborate stories about a prince who ran to save his life, teaming up with bandits to save his kingdom or ones of a princess running from her home and boarding a pirate ship to escape from her life.

And so you told him the tales of how you used to sit in cafes after school, waiting for your mom to finish her shifts. You’d make up stories of the groups of people as a child and it was something you continued to do as an adult. It was a moment of comfort and he understood that entirely.

Suddenly his routine had been changed in the best ways. He enjoyed the moments with you, and he realised that if he kept it up, he knew that he was heading down the route that he so often wrote it was like an old friend, that familiar feeling of comfort.

The two of you had become so comfortable in your friendship and part of him wanted to push it to the next step. You’d been apart of his life for so long. The first few months was simply ships passing in the night, seeing each other but never really meeting. And then you collided and he enjoyed every second of the following year.

Seasons came and went, as did the staff. But you two were constantly sat together, talking. He still took his week off after a deadline and you still took days away. Both of you went on holidays and lived lives separately, but found a way to tell each other about those things you both got to enjoy.

Ashton knew he was falling in love, in one of the more cliche ways that he’d written often enough. Yet for all the words that he could write, the words that flowed from his fingertips to paper-or at least fingertips to keyboard-he could not find the words to tell you, or to even invite a discussion for him to admit that he had feelings for you.

After weeks of agonising over how to ask you out on a date, you took the problem from his hands and gifted him with a solution that had him laughing.

“So with all of those days that we’ve been meeting up for these drinks, do they count as dates or are we beyond that?” And it caught him so off guard that he laughed.

“Would you turn down my question for a dinner date with you?” He braved the question now that he had an idea of where your thoughts about the two of you lay.

He watched as the shyness that he first witnessed when you stood at his table, waiting for his attention before asking to sit down, reared up.

“I’d never turn down that kind of date with you Ash. All you have to do is ask.” You finally murmured, a hand reaching over to take his. And his heart sped up, a blush building on his cheeks.

“Please may I take you to dinner tonight, say 7?”

“I’d love that.” His heart exploded with excitement mixed with relief as he shifted the hold of your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips gently.

“Then I do believe it's a date.” The blinding smile you gave him told the butterflies in his heart and stomach that you were definitely worth it.

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monsieur-hadrien · 4 years

Text

Quarantine Harry Potter Fanfiction *READING LIST*

I’ve spent the past months reading copious amounts of fanfiction and now my amount of AO3 bookmarks is absurd. I really need to share these because if I don’t I think I might implode. Drarry-centric but not all!

These are in no particular order nor is there a particular time frame that these were all posted. I have a little bit of everything in here just you wait.

On Punching Gods and Absentee Dads by Enigmaris

56 Chapters, 247k Words, Complete, no slash, T Rating

Marvel, Norse Mythology, Harry Potter Crossover

TW: Past Abandonment

Harry finds out that his dad is alive, has been the whole time. Instead of being overjoyed, Harry's disgusted. His dad left earth and abandoned his friends. Every painful thing he's ever gone through can be traced back to one man. Now Harry's got super strength he can't control and an almost unnecessary amount of magical power. His dad might be living it up with the Avengers now but not for long. With the help of his friends, Harry comes up with a plan for revenge. Get ready Avengers, Harry's out to punch a god.

We’re starting off strong with a Marvel crossover fanfic wow. Who knew that crossovers could be done tastefully as 2013 Wattpad kind of ruined it for us. However, this fic changed my mind! This fic is funny as fuck and is just a goodass time. I love a good multi-chapter fic (as you’ll soon see) and this one is a showstopper.

The Man Who Lived by sebastianL

42 Chapters, 254k Words, Complete, Draco/Harry, E Rating

TW: Major Character Death, Graphic Deptictions of Violence

Draco breaks a cup, and one thing leads to another. A story of redemption, tattoos, dreams, mistakes, green eyes, long conversations, and copious amounts of coffee.

With all of the Black Lives Matter protests happening right now, I think that this fic is super relevant. Draco has moved to New York City and is working as a receptionist at a tattoo shop and a mentor for inner city kids, but he accidentally gets forced to work out his differences with Harry, who at this point hates his guts. This fic is pretty serious, tackling themes of mental health, suicide, and police brutality. Every OC in this story is completely lovable and I cried my eyes out many times. When people ask me for a fic reccomendation this is the one I give people. Dare I say that this is my all-time favorite fic.

Warm Bodies by Betty_Hazel

Work in Progress, 37 Chapters as of 6/12/2020, 108k Words, Draco/Harry, E Rating

TW: D/s Dynamics, Graphic Porn, Dubious Relationship with Food

Draco Malfoy has spent his whole life wanting to go down on his knees for other men, and that's by far the least of the depraved things he fantasises about. He's wanted it all for so long that he's stopped believing that there might be someone out there who might be able to give it all to him; it comes as something of a surprise to find that maybe Harry Potter can, and that maybe Harry's looking for something too.

ALRIGHT MY PORN LOVERS THIS ONE IS FOR YOU! Don’t lie I know you’re horny. Somehow this fic is so fucking gorgeous and sweet yet so sinfully hot. It’s literally two boys who have never felt like their emotional needs have been satisfied learning to help and love each other like how much more wholesome does it get. I mean it’s all fine and wholesome until you get to the kinky sex which is WONDERFULLY WRITTEN MIGHT I ADD! I always say that if porn can make you feel something other than just horny, you’ve found a winner, and this story does just that.

Definitely check all the tags and I mean all the tags before you read this, but this is definitely one of my favorite porn with plot stories.

Running On Air by eleventy7

17 Chapters, 75k Words, Complete, Draco/Harry, T Rating

TW: No Archive Warnings

Draco Malfoy has been missing for three years. Harry is assigned the cold case and finds himself slowly falling in love with the memories he collects.

Might I just say that classics are considered classics for a reason. This is one of those stories that has the vibe of high school summer after senior year where all you do is try to escape reality and figure out your place in the world. While the plot is wonderful and the characters are great, I think what shines the brightest from this story is the writing style. It’s so enchanting and poetic with the best one-liners that make your heart hurt. On my AO3 bookmark i captioned it, “This just ripped my soul in half and restitched it together again,” and I still stand by that.

Lokison (Series) and How To Train Your Godling (Series) by sifsshadowheart

Main Story (Lokison): 33 Chapters, 244k Words, Completed, Harry/Various Characters, E Rating

14 Spinoffs/ Sequel Stories, Completed, Harry/Various, Various Ratings

Norse Mythology, Harry Potter, Percy Jackson, Various Fandoms Crossover

TW: Major Character Death, Graphic Violence, Underage Sex, Spiralling Mental Health

James and Lily Potter had a secret, one which led to Thanatos saving young Harry from a dreary life with the Dursleys and changed the face of the Second British Wizarding War before it ever began.

This story feels much more like a 12 season television show than a two hour movie if you know what I mean. The plot is pretty slow going but the character development and interation makes it worth it. The story blends the lore and events of the HP and PJO to make a completely new story without making it feel like a goddamn recap. The reader follows Harry from when he’s young all the way into adulthood and it’s a fun time to watch him grow as a character and bond with his parental figures. Also some of the spinoffs are really wild and I never would have thought of the pairings but they just work somehow?? My personal favorite spinoff is the Pirates of Caribbean/Calypso and Leo arc like HELLO?! hot pirates. The total word count of the two series is 465k so beware it takes a hot second to chug through this one.

This Worship of an Extinct Fire by Lomonaaeren

Oneshot, 30k Words, Draco/Harry, M Rating

TW: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Emotional and Physical Abuse, Deppression

Unspeakable Draco Malfoy has planned for nearly six months how to take down Thomas Linwood, a man who has discovered the secret of converting wizard bodies to pure magic. He was prepared for anything--except the discovery of the missing Harry Potter in Linwood's compound.

This one, I don’t know how it’s not considered a classic. I’ve seen it floating around on drarry tumblr and wow is it good. I especially like the detailed magic system and mechanics that Draco is investigating. How the author managed to have so much detailed and gracefully planned out backstory in 30k words is beyond me. Also gentle Dracoo Malfoy is my favorite Draco Malfoy :) absolute angel mode.

Little Compton Street (One Rainy Night in Soho) by LLAP15 and Writcraft

Oneshot, 66k Words, Draco/Harry, Past Sirius/James, E Rating

TW: Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Light D/s Dynamics, References to Cancer, References to HIV/AIDS

Draco is lonely, Harry hates the press and it won’t stop raining in London. Harry discovers a magical street that’s close to disappearing forever and Draco realises he’s one rainy night in Soho away from finding everything he’s been searching for.

This fic is, in every sense, a masterpiece. Especially for pride month, the story surrounding LGBTQIA+ activism, the AIDS Epidemic of the 80s, and the gentrification of historically queer communities is one that should be read by everyone. Every single place, OC, and historic event has real world ties and is historically accurate, making this fic even more enchanting. Everything about this fic is graceful and slow burning I can’t help but fall in love with it. I’ve only seen this fic once on HP tumblr, but I feel like it should be considered a classic as it is truly a moving piece. This fic is one of the biggest reasons why I became so enthralled with LGBT history and am writing a fic that takes place in a wizarding version of the AIDS epidemic.

Sensitive Touch by Raserwolf

45 Chapters, 194k Words, Complete, Draco/Harry, E Rating

TW: Racism and Racial Slurs, Homophobic Slurs, Ablism and Ablist Slurs, Rape and Sexual Assault, Sensory Overloads and Mental Breakdowns, Extreme Bullying and Hate Crime, Past Abuse, Anxiety Disorders, PTSD wow this is a long list

When Draco Malfoy encounters a struggling and frustrated Harry desperately trying to tie his shoes after a meltdown in the Great Hall, his curiosity regarding the incident leads him to seek the help of the two people closest to Harry: Ron and Hermione.

After even they are shocked to hear the extent of Harry's issues, though Hermione had her suspicions, he discovers more about the man than he ever thought he knew before.

As a Neurotypical, I found this fic to be absolutely wonderful. I don’t know much about the typical traits of those who are one the autism spectrum and how they affect their everyday lives, but from what I was reading in the comments from those who are on the spectrum or who have family who are, this fic was pretty accurate and realistic. Harry, who lives with aspergers, goes without a known diagnosis until 8th year and it’s just heightened by his PTSD and anxiety and ugh I just want to hug the boy. The story follows Harry and Draco and the rest of the 8th year gang through the year and has multiple arcs in which the wizarding world are just dumbass bitches who can’t fucking seem to accept people for who they are. Not only is Harry on the spectrum but he’s also Desi with a purpose and not just mentioned and forgotten which is wonderful. The boys go through a lot of trauma in the story but there’s also a lot of teeth-rotting fluff that I live for. This is one of the fics that I have read and reread because I love it so much.

This definitely is not my full list I have a ton more stories in my bookmarks if you are curious. I’ll probably post a part two to this just cause I have so much and read so often. These, however, are definitely the biggest highlights.

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wistfulcynic · 5 years

Video

“...for we all have stripes, and we all have horns, we all have scales, tails, manes, claws and thorns

and here in the dark is where new worlds are born...”

It’s Halloween, when all the weird and wondrous beasts of the world creep out of the shadows and throw themselves one hell of a party.

For Emma Swan and Killian Jones, witch and shapeshifter respectively, it’s a chance to kick back, get high, and watch the mayhem unfold...

Rating: M Words: 1200 (Chapter One) On AO3

To accompany this brilliant piece of art from @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 for the @csrolereversal, and also I think suiting today’s @cshalloweek theme of Fright Night, we have witch!Emma and shapeshifter!Killian, and a Halloween party that’s literally out of this world.

come sit at our feast

Of course we’ve all heard the stories. Centuries of them, handed down, tales of things that belong to the darkness and the eerie edges of this world. Tales of ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night. Of witches and goblins and banshees and djinn, of wendigo and yaoguai, mokèlé mbèmbé and yara-ma-yha-who. They come from every culture and in every land we tell of them. We sing them in verse and scribe them in books, we paint them and carve them and we hide behind our hands in darkened rooms when they leap out from nowhere on our TV screens and we scream with all the breath in our lungs though we’ll later swear we knew it was coming.

We love the stories. We love to be spooked, scared even, love the pounding rush of adrenaline through our veins, our hearts racing, terrified yet always safe, knowing that it’s not real, not really.

Except when it is.

—

She’d put the scarecrow on her lawn. That was the first thing he noticed. Smelt it, actually—pine resin and straw and sweet decay wafting down the darkening streets from at least three blocks away. The scarecrow was on her lawn and there were pumpkins in her windows that had faces.

He paused just outside the gate, a large black dog with chalcedony eyes, one with the shadows until he chose to emerge from them, always felt but rarely seen. At least, not by most.

“This is your fault,” said the scarecrow, in a voice raspy with disuse. Its dead-eyed face turned stiffly on its neck and glared at him with all the feeble power of its clumsy features. Its ratty top hat teetered on its cloth head. “You told her to ‘lean into it.’”

Brightly coloured leaves adorned the porch and candles lit the way along the path that led to it. The gate swung on creaky hinges in the chill breeze. It seemed she had ‘leaned into it’ with a vengeance.

He cocked his head at the scarecrow with the closest thing to a shrug a dog can manage then trotted through the gate and along the candlelit path, ignoring the hollow glare of the eyes that followed him as the scarecrow spun on its wooden stake. If Jefferson didn’t wish to be displayed on her lawn like wares in a secondhand shop then he shouldn’t have messed with her.

Everyone knows you don’t mess with a witch.

She stood in her doorway, framed by the flickering glow of firelight, holding a besom broomstick and wearing a black and pointy hat at a jaunty angle on her head. He wished he could roll his eyes. Perhaps she had leaned in a bit too far after all.

The trio of small girls standing bravely on the porch seemed suitably impressed. The tallest of the three, dressed as Captain America, held out her candy bag with arms that barely shook and the small princess at her side, after a nudge of encouragement, did the same. The smallest girl, almost lost in her dinosaur costume, was too interested in the dog presently absorbing light at the top of the steps to care much about candy.

“Hi,” she said, her brown eyes wide with wonder. He adopted his friendliest expression and let his tongue loll from the corner of his mouth. She giggled.

The tongue loll gets them every time.

He allowed the dinosaur to pet his ears and gave her hand a sloppy lick that had her giggling again. Captain America observed the exchange through narrowed eyes.

“Is that your dog, miss?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s definitely mine,” replied the woman in the doorway, smiling with just a few too many teeth. “He showed up as a stray a few years ago and he’s just so cute I had to keep him.”

He huffed a deep, indignant bark. {Stray indeed.}

The woman smirked at him and Captain America stumbled back, grabbing the startled princess by the sleeve of her dress and pulling her down the porch steps, but the dinosaur was unfazed. “My sister doesn’t like dogs,” she informed him in a quiet voice. “But I love them.” She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You have really pretty eyes. Like the sky.”

“Eva, come on,” called Captain America, who was by then halfway down the path, clutching her candy bag tightly in one hand and the princess’s sleeve in the other. “Let’s get out of here.”

The dinosaur kissed his head. “Bye, puppy,” she said, and ran after her sisters.

He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had called him “puppy.”

The woman was leaning against the doorjamb, watching the proceedings with great amusement. “I see you’ve made a new friend.”

{What can I say, love? Women adore me, even the extinct reptilian ones.}

She laughed. “Well, you’d better come in before any triceratops show up. You know what they’re like.” She set her bowl of candy down on a chair next to the door, and with a wave of her hand produced a sign that read “Take one, if you dare.”

“I don’t think many more trick or treaters will show up but just in case,” she said, closing the door behind them and locking it with a flick of her wrist.

{And what if they take more than one?}

“They won’t.” She flashed him that slightly-too-toothy grin. “At least not if they know what’s good for them. Catching sight of her reflection in the hallway mirror she frowned and snapped her fingers. Her casual jeans and sweater, the loose ponytail and the absurd pointy hat disappeared, replaced by a dress that hugged her slender form, short and strapless and blood red. Riotous curls tumbled over her shoulders and down her back, and her eyes were smoky black. She smoothed the dress over her hips with a satisfied nod, then turned to him. “Are you going to go like that?”

Spears of bright white light rose from the ground, whirling in a dizzying spiral around him, and when they spun away the dog was a man, with hair as black as his fur and the same blue eyes. “You prefer me like this, then, love?”

“I do,” she purred, pulling him towards her by the collar of his leather jacket and into a kiss that fired his blood. He grabbed her hips to draw her closer, backing her against the wall and plundering her mouth. It was far too long since he tasted her, that rich, dark flavour headier than the finest rum. She nipped at his lips with enough force to sting, challenge glinting in her eyes. With a hungry growl he fisted his hand in her hair, tugging her head back to return the favour with his teeth on her neck.

“You know, we don’t have to go,” he murmured against her skin. “We could stay here.”

“We could,” she gasped, in a breathless voice that made him ache. “Or we could go, get high as a pair of kites then come back here and fuck until sunrise.”

He ground himself against her, chuckling at her helpless moan, then stepped back with a smirk. “As you wish, my love. Lead the way.”

For anyone interested, the full text of the amazing poem quoted in the summary: If you are a monster, stand up. If you are a monster, a trickster, a fiend, If you’ve built a steam-powered wishing machine If you have a secret, a dark past, a scheme, If you kidnap maidens or dabble in dreams Come stand by me. If you have been broken, stand up. If you have been broken, abandoned, alone If you have been starving, a creature of bone If you live in a tower, a dungeon, a throne If you weep for wanting, to be held, to be known, Come stand by me. If you are a savage, stand up. If you are a witch, a dark queen, a black knight, If you are a mummer, a pixie, a sprite, If you are a pirate, a tomcat, a wright, If you swear by the moon and you fight the hard fight, Come stand by me. If you are a devil, stand up. If you are a villain, a madman, a beast, If you are a strowler, a prowler, a priest, If you are a dragon come sit at our feast, For we all have stripes, and we all have horns, We all have scales, tails, manes, claws and thorns And here in the dark is where new worlds are born. Come stand by me.

― Catherynne M. Valente

#cs role reversal #cs halloweek #witch!Emma #shapeshifter!Killian #monster mash #come sit at our feast #allons-y-to-hogwarts-713 #profdanglaisstuff #cs fanart #cs ff #cs ff au #magic au

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possiblyimbiassed · 5 years

Text

What happened to Sherlock? Part VII – The Importance of Being Earnest (2)

This is the direct (and lengthy) continuation of Part VII in my meta series “What happened to Sherlock?”. You can find the first post of this installment here. I’m now going to continue testing my Hypothesis #7, which goes like this:

Hypothesis #7. By TFP Sherlock has managed to figure out some essential things about John and the importance of staying alive, and he has managed to get in touch with his own repressed emotions.

In the first post I tried to verify the two first statements of this hypothesis, and here I’ll focus on the third statement about repressed emotions. After the hug in TLD, Therapist!Sherlock (assuming Eurus=Sherlock) thought that John felt ‘so much better’. But then Detective!Sherlock noticed that something was still wrong; his client seemed to be channelling Satan and Faith’s note was actually ‘real’. The scenario ended with Therapist!Sherlock shooting John in the face, but in TFP we learn that this was done with a tranquilizer, so John survived. Which brings us right into:

Prediction #2: If Hypothesis #7 is true, Sherlock will have to confront his childhood trauma and the context where he chose to repress his emotions.

Sherlock really needs to stay alive for John’s sake. But how can you stay alive when Emotions are killing you? Sherlock might think the only solution is to bring them on and face them, try to beat them ‘in a death-defying act’. Which means Sherlock must go deeper still into his own mind, to face his demons.

i actually think this is the single bravest thing Sherlock does in the whole show this far. And in order to face his demons and traumatic memories, he needs to perform his Mind Theatre experiments on himself. But who’s the scientist then - who is setting up the experiments? I believe this is done by Sherlock letting someone impersonate a side of himself that he has been hiding and neglecting for a very long time, and who therefore appears to be a cold, calculating psychopath to be feared and avoided: Sister Sentiment.

@beingallmysterious said it in their very brilliant meta about Eurus representing Emotion (my bolding, the link also contains the additions):

“The final problem then is reason vs sentiment. How do we live with emotions? Should we lock them up as Mycroft recommends? Sherlock has tried this and it didn’t work. So what’s Sherlock’s solution in the end? He lives with her. He accepts her. He becomes whole again. Reason and sentiment”.

This is, basically, what I think TFP is about. Sherlock might believe he has to defeat and disarm Eurus, but this story tells him (and us) that he rather has to embrace her, accept her as a valid part of himself. So let’s keep on running the scenarios.

TFP, Scenario 1: What happened back then?

Inspiration: It seems like this scenario starts when Mycroft is forced to talk about his and Sherlock’s upbringing and their ‘lost sister’ Eurus. We go back to their childhood and the mansion where the Holmes family used to live. So some of this might be based upon Sherlock’s real memories. But there’s also a resemblance to certain horror movies, which I doubt is a coincidence. I rather believe this is Sherlock’s way of deflecting traumatic memories he’d rather not get into. He uses characters from these movies as ‘actors’, with scary, supernatural powers representing Eurus, such as Orphan:

Or The Ring:

As a bonus, this girl from The Ring (Samara is her name, by the way) also happens to come out of a well (see discussion on the 5th scenario of TFP at the end of this post) and she climbs through the screen of the telly, a bit like Eurus slips through the suddenly non-existent glass wall at Sherrinford.

[Running a scenario where Sherlock and John scare Mycroft into telling the truth about their childhood, when Sherlock used to play pirates with his dog while little Eurus played alone, and they had ‘honey for tea’ at Musgrave Hall. But Eurus seemed to want Sherlock dead and set the mansion on fire, and in present time 221B gets blown up by Eurus’ ‘patience grenade’]

Result: We learn that little Eurus (=Sherlock) set the house on fire and was then ‘taken away’ to some un-named ‘suitable place’, where she started a new fire. And then Uncle Rudy ‘took care of things’; she was declared dead but secretly sent to Sherrinford. In spite of all the absurd creepiness (bizarre clowns, explosions etc), present day Sherlock’s search for his sister leads them to Sherrinford, an isolated prison island way out at sea, where she is (supposedly) locked up. And since John was only sedated at the end of TLD, he’s now with Sherlock again. But well there, the nightmare continues; Sister Sentiment takes over their free will pretty quickly.

Discussion: @sagestreet has made an interesting analysis based on the idea that the memory sticks that keep popping up every now and then in the show represent Sherlock’s “’lost’ memory (about his traumatic past and subsequently repressed gay identity)” @sagestreet theorizes that this ‘lost’ memory might be based on the experience that “Sherlock’s dad was in a gay relationship with his best friend and something went very, very wrong”. And, furthermore, what if this friend was ‘Uncle Rudy’, possibly the brother of Sherlock’s mother?

This idea would be interesting to explore further, and I replied to @sagestreet‘s meta with some more speculation: A triangle drama like this might have had an emotional impact on the kids, perhaps enough to make the older Mycroft ‘abandon’ his own feelings and try to make his little brother do the same. But if little Sherlock (=Eurus) had a too emotional personality to even manage to distinguish one feeling from the other in this mess...

...he might have confused the situation of jealousy, guilt, anger, betrayal etc. in the family with his Dad’s sexual orientation. And it all might have been mixed up into internalized homophobia, where Sherlock would blame himself for having the same kind of feelings as his Dad, which would make him think he risked dragging others into pain and misery.

So what did actually happen? I don’t think we (and Sherlock) really get the answers in TFP, but we do get to feel some of the emotions connected to it, and that’s at least a beginning. Was there a suicide in Sherlock’s family, connected to a possible triangle drama? Or was an impending ‘scandal’ with secret-keeping in a chaotic family situation enough to mess up Sherlock’s emotional life? Was young Sherlock sent to a boarding school? Mental institution? Well, I do hope S5 will offer satisfactory answers to this.

TFP, Scenario 2: Is caring an advantage?

Inspiration: I think this is a key question for Sherlock, something he has been mulling over since he realized that his attitude doesn’t sit well with John, and maybe was the last straw in making John abandon him for someone else. John has been questioning Sherlock’s humanity at least since TGG, and possibly even earlier. If Sherlock did indeed ruin himself on drugs while reading John’s blog after the wedding (as I suggested earlier in this meta series), I think it’s relevant that this is how he came across on the blog after TGG:

So yes - this is one of the main problems that Sherlock needs to investigate in his Mind Theatre to find out what went wrong between him and John.

But Sherlock’s statement is contradictory (which I believe John tends to miss, at least consciously). Because trying to save people’s lives already means caring. Sherlock’s actions prove that he already does care about people - why otherwise would he work on crime solving? There are many less humanity-serving ‘games’ he could play and puzzles he could solve to keep himself entertained. So Sherlock definitely does care, but I think his real problem is that he doesn’t permit himself to feel it. Because feeling compassion means exposing himself to other people’s suffering - and his own. Sister Sentiment will make him suffer.

This is what Sherlock has been told, probably by Mycroft, in an attempt to protect his overly emotional little brother from the cruelty of life. The question is, though: Not an advantage for whom? Caring certainly is an advantage for the people you care about. It’s just that it might make you suffer.

[Running the scenario. For the first time in this story Sherlock exposes himself to his own experiments, rather than someone else. These are ethical dilemmas and he finally gets to the point where he’s sincere enough with himself to really face these demons. Because he used to hide from them before, which has deprived him of John. And - as @beingallmysterious said in their meta about Eurus - this is what Sentiment does to you: “Eurus puts Sherlock through torturous mind games. Doesn’t emotion do the exact same thing?” ]

Results and discussion: In Sister Sentiment’s first experiment Sherlock is supposed to make John shoot the Governor of Sherrinford, supposedly to stop Eurus from murdering his wife (which reminds me of a manipulation scheme from the mentalist Derren Brown (X). In his show ‘Push’ Brown tries to manipulate a guy, by group think and submission to authority figures, to ‘commit murder’ and push someone off a building). Sherlock seems very pragmatic about this; we don’t see him hesitate and he’s not even trying to refuse. He keeps playing entirely 'by the rules’:

But what if the ‘rules’ are wrong? I think this mirrors how Sherlock, in a way, made John shoot the cabbie through the window in ASiP. If Sherlock had turned in the serial killer to the police instead of joining him to play mind games and prove himself clever, John wouldn’t have had to kill a person, which is a heavy weight to bear. In this scenario it gets clear that John doesn’t want to shoot someone, not even for the ‘greater good’. And in the end the Governor shoots himself to save his wife (who subsequently gets shot anyway). But the link to ASiP is clearly there, in my opinion; why else would they show us this bullet hole, which very much resembles the one where John shot the cabbie?

The next experiment is the three Garrideb brothers who are kept tied-up and dangling over the abyss. This is (supposedly) about solving a crime puzzle, and Sherlock quickly deduces who of the three brothers had committed the murder. But it doesn’t matter to Euros who the guilty is; she kills all three Garridebs anyway. Which resembles the result when Sherlock in TGG focuses a bit too much on the puzzles, without considering the victims (which enrages John). The blind lady had to spend a long time suffering in complete agony, so maybe she could no longer think clearly and started describing the criminal, who then detonated the bomb. Caring about the victim might have been an advantage for solving the case, and I think the important thing was that Sherlock’s cleverness wasn’t enough; the lady and a whole lot of other innocent people died anyway. But at least his compassion might have lessened the time of suffering for the victim. What would have happened if Sherlock had refused to condemn any of the Garridebs? We don’t know, because he thought he could save two of them by solving the puzzle and condemning the guilty one.

In the end it didn’t matter what Sherlock’s brain told him to do in these ‘experiments’; the victims died anyway. Which means caring about them at least wouldn’t have hurt. But I have a feeling that showing compassion in TGG would have solved much of the communication problems between Sherlock and John. Which I hope Sherlock finally begins to understand after TFP.

TFP, Scenario 3: What will happen if Sherlock confesses his love to John?

inspiration: I think this is one of Sherlock’s hardest tasks, because he has nothing to draw from. I think he knows - subconsciously - from TLD that he can’t bring John to ‘confess’ his feelings for Sherlock, unless Sherlock takes the first step. But having repressed his feelings for so long, this isn’t easy for Sherlock. He needs to learn to say the words, yes, but this isn’t enough; he has to actually mean it. Because if he tries to fool John in any way (like he cowardly did in the underground case in TEH), or slip away from it as in the Tarmac scene in HLV, it’s only going to hurt John further and destroy his trust. So that’s why I think Eurus (=Sherlock) sets up this experiment. He needs Molly as a mirror for John, because he isn’t ready to admit this to John’s face just yet.

[Running the scenario, involving a phone call to Molly with a threat of blowing her up if Sherlock can’t have a confession from her]

Result: It turns out that Molly (=John) won’t have any of this BS any more; it’s time for Sherlock to come clean.

This is not about protecting John, or any other practical or ‘external’ reason for committing to him. It’s the point of no return, the moment of pure and simple honesty. “Tell John the truth” – that’s the mission. And finally, he does.

Discussion: This scenario is where I think the quote from Oscar Wilde might come in handy.

The title of the story that John, Mycroft and Sherlock are talking about is ‘The importance of being Earnest’. I’m not a native English speaker, but the word ‘earnest’ has several meanings, as far as I know. For example serious-minded, solemn, sober. But also heartfelt, sincere and impassioned. And Earnest is also the (false) name of the two protagonists in Wilde’s story, hence the wordplay in the title. In this work, Wilde is depicting two friends that keep lying about who they really are and what’s their real name, in order to escape social obligations. But the subtext is quite loud that this is rather about their relationship than the women they are (supposedly) courting.

The play premiered in London in 1895, the same year as Oscar Wilde was imprisoned and sentenced to two years of hard labour for “gross indecency” (= basically for being gay). And also the same year that has been re-hashed in this show since John’s blog got stuck on 1895 hits in ASiB.

Anyway, this scenario is a key point; it’s where I believe Sherlock finally breaks and starts allowing himself to feel and react emotionally. Sherlock sees 'I love you’ as a defeat and Eurus tells him that he has made more harm than good. But I think he’s on the right track now, because he’s letting himself feel.

And smashing the coffin might mean that he has actually found the way to save John Watson. Save him from suicide, because that’s what I believe the coffin means, symbolically: the death of John.

TFP, Scenario 4: Heart or brain?

Inspiration: I’m not sure where exactly Sherlock draws from with this one, but this seems to be a nagging question that he has been wrestling with for some time now. In Eurus’ fourth experiment in Sherrinford, Sherlock still keeps playing the game on her terms, by accepting to choose between John and Mycroft; metaphorically heart vs brain. It seems like Sherlock has to either keep his brilliant brain and cut off his heart again, or go by his heart, which will make him lose his head and go insane.

[running the fourth model, involving a gun and a choice]

Result: For a moment, it looks like Sherlock is actually going to choose the heart option and shoot Mycroft, who tries to provoke him to do this. But Sherlock now - for the first time in this story - skips the game and goes for a third option instead: killing himself. Again. Which seems to very much be Moriarty’s (= homophobia’s) goal with this.

But it doesn’t work, because taking his own life is not the solution Eurus wants, so she doesn’t let him. Sherlock gets sedated, and his choice (to keep both brain and heart) only leads to another prison, where he’s surrounded by old family photos and a dog bowl (=memories). But breaking free from this and solving the Musgrave Ritual is (apparently) the solution.

Discussion: This choice could have been lengthy, but since Eurus (=Sherlock) aborts this scenario rather quickly, let’s just jump to the next one.

Scenario 5: How can Sherlock find the Truth?

The little girl on the plane, whom Sherlock has been trying to communicate with since early on in the episode, is lonely and desperate, and Sherlock is supposed to talk her down, to guide her towards the ground so she can land safely. But we also know that Mycroft (=Sherlock’s brain) was actually planning to let her crash the plane ‘for the greater good’ of other people’s safety.

So, are you telling the truth, Sherlock? I’m not so sure about that actually... And did the grown-ups really tell you the truth about certain things when you were a kid? You do seem to doubt it.

Inspiration: Well, once again I suspect that Oscar Wilde might have been an inspiration for this experiment; “Truth is rarely pure and never simple”. But the girl on the plane might also be very much representing how Sherlock is feeling; he might have been withhold truth in his past, so he opted to seek for it himself, always, by using his brain and powers of deduction. But he feels alone and scared, up in his ‘ivory tower’.

[Running a scenario involving a puzzle based on Eurus’ song; is it the solution to this puzzle?]

Result: The little girl is, it turns out, actually Eurus (=Sherlock), who is feeling lost high up in the sky, unable to land with a sleeping driver. Finding Eurus’ “room” by solving the song puzzle means finding the truth. Which means Sherlock can finally save John from the well he’s drowning in.

Discussion: [Ironically enough, in the midst of all this (righteous) rage over the big ‘Purge’ of tumblr, I stumbled over something that I wonder if it’s not a double irony? Or a triple irony?

The thing is, that seeing this post about the tumblr censors flagging a 19:th century painting of the “Truth coming out of her well to shame mankind” (X), actually happened to give me something of an epiphany.]

This painting is from 1896 and it’s made by the French artist Jean-Léon Gérôme. You can read more about Gérôme’s work and see this and other of his paintings in this article here. This is the story (my bolding):

“At this time, Gérôme painted a series of works showing the personification of Truth. First, she was shown as a nude at the bottom of a well, either lying on the ground, or standing with a mirror in her hand.”

“Truth Coming out of her Well to Shame Mankind (1896) is based on a quotation from Democritus, “Of a truth we know nothing, for truth is in a well” (or, more literally, ‘in an abyss’), but knowing that reference is of little help in understanding these paintings. Gérôme had given one of the earlier paintings the title of Mendacibus et histrionibus occisa in puteo jacet alma Veritas, which translates as ‘The nurturer Truth lies in a well, having been killed by liars and actors’. In this last version, she has climbed out of the well, and instead of bearing the customary mirror, she brandishes a whip with which to scourge us.”

How many mirrors have we seen in this show by now? I think I lost count already in the unaired Pilot, but I wood guess at least some 50-ish. The point I want to make here, however, is that I believe the Truth Coming Out is central in BBC Sherlock. And in this fifth scenario we have two characters that are trapped in a well, keeping Truth hidden to the world:

Young Victor Trevor (Sherlock’s mate from college in ACD canon)...

...and adult John Watson.

One of them never came out; he was ‘killed by liars and actors’, people who refused to see the Truth. So something might have happened with Victor, which contributed to Sherlock shutting down his emotions.

But the other one did come out, didn’t he?

He literally did come out of his well, and he did it with Sherlock’s help. John isn’t exactly naked at the end of TFP, and he isn’t brandishing a whip (that’s Sherlock’s job - right? ;) ), so apparently John isn’t going to shame us. But John is indeed Sherlock’s Truth. If Sherlock is honest with himself, if he’s earnest, i think he must sooner or later admit exactly what John means to him. And John is wearing a blanket, just as Sherlock was after John Saved him in ASiP.

So if John is going to come out in S5, I think it’s perfectly foreshadowed here. And if he does, he’ll bring Truth with him, the true character of their relationship (which is also signaled by the codes of this episode). But it has to be with Sherlock’s help; Sherlock needs to take the first step to help him. This is the first time in S4 that Sherlock actually seems to manage to save John Watson. And he solves the puzzle by realizing that the girl on the plane is Eurus, who desperately needs a hug. Sherlock needs to embrace his own emotions, be OK with them and let them exist at the pair of his rational thinking.

Scenario #6: Does it matter who you really are?

Inspiration: A DVD is in focus here - not a memory stick this time - and it carries a message from ‘Mary’, just like the one at the end of TST, and the ‘unsolved’ (stabbed) case on Sherlock’s mantelpiece in TLD. But should Sherlock actually listen to her?

[The last scenario is a sort of ‘epilogue’ to the events in Sherrinford, where things seem to have ‘straightened up’ again.]

Result: After Musgrave, Eurus is locked up in Sherrinford again; apparently Sherlock still considers his emotional self as being too dangerous to let loose, and now she can’t even speak any more. But we also see Sherlock in a process of healing; he rebuilds 221B with the help of John, and he starts meeting Sister Sentiment regularly, communicating with her directly through the violin. And, as @loveismyrevolution commented here, the beautiful piece they are playing together is called “Who you really are”(X).

“What I try to say is that Sherlock’s emotions are that intense that they must be kept in charge and they are still locked within himself (Sherrinford), but he’s aware of them, is in contact with them, acknowledges them to the outside world and it makes him whole again”.

Discussion: 221B now has a slightly new dressing; some furniture have more rounded edges, and there’s an infant to take care of. Sherlock and John both seems happy with this. Both Greg and Molly pop in, and apparently Sherlock and John are solving crimes together again. But why is Mrs Hudson going around spraying the flat with aerosol?

The last (and only) time we saw aerosol in this show was the poisonous, fear-inducing fog at Baskerville and Dewer’s Hollow in THoB. Does this mean that the poisonous homophobia is still around? (I’m going by the metaphors in @sagestreet‘s Follow-the-dog meta here, that the hallucinogenic fog in THoB represents homophobia). Well, to me it definitely seems so, since this important issue still isn’t addressed - far from it, actually. And what about Sherlock facing Death (=Appointment in Samara)? The skull on the wall still seems to be glowing in one of the dull colours it was displaying before 221B got blown up, and John still appears concerned:

While I still believe, on both the meta level and as in-show ‘reality’, that the Holmes character is dying, at least Sherlock now seems to have faced his demons and thereby got in touch with his own, buried, emotions. But the scenario is very much dominated by ‘Mary’, whose message is two-edged:

On the one hand she is hinting at what John and Sherlock could become without her. But on the other hand she claims that it doesn’t matter who they really are, and then she calls them “My Baker Street Boys”. Which I take to mean, that we could have our Holmes character two ways: Either we can keep it on a closeted, ‘myths-and-legends’ level as ‘Mary’ says, where Sherlock Holmes is an immortal, indestructible character. But if he can’t die, and he can’t fall in love, neither does he truly appear to be alive, right? The other option is that Sherlock and John need to get rid of her once and for all. Once 'Mary’s messages are no longer dominating, a time may come when Sherlock and John can become something very different from the emotionally repressed characters they remain until the end of this scenario, which has them frozen in time. They might actually come to life far more than in any adaptation this far. There’s a potential there, but also a threat. If it indeed matters ‘who you really are’, I believe this conflict has to be tackled in the next upcoming episodes.

OK, sorry for this meta-marathon, I hop it was at least barely readable. :) In the next installment I’ll analyse ‘Mary’s role more in-depth, trying to test predictions from this hypothesis:

Hypothesis #8. John is not the father of ‘Mary’s baby.

Tagging some people who might be interested: @raggedyblue @ebaeschnbliah @sarahthecoat @gosherlocked @loveismyrevolution @sagestreet @tjlcisthenewsexy @elldotsee @88thparallel @devoursjohnlock @sherlock-overflow-error

#TFP #what happened to Sherlock?#truth is in a well

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welllpthisishappening · 6 years

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Beggars and Blighters and Ne'er Do-Well Cads

Emma Swan is just trying to make sure her kid's birthday goes off without a hitch, but the world doesn't appear to care. At all.

Because she's got no idea where the cupcakes are, and Mary Margaret is apparently threatening parents, and there's some kind of pirate standing in front of her with a goddamn hook and a smile that should be illegal.

The world is a giant joke. Happy birthday, Henry.

Rating: As fluffy as the buttercream frosting on the pirate-themed cupcakes. Word Count: Like 8K and change. AN: IT IS @katie-dub‘s BIRTHDAY, INTERNET! GO FORTH AND TELL HER HOW WONDERFUL SHE IS! Because it is a fact. Katie is wonderful. She is the sweetest and most supportive and so absurdly talented it’s ridiculous. Plus she’s the greatest mom I know and she deserves all the nice things. Seriously go tell her how fantastic she is. Happy birthday, babe <3 <3 <3 Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll

“Where are the cupcakes?” “What?” “The cupcakes,” Emma shouts, drawing a few curious stares because they’re at some park by the water with some sort of wooden castle that she’s pretty certain is several different hazards, and she has no idea where the goddamn cupcakes are. “There are supposed to be cupcakes here,” she continues, pointing at the empty spot on one of the half a dozen picnic tables behind her. Her voice still isn’t quite even.

And Mary Margaret looks a little scared of her.

That’s fair.

But it’s been a ridiculous week and a half and moving just before Henry’s eighth birthday in the middle of the school year suddenly seems like the worst idea Emma has ever had – even if Storybrooke is the perfect place to raise a kid and the Sheriff gig inexplicably pays more than she was ever going to make doing anything in Boston and the apartment they found is only a few streets away from Mary Margaret and David and the onion rings at Granny’s are…

It doesn’t matter.

The only thing that matters is finding the goddamn cupcakes.

“What kind of cupcakes are we talking here?” Mary Margaret asks lightly, and Emma has to bite her tongue to stop herself from sighing because she’s absolutely freaked out her best friend.

She hopes none of the kids break anything on that wooden monstrosity.

She hopes the kids show up.

God.

“Birthday cupcakes,” Emma answers, but it kind of sounds like a question, and Mary Margaret’s eyebrows will not stop moving. “Because this is a birthday party.” “Ok, see, I know you’re stressed out, but you don’t have to--” “--I know, I know, M’s, I’m sorry. I just...cupcakes. Henry wanted cupcakes because cutting a cake was going to take too long and Ruby promised me there was some kind of incredible bakery on some street with a kitschy name.” Mary Margaret’s eyebrows stop moving long enough for her to narrow her eyes slightly in thought, and she laughs under her breath when she remembers. “Oh, oh, Spoonful of Sugar,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious name for a bakery in the world.

This town is ridiculous.

If every kid in Henry’s class doesn’t show up, Emma might go and arrest all of their parents.

That seems like an abuse of power.

David would probably help her.

He got her the job, so she figures it’s part of the bylaws of fellow law enforcement and friendship. She’s sure there’s a decree somewhere. Probably in the Storybrooke Town Hall. This seems like the kind of place with friendship decrees on file.

“Is this bakery run by Mary Poppins?” Emma asks, doing her best to keep the vitriol out of her voice, but Ruby promised and this party is going to suck without cupcakes. They can’t just eat BBQ all day, even if David is wearing some absurd apron with an even more absurd saying on it, and Emma kind of hates hot dogs.

Maybe she’s the one who wants the cupcakes.

“See, you think that’s funny,” Mary Margaret says. “But it’s actually run by a woman named Dorothy who is incredibly nice and really does make fantastic cupcakes.” “Yuh huh.” “That reeked of judgment.” Emma shakes her head. “No judgment. Acknowledgement. How long have Ruby and Dorothy been dating, then? And seriously what’s the name of the street this place is on? I can’t remember, but I know it was ridiculous.” Mary Margaret gapes at her, which shouldn’t make Emma feel better, but it kind of does and she clearly doesn’t belong in a place like Storybrooke.

She’s far too bitter.

“That’s not an answer, M’s,” Emma points out.

“How did you figure that out?” “Figure what out? I really can’t remember the street name. Was it something about the water? This seems like the kind of place that would have streets named like...Surf Ave.” “This is not Coney Island.” “Kids would probably come to a party at Coney Island.” Mary Margaret tilts her head, and it’s far too knowing and only slightly judgmental, but Emma supposes that comes from years of friendship and experience, and really they both just want Henry to have the best birthday an eight-year-old could possibly have.

“Coney Island is creepy now, Em,” David says, appearing out of seemingly nowhere with a tray of untoasted hamburger buns. “You can’t bring kids there. And it’s way too expensive. This is why New York is the worst.” “Yeah, tell that to my kid,” she sighs. Coney Island really is creepy though. And the parking’s a nightmare. The Cyclone always kind of freaked her out anyway.

Mary Margaret’s judgmental expression turns into something that feels a hell of a lot like pity, and there are still no cupcakes in sight. Emma is going to kill Ruby. “He understands,” Mary Margaret promises, and she might as well get that tattooed on her forehead at this point. “And the kids will show up. Who can resist a pirate-themed birthday party?”

“Did you tell kids to show up, M’s?” “What? No!”

She does a fairly good job of looking properly affronted and slightly offended, but she’s still Mary Margaret and neither one of those emotions really stick on her face, particularly when David is nodding surreptitiously behind her.

Emma’s laugh bubbles out of her, loud and honest and for the first time since she parked her bug outside the apartment that is, actually, pretty fantastic, she feels some of the tension in her muscles uncoil.

“That’s really nice, M’s,” Emma mutters. “I mean, a direct abuse of third-grade power, but also really nice.”

Mary Margaret clicks her tongue, but she’s given up on trying to look anything except protective of Emma and Henry’s collective happiness. “Whatever,” she grumbles. “David said he was going to find dirt on all of their parents if the kids didn’t come, so comparatively...”

“Turncoat,” David accuses, and they’re going to get kicked out of this park before the party is even scheduled to start.

That will probably make the questionable number of balloons taped to the wooden castle thing awkward. They must have bought out an entire party supply store.

Mary Margaret shrugs. “I’m just making sure we all know where we stand,” she says. “And that Regina said something about a town-wide decree so--” “--Wait, wait, Regina?” Emma interrupts, and she’s met with two pairs of matching wide-eyed stares. “As in your sister?” “Step-sister,” Mary Margaret corrects. “And the mayor of this town. She’s the one who made sure we could get the park. Did you not meet her husband? He’s been hanging balloons for hours on the castle.” “He bought the balloons,” David chips in, and Emma’s momentarily concerned about the distinct lack of oxygen on the entire planet.

Her lungs feel like they’re on fire.

Or that might just be the weight of her surprise.

“Your face is going to get stuck that way, Em,” David grins. He reaches forward to tap his finger on the side of her jaw, and she snaps it shut, the sound echoing in her ears and, possibly, her soul, and this town is impossible.

“People are going to show,” Mary Margaret promises, and Emma can’t really find it in her to doubt the words. “And Henry is going to be happy here. Even without the cupcakes.” “Hey!” Emma glances up to find Ruby striding towards them, several bags in her hands and a pinch between her eyebrows, and there’s suddenly a surplus of oxygen around them because she’s laughing again.

“What the hell are you guys talking about?” Ruby demands. “Did you think I was going to flake on cupcake duty?”

“Ruby, the kids,” Mary Margaret chastises, but it’s as if she didn’t even speak and Emma is far too busy being hysterical to reprimand. David sounds like he’s cackling.

“Was that also, somehow, a baking pun?” Emma asks. “Did your girlfriend teach you that? And can you please tell me what the name of the street this place is on is? It’s driving me nuts.”

David’s laugh gets louder.

“That was a baking pun,” Ruby points out, rolling her eyes when Emma hums in confusion. “God, the nuts thing. That’s...you put nuts in baked goods.” “Are there nuts in these?” Mary Margaret asks sharply. “Because Grace is super allergic to nuts. And pirates don’t like nuts. Right?” “I think pirates had to like nuts,” David reasons. “Right? Dry goods. Protein.” “Are you just saying words?” Ruby demands. “And, no, there are no nuts. I remembered what Henry asked for, God, can you guys give me some credit please?” “Well, you’re very late,” Emma shrugs. “Was that because of the inevitable flirting?” Ruby actually blushes, which may be the first time that has ever happened in the history of several different universes. The party is almost worth it. “How did you figure that out?” Ruby asks. “Did M’s tell you?”

Emma shakes her head, ignoring Mary Margaret’s mumbled that’s rude, and grabs one of the bags out of Ruby’s hands. “Nah,” she says. “Context clues. I’m very good at my job.” “I’m sure the people of Storybrooke feel safer already.” “See, you tease, but you almost ruined an entire pirate-themed party by showing up late and now we’ve apparently got a nut allergy to worry about and nut-type facts to confirm and--” “--We don’t have to confirm them,” David mumbles. ‘Pirates definitely ate like...almonds.” Ruby nearly falls over. Emma bites her lip to stop herself from laughing louder than is socially acceptable, but the guy, whose name might be Robin if memory serves, is still hanging balloons on the castle and he laughs loud enough for all of them combined.

“Ask Jones when he gets here,” he shouts, and Mary Margaret’s entire face goes alarmingly pale. Ruby’s lips all but disappear.

Emma lifts her eyebrows.. “What does that mean?” The three people around her – her three best friends and the reason she and Henry packed up their few belongings and moved their entire lives to this picture-perfect town where strangers just help other people – freeze, eyes wide and mouths parted slightly and Emma doesn’t need a single clue to know that something is going on.

“What did you guys do?” she asks, but there’s a hint of a threat in her voice, and Ruby’s lips quirk slightly.

“Nothing,” Mary Margaret answers.

“That’s an almost insulting lie.” “There is no lie. It’s fine.” “Yuh huh.” “Didn’t we do this already? I feel like we’re going in circles.” Emma nods, licking her lips and rocking on her heels, and Mary Margaret’s eyes dart towards Ruby. “That’s because you three are even worse than Henry at pretending like something isn’t going on. I’d be insulted if I didn’t have a party to worry about and parents to possibly threaten.” “Wait, what?” Ruby balks, but David makes a triumphant noise and his fist pump would have been abused even if he still weren’t wearing that ridiculous apron.

“I knew it,” he crows. “I knew you were thinking the same thing, too! You know, that Jefferson guy, the one with the allergy kid. He’s got like some shady thing going on with card tricks. If Henry ever has some kind of magic phase, I bet we can get him to play it.”

Emma blinks, but there’s more laughter coming from the castle. “Play it,” she echoes, and David nods enthusiastically. “What are you, some kind of hot-shot agent masquerading as law enforcement at this point?” “Nah, but I want Henry to be happy.” And just like that, Emma’s worries disappear or fall into the ocean nearby, washed away by surf and sunshine and spring in Storybrooke is some kind of idyllic setting – now with pirate-themed cupcakes for a pirate-themed birthday party because Henry is absolutely going through a very serious pirate phase.

“That’s stupid nice,” Emma mumbles, and it’s not exactly mature and not exactly right, because it’s a hell of a lot more than that, but it’s been a crazy week and a half and she’s not sure her neurons are firing exactly the way they’re supposed to.

“And there are no nuts in these cupcakes,” Ruby adds. “So, uh, let’s have a party, huh?”

Emma’s not sure what kind of marker an eight-year-old birthday party is supposed to reach, but she’s fairly certain, a few hours later, that they’ve surpassed it by several leaps and bounds.

The balloons on the castle don’t fly away and the no one gets hurt on the castle and David’s actually pretty good on the BBQ. It’s a success. The kids show up, and the parents are consistently nice and Emma almost forgets that her friends are absolutely not telling her something until it’s time to eat the goddamn cupcakes and two dozen eight-year-olds let out a collective noise that sounds like several bombs going off.

And Emma spins on the spot to find herself face to face with a pirate.

A goddamn, real-life, honest to God pirate.

Her jaw drops open, breath rushing out of her in a wholly undignified huff that only seems to amuse the pirate in front of her, and she has to blink or she’s certain her eyes are actually going to fall out of her head.

He grins at her, a flash of a smirk and far too blue eyes, and he’s got one of his hands resting on the hilt of a sword Emma can only hope is a very convincing replica. “Hello, darling,” he drawls, and she’s just resigned herself to letting her eyes fall out her head at this point, because she can’t blink. Maybe if her eyes just, like, land on this guys boots he’ll stop staring at her like that.

She can’t seem to settle on anything – she’s pretty positive he’s wearing eyeliner and it’s honestly unfair because he might be better at it than Emma is, and the jacket he’s got on must weight several tons, but he’s standing as if it’s a sheet of paper, and still smiling and she’s going to do permanent damage to her mouth if she keeps breathing out of it.

“Still with me, love?” he asks, and that seems to wake Emma up, shaking her head and inhaling quickly. “Wouldn’t want to have to save the fair damsel this early in the day.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

The guy shrugs, which just draws her attention back to the jacket and Emma’s breath catches when she notices his left hand – there’s a hook there. And the eight-year-olds are all screaming about Pan and Neverland and the Jolly Roger and something about Jack Sparrow, but the guy in front of her just keep staring at Emma like she’s about to offer him several ounces of pixie dust.

Or however the song went.

This place cannot be real.

“You’re Captain Hook,” Emma says, but it sounds like an accusation. His grin gets wider.

“At your service.” “Are you kidding me?” she asks, and she’s not really sure who she’s asking. Emma jerks her head around, staring at an apologetic looking Mary Margaret and a hysterical Ruby, and David is already waving his hands through the air like that’s an explanation for whatever the hell is going on.

They’ve got to hand out the cupcakes.

“Mom,” Henry yells, slamming into her side. He gapes at the pirate in front of them, still smirking – although it’s a bit softer now that he’s staring at the kid and Emma really hopes that sword is a fake. She doesn’t know enough about sword permits in Maine to arrest someone on a hunch.

And her kid is going through a pirate phase.

There’s a man dressed like a pirate at her kid’s birthday party.

“Mom,” Henry repeats, like she didn’t hear him before and isn’t just having several different mental breakdowns at once. “Can uh...can the pirate come over here? It’s uh…” He trails off, a bit star struck and a bit nervous, and Emma’s heart lurches in her chest when Captain Hook crouches in front of her kid, resting a hand on his shoulder and smiling with a sincerity that no pirate should ever have.

She’s clearly lost her mind.

“Of course, lad,” Captain Hook says, and Henry looks overjoyed. “That’s why I’m here.” Henry beams, and Emma has, at some point, lost the power of speech, staring slack jawed at the man when he grins at her over her shoulder. “At your leave, ma’am,” he says, which, really, is just stupid, but he knows it works and Emma knows it works and she nods slowly before he leaves in a swish of leather and the sun shining off his sword

She really has no idea what happens after that.

It’s a whirlwind of sugar and presents and goddamn Captain Hook, and David tries to explain what the hell is going on no less than twenty-seven times.

“Is this the mythical Jones?” Emma asks, finally, turning on David with another cupcake in his hand and she’s got a very strong suspicion he’s stress-eating baked goods.

No one ever answered her street name question.

It’s really something about water – she’s positive.

“He’s not mythical,” David mutters. “God, don’t tell him that. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I wasn’t really planning on talking to him again, so…” “No?” “No,” Emma says, shaking her head for good measure. It’s as much of a lie as the one she was told before though, because her eyes keep flitting back to Captain Hook or Jones or whatever his name is, and he’s started giving sword fighting instructions to a group of sugar-high third-graders. “Why is he here, though?” David’s face shifts, expression turning incredulous, and Emma rolls her eyes before he can tell Mary Margaret. “He lives here,” David answers, holding his hands up when Emma opens her mouth to cut in. “Don’t interrupt. He lives here. He’s friends with us. I just…” “You just?” “I didn’t think he’d actually show up.” Emma has, at least, seventy-two thousand questions, but the party is winding down and she’s got to put Henry’s presents in the back of her car and Mary Margaret must have a truly threatening side she rarely shows because there are lot of kids there.

Or maybe Henry is as great as Emma is certain he is.

It’s probably the second one. It’s definitely the second one.

She’s glad they’re in Storybrooke.

“Thanks for cooking, Sheriff,” Emma says instead, squeezing David’s shoulder, and she almost expects the hug he pulls her into. It’s warm and comforting and his hand on the back of her head is so normal, she actually closes her eyes and lets the happiness of the entire day sink into her soul or something equally absurd.

“Of course, Em,” David mutters. It sounds like a promise. “You want some help with the present jigsaw?” “I thought you’d never ask.”

It takes some time – and Ruby’s pointed suggestions once she realizes what’s going on – but they finally get all the presents in Emma’s trunk and a few more in her backseat because, apparently, the denizens of Storybrooke are the world’s most generous people on birthdays. And Emma actually introduces herself to Robin and thanks Regina for her help with the park and, although she’s loathe to admit, Jefferson does kind of look like a magician.

“I told you,” David hisses, as she tries to swallow down her laughter and thank Grace for coming. He stops talking when Ruby kicks him in the ankles.

Henry’s half asleep by the time all the other kids are gone, head lolling on Mary Margaret’s shoulder, but there are still balloons on the castle and leftover food to be picked up and they ordered way too many cupcakes.

Emma never got to eat a cupcake.

“You guys mind letting him hang out for awhile?” Emma asks. “I’ve got to keep cleaning up, and I don’t want him to just fall asleep on a park bench or something.” Mary Margaret’s nodding before she can even finish getting the reason out. “Of course,” she says. “You sure you don’t want us to stay and help though? David could stay. Ruby could stay. I could stay.” “None of these things end with Henry actually sleeping somewhere that isn’t a park bench.” “Ah, yeah, that might be true.” “Definitely,” Emma grins, brushing the hair out of her kid’s eyes, and her heart does that thumping in her chest thing again. “You have fun today, kid?” Henry hums sleepily, eyelids fluttering. “The pirate was really cool. Did you know there were pirates around here?” “Here? In Storybrooke?” “Mom…” “Sorry, sorry, kid. Tell me the story.” “Hook said there was a guy named Black Bart Robert and he kidnapped a writer a long time ago and he told him all about pirating and stealing and pillaging and the guy was from Boston and now Hook sails his ships there sometimes.” Emma narrows her eyes, not entirely sure she’s keeping up with the story, but Henry’s half asleep and Regina was nice enough about getting the park, but she was also very particular about cleaning it up. “Alright kid,” Emma says, brushing a kiss over Henry’s forehead. “We’ll talk about the pirates and the stories more later, ok?” He makes a noise in the back of his throat that Emma recognizes as the first few signs of imminent sleep, stumbling back towards David’s side, and he doesn’t walk to the car so much as he’s dragged to it.

“You sure you don’t want some help?” Mary Margaret asks again.

“Nah,” Emma objects. “It’s only a few things and then I can drop the presents off at home so I don’t have to worry about that while trying to get Henry to bed. I shouldn’t be that long.” Mary Margaret nods, the car already running and Henry’s probably already snoring in the backseat. And, really, it should have been easy. It was easy, Emma humming under her breath and trying to figure out what she’s going to do with all these excess baked good when she hears footsteps and she nearly throws a cupcake at his face.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he yells. “Stand down. Or disarm. Whatever the technical term should be.”

Emma scoffs, but she doesn’t lower her arm and Captain Hook doesn’t look quite as self-assured when he’s being threatened with buttercream frosting. “What the hell are you doing here?” she demands. “Why...where were you even? Were you just lurking in the bushes?”

“Talking to Locksley and Regina. There were no bushes involved.” “Oh.” She wishes she came up with a more profound response, but his eyes really are distractingly blue and that coat is absurd and her heart appears to be trying to set some kind of record for beats per second or slightly quickened breath.

Emma’s breathing very quickly.

“It wasn’t my intention to absolutely terrify you,” Hook says, and she should probably stop referring to him as that in her head. “I just want to apologize.” Emma doesn’t expect that. She has no idea what she expect, mostly because she’s half positive she’s got frosting under her nails now, but she certainly did not expect Captain Hook to apologize for crashing her kid’s birthday party.

“Can you put the cupcake down?” he asks. “This coat is a rental and I really don’t want to have to pay extra dry cleaning fees.” Emma nods slowly, setting the cupcake down on the table behind her and she’s only slightly hopeful that there is, in fact, a table behind her. Hook smiles. “I have no idea what the hell is going on,” she admits. “My kid was calling you Hook.” “Yeah, well, that was kind of part of the deal.” “None of those words make sense in that order.” He chuckles, running a hand through his hair and tugging lightly on the piece that curls just behind his right ear. Emma wishes she hadn’t noticed that. She’ll probably think about that for a very long time. “I realize that,” Hook says. “This is...well it’s ridiculous, but you deserve an explanation. Do you...do you want to sit?” “You’re dressed like a pirate. Like Captain Hook.” “Yes.” “And there’s a reason for that?” “A vaguely convoluted one, but one I also hope you’ll find slightly entertaining and possibly a little endearing.” “Aiming real high, huh?” Hook hums, a sound that is equal parts nervous and kind of attractive, and Emma really resents that one piece of hair behind his ear. “Something like that,” he mumbles, and of course he sits on a bench like that, swinging one leg over the side until he’s straddling the goddamn thing.

Emma’s going to spend several hours looking up sword permits in the state of Maine and then she’s going to arrest Captain Hook.

Just because she can.

“You have a name?” she asks. “Like an actual one? Not...Captain Hook.”

“Captain Hook was his name. James, if you want to get technical.” “I really don’t.”

He narrows his eyes, like he’s analyzing Emma or waiting for her to arm herself with another cupcake. “Killian,” he answers, and maybe her heart just explodes or something. It’s an even more disgusting thought than that one about eyeballs from before. “My name is Killian Jones.”

“Emma Swan,” she says, sticking her hand out in front of her and she’s never actually sat down. There’s frosting on her finger.

“Yeah, I know that, actually.” “You’re not doing yourself any favors here, you realize that?” Killian nods, twisting to grab a handful of pirate-themed napkins. He flips his wrist, offering Emma the lot, and his fingers are warm when they brush over hers. “Yeah, I know that too,” he says, the smile still on his face, but his voice isn’t quite as certain and there’s not as much of that pirate charm anymore.

Emma assumes most pirates were, at some point, charming.

“So you’re some kind of very dedicated stalker, then?” she asks, finally sitting down. She pulls both her feet onto the bench, resting her chin on her knees and Killian’s eyes flash at the move, which, really, wasn’t the point, but she hasn’t flirted in awhile and she’s a little charmed by the whole thing.

At this point she’s certain her mind never even left New York.

“That actually almost makes this sound more responsible than it is,” Killian mutters. The sound Emma makes in response hurts her throat. “How well do you know Storybrooke?” “Not well enough apparently if there are so many stalkers roaming the streets.” “That’s not what is happening here.” “Now seems like a real good time to explain it then,” Emma suggests. “Otherwise I won’t just stain your jacket, I’ll cut it up with your stupid sword.” Killian’s head snaps up, smile tugging at the ends of his mouth, and flirting is kind of fun. If that’s what this is. Emma’s, like, ninety-two percent positive, but, again, this guy is dressed like a pirate and her internal organs all appear to be shutting down and she really wants to eat a cupcake. So her judgment is clearly clouded.

“I don’t think the sword is nearly sharp enough for that,” he says. “It’s a ridiculously heavy coat. Way too much leather.”

“You are really bad at staying on point, aren’t you?” The tips of his ears go read, tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth, and Emma needs to stop paying so much attention to his mouth. “I’m trying to save face, that’s why,” he grins. “Ok, this all starts about...when did you move here?” “Man, you’re a garbage stalker. That seems like the most important fact.” “I’m not stalking you. I’m really trying to explain this whole ridiculous plan.” Emma’s mind latches on to that last word, and she’s got more questions, but she waves, what she hopes, is a dismissive hand through the air, and Killian grins. “Have you been to Granny’s yet?” “Obviously.” “That was a fair question.” “The story, Jones!’ His grin widens, and it’s stupid because it’s so goddamn attractive. “Of course, Swan, of course,” he mutters. That’s even more attractive. “Well, if you’ve been to Granny’s then you know that there’s a very old, very well-used dart board in the back corner and that, from time to time, there have been known to be competitions.” “With the dart board?”

“And several grown men.” “I’m assuming that includes you.” “It does, in fact,” Killian nods. “And David. And Locksley. Scarlet sometimes too, but I don’t...have you met him?” “I don’t think so.” “You’d remember if you did, but he and Belle have been swamped with the renovation and--” “--Literally the worst story teller in the world,” Emma cuts in, hardly blinking in the face of Killian’s even stare. She can’t. That’s why. Again. She’s going to have to buy eye drops. “Fine, fine,” she grumbles. “Go ahead. I’m assuming this ends with you playing darts against David and Locksley.”

“You’re a crime-solving genius, Swan.” “And you’re the most frustrating person on the planet." “You keep giving me all these superlatives, love, and you’re going to do dangerous things to my ego.” “I thought that was part of the pirate act,” Emma says, but it comes out softer than she expected or, maybe, wanted, and Killian’s hair nearly falls in his eyes when he tilts his head. “It’s not as cute when you do it in real life.” They both freeze when they realize what she’s said, which, really, is just ridiculous – they’re both adults and, still, possibly flirting, but he keeps having to shift the sword on his hip so he can sit comfortably and Emma can smell the frosting under her nails now, and maybe she should let Henry stay at David and Mary Margaret’s because it’s getting kind of late and he’s the worst at waking up.

“From time to time, these dart games end with bets,” Killian says, bypassing the moment completely. Emma’s not sure if she appreciates that or not. “And, about a week ago, just after you moved here, and David announced that you were planning on throwing a pirate-themed party for your boy, a bet was made.” “About the party?” “Honestly, the criminals of Storybrooke won’t know what hit them when they encounter you, Swan.”

“I’m missing the endearing part of this,” Emma growls. “Are you trying to tell me that David bet on my kid’s birthday party?” Killian shakes his head quickly, eyebrows pulled low and he must have learned that expression from Mary Margaret. His looks a little more despairing though, as if the last thing he wants is for Emma to think poorly of him.

She’s very out of flirting practice.

“No, no, no,” he says quickly, waving his hands in the air. He nearly knocks over the napkin stack with his hook. “God,” he groans. “Well, it is kind of like that, but not in a bad way. We play darts. We eat. We try to act like normal, adult humans while eating a questionable amount of very greasy food.” “I wouldn’t advise telling Granny that.” “You’re picking up on the law of the land quickly, Swan.” “Occupational hazard,” she quips, working another smile out of him and it feels a bit like winning. She doesn’t know what. But something. Something good. Maybe. God. “Ok, so let me get this straight. You guys are talking, you’re gossiping, David mentions Henry’s birthday and you…” “Lose the dart game,” Killian finishes. “Yeah. I’d been out the night before and I was still exhausted. That’s my story, at least.” “Out?” “On the water.” Emma really wishes simple sentences would stop taking her by surprise like this. “Are you really a pirate?”

“Would you have to arrest me if I was?” “I’m already considering arresting you for the stalking thing and whatever kind of sword that is. I’m not entirely sure what Storybrooke's laws regarding piracy are.” Killian does something entirely unfair with three quarters of his face, leaning forward until Emma’s sure they’re sharing the same oxygen. She doesn’t move away. That, eventually, feels important. “I’d imagine,” Killian says slowly, “piracy is frowned upon in modern law enforcement.”

“Explain what you meant.” He salutes. It’s the dumbest thing Emma has ever seen. “As you deduced, I lost the dart game, which, more often than not, usually means i have to foot the bill. But, this time, David mentioned Henry’s birthday and the pirate theme, which at the moment, sparked several jokes about me. Because, while I’m not a pirate, I do own a ship and quite frequently sail said ship full of tourists to Portland and, sometimes, Boston.” “Boston?” Emma repeats, clearly taking Killian by surprise when that’s the part of the explanation she harps on. “Is that why Henry was talking about Boston-based pirates?” “Boston-based journalists,” Killian corrects. “No one’s quite sure where Black Bart was from originally, but he sailed in the north Atlantic quite often.” “You just made that name up.” “I promise, Swan. Black Bart Roberts was very much a real person who really kidnapped a Boston journalist, his name was Samuel Cary, by the way. And he told good old Sam his entire thrilling tale, got it published and the rest is pirate lore.”

Emma stares at him, not entirely sure which question to ask first. She’s admittedly distracted by how goddamn blue his eyes are. “Ok, ok, let me get this straight,” she mumbles. “So you lose, you figure you’re going to pay for a shit ton of hamburgers and--” “--French fries.” “The onion rings are better,” Emma says absentmindedly, and Killian’s eyebrows are their own sentient beings. That’s the only explanation. “And David...what, challenges you to show up like a pirate at Henry’s birthday party to pay off your debts?” “Have you ever been to debtors prison, Swan? Horrible places.” “Oh my God, be serious for two seconds.” “It’s a little difficult to do that with the whole costume on.” She scoffs, but it’s more of a laugh, and Killian smiles like he’s won a totally different bet. “But, yeah, that was basically the gist of it. Neither David nor Locksley thought I would do it. They didn’t even think I’d be here, to be honest, but I had a cancellation a couple days ago and I assumed doing something possibly nice was a hell of a lot more productive than wallowing in my lack of profit.” “Ah, well, you know what happens when you assume.” “Hence my apology.”

Emma nods, like she’s considering something, but it is kind of nice and she knows David didn’t tell her for fear of her reaction once she found out he and his friends were betting on her kid’s birthday party.

And he really just wanted to make Henry happen.

Captain Hook showing up at his birthday was a pretty good way of making sure he was.

“That’s not anything to apologize for,” Emma says eventually, and her voice doesn’t shake, but it’s still quiet and she can barely hear it over the sound of the waves nearby. “It’s unquestionably over the top, but it’s also kind of…” “Endearing?” “Don’t push your luck.”

He nods, hand in his hair again and they’ve, somehow, moved closer at some point, the front of Emma’s legs nearly brushing against his chest. And for one, vaguely insane, absolutely absurd moment, she imagines what it would be like to reach forward, grab the lapels of that rented jacket and kiss Killian Jones until he can’t breathe either.

So, naturally, she starts talking again.

“What kind of cruises are we talking here?” she asks. “Like...dinner? Sight-seeing? Whaling?” “Whaling is a tourist trap that allows businessmen to lie straight to other human’s faces because those same humans assume they’re going to see forty-two whales if they pay an exorbitant amount of money for it.” “Wow, you’ve got just a questionable amount of opinions on whales, don’t you?” “Well, we’ve already covered what happens when you assume, Swan,” Killian grins. “But mostly I just don’t enjoy having to explain why the previously mentioned, deep-pocketed tourists won’t get a refund if they don’t see the whales. So I avoid that entirely.” “And do what?”

“You’re very curious aren’t you?”

Emma shrugs, but it’s a deflection and she mostly just wants him to keep talking. They’re going to get fined for being in the park after dark. “Something like that,” she mutters. “And I think that’s part of the gig, too.” “I didn’t realize I was being interrogated.” “You’re not. But you did show up at an eight-year-old’s birthday party with a sword and a hook and that does beg a lot of questions about what kind of person would do that.” “An incredibly stubborn one,” Killian answers easily. “Who was the new kid once too. And one who also enjoys that kind of stunned expression Nolan looks when he gets caught off guard.” “The one where his eyes kind of bug out of his face.” Killian laughs, loud and easy and Emma would be willing to conduct several studies on his hair because it defies the laws of gravity. At least as she understands them. “That’s exactly it,” Killian says, laughter still clinging to his voice. “But to answer your question, we do harbor tours in the summer and some historical ones that are longer. The Boston ones cost several arms and legs, but those are my favorite.” “Why?” He startles at that, which is fair since Emma half shouts the question at him, but she’s as curious as advertised and probably just as stubborn as he is.

“I like being on the water,” Killian says softly, and it sounds a bit like an admission and a bit like an introduction. “And we usually don’t set sail until the afternoon on those ones. It’s uh...it’s beautiful on the coast.” “Sounds it,” Emma whispers. “Why do you know about the pirates though?” It takes him a moment to answer, as if he’s considering the words or the sentence structure and Emma tries not to let her impatience show on her face. She knows it doesn’t work as soon as she meets Killian’s gaze, the hint of a smirk on his mouth, and she shivers when the wind whips in off the water.

He stands up before she really registers that she’s cold, shrugging out of the jacket and Emma can’t even object before there’s heavy leather on her shoulders and the whole thing is so incredibly nice she briefly wonders if she’s stepped into a very lucid dream.

That, of course, is impossible.

If this were a dream she definitely would have kissed him by now.

“My brother,” Killian explains. “He was a much better storyteller than I am, and I also went through a very serious pirate phase when I was around Henry’s age. I think I could recite Peter Pan and Treasure Island verbatim for the first decade of my life.” “You must have had very advanced reading comprehension,” Emma mutters, which is not what she plans to say at all, but it works another laugh out of Killian and, honestly, that’s all she cared about.

“Oh, absolutely. Very advanced.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

She doesn’t ever ask him to help her finish cleaning up, but he doesn’t really offer either. They just fall into a rhythm next to each other, twisting and turning and smiling and Emma never actually takes the jacket off.

“Keep it,” Killian says as Emma tries to pull the leather off, and she might smile because it’s warm and comfortable and this whole day has been absolutely ridiculous. It only makes sense that she go home in a pirate coat. “I just need it back by next week.” “I think I can do that,” Emma promises, and he definitely smiles in response. “I’ve got no doubt, Swan.”

And, really, she did plan to bring it back.

She planned on it the next day and the one after that and every day for the next week after Henry’s party, but Storybrooke does, apparently, have some crime to deal with and Henry’s suddenly the most popular kid in school and he’s got houses to go to and places to be and he wants to sign up for some summer-league baseball that David volunteers to help coach.

And the jacket, quite honestly, slips her mind.

Until it’s next Saturday and Henry’s shout from the other room sends a chill down Emma’s spine.

She sprints down the hallway, skidding to a stop in her doorway to find her kid gaping at the jacket draped over the back of a chair like he’s discovered several different buried treasures at once.

“Damn,” Emma mumbles, drawing a quiet sound out of Henry. He nearly falls over when he spins, staring at her with a mix of accusation and pride and she squeezes her eyes closed.

She’s the most mature mother in the entire New England area.

“Mom, why do you have Hook’s coat?” Henry asks, and Emma grits her teeth. “Were you guys...hanging out?” Emma’s eyes snap open. “What?” “Nothing, nothing.” “Henry.” “Nothing.” She lifts an eyebrow and it takes, exactly, four seconds for her kid to wilt under the pressure of her gaze. “I just heard Aunt Ruby telling M’s that Hook was…” He trails off, and Emma tries not to sigh too dramatically, but that doesn’t work either, and Henry might actually be blushing. “Aunt Ruby said he was asking about you.” “Me?” Emma parrots, and this is not the kind of conversation she should be having with her kid. Or, like, anyone. Except maybe Killian. Who probably had to pay extra for the jacket.

Henry shrugs. Because he’s eight. And has no concept of flirting or costume rentals or anything that isn’t getting more cupcakes from Spoonful of Sugar on Misthaven Avenue, because, of course that was the name of the street. David finally told Emma three days ago.

“What do you say to a quick trip to the docks?” Emma asks, and it’s a stupid question because Henry’s eyes light up almost as soon as she opens her mouth. He nods and jumps up and down and he’s talking a mile a minute about pirates and the negative characteristics of Peter Pan when Emma parks the car on the gravel a few feet away from a boat she hopes is Killian’s.

He’s standing on the deck when she climbs out of the car, hair windswept and cheeks red and he looks eight-thousand times better in normal person clothes than he did in the pirate gear.

It is a testament ot Emma’s mental stability that she doesn’t laugh out loud at the idea of normal clothes.

“Hook,” Henry calls, and Killian’s whole body tenses. Emma bites her lip. “We brought your jacket so you can plunder again!”

Emma winces, momentarily worried about the absurdity of it all, but then she hears Killian’s laugh and footsteps on a gangplank and it takes a few near-painful moments for him to reach them. He’s smiling.

“Hey, lad,” Killian says, Henry standing up a bit straighter like he’s dealing with an actual pirate captain. Emma’s going to need stitches in her lip. “Swan,” he adds. “What are you doing here?”

“Returning your coat,” she answers. “For real. I’m...I can’t believe I forgot.” Killian hums, but it sounds cautious and his eyes keep darting towards Henry and the leather in Emma’s hands and he can’t seem to meet her gaze. “That’s alright,” he mutters. “Things happen. It’s...”

“Can we see your ship, Hook?” Henry asks, shoulders sagging when Emma glares at the interruption. “Sorry, Mom.”

“We just came here to give Killian his jacket,” Emma says. The words feel heavy on her tongue, though, and she doesn’t think she imagines the flash of disappointment on Killian’s face. “I’m sure he’s got plenty of things to do that don’t involve boat tours.” “Ship, Swan,” Killian mutters. “It’s a ship. And you know what happens when you assume, love.”

She widens her eyes at the endearment, almost too aware of the kid next to her, but said kid either doesn’t hear or absolutely does not care – particularly when there’s a ship in front of them and a man he may actually believe is a pirate.

“We don’t want to bother you,” Emma says. Killian beams. “Of course not. C’mon, Henry. We’ll let you take the helm, huh?”

Emma’s seen quite a bit of questionably adorable things in the few weeks since they first arrived in Storybrooke, but nothing has come even close to Killian teaching Henry port and starboard and some knot that looks absolutely impossible to her, but they’re both masters of in a few minutes. She doesn’t trip on deck, and Killian makes a quip about sea legs that shouldn’t be nearly as charming as it is, and Henry doesn’t stop smiling once.

“Thank you for this,” Emma says eventually, Henry back at the wheel and plotting a course to Isla de Muerta. “Does he also think you’re Jack Sparrow then?” Killian shakes his head. “Nah, we’re sticking with Captain Hook, but the appeal of cursed Aztec gold is too much to shake. You understand piracy. We live on a whim.” “We?” The tips of his ears go red. Emma might be counting the number of times she can get that to happen. She’s confident it’ll be several more times in the near future, but, before she gets there she pushes up on her toes and there’s only a t-shirt to grab and kissing a pirate is as good as all those stories make it seem.

Killian’s hand finds the small of Emma’s back almost immediately, pulling her flush against his chest and she makes some kind of noise against his mouth that might be a yelp or an actual giggle or just the audible sound of swooning, but she can feel him smiling.

She pushes her fingers into his hair, tugging him down towards her – as if he’d actually pull away when his hand seems intent on mapping every ridge of her spine – and the whole world feels like it spins on its axis.

Emma has never been a particularly spontaneous person.

She thinks. She plans. She plots.

But then this job opened up and Storybrooke happened and Killian Jones showed up at her kid’s birthday party dressed as a pirate just because he wanted to make sure a stranger was happy and Emma can’t seem to get him out of her head.

So, maybe, some spontenaity is worth it.

And living like a pirate is kind of fun.

Killian’s tongue moves across her lower lip, Emma tilting her head and they’re probably scaring Henry for life, but there’s sunshine and wind and she’s so goddamn happy it kind of feels like a sugar-rush and eating twenty-seven cupcakes.

It’s better than that, really, but Emma’s far too busy making out to be worried about the proper metaphor.

“I’m sorry about the jacket,” she mumbles, mostly against Killian’s lips and if she never moves her hands out of his hair, she won't argue. She’s not sure he will either.

“If this is it how it works when we steal clothing together, Swan, I’m perfectly fine with it.” “God, what a line. And did you say we? Were we stealing clothing together?” Killian nods, brushing his lips over Emma’s before he answers. “I knew you had the jacket, Swan. I didn’t really do anything about getting it back.” “Henry said you asked Rubes about me.” “He’s a very chatty kid.” “Definitely,” Emma agrees. “You could have. I mean...you know where the Sheriff’s office is, don’t you?”

He leans back, an eyebrow arched and that smrik should be illegal in several different countries and the entire state of Maine and it’s probably against the rules of the pirate’s code or something. Parlay or whatever.

Emma hasn’t seen Pirates of the Caribbean in a very long time. “What are you suggesting, love?” Killian asks knowingly, and she scowls despite how ridiculously charming the whole thing is. “Putting me in the brig?”

She groans, but she can’t lean back when there’s still a palm flat on her back and Killian smiling at her and Henry shouting something about hurricane off the port bow. “Hey, uh, you,” Emma starts, and maybe she’ll get better at this pirate lifestyle once she practices some more. “You know Henry really loves hanging out with Rubes and Dorothy because they feed his sugar habit and, uh, they’ve got some standing date this Sunday for a taste-testing and I’ve never really been on a ship in motion and…”

She trails off before she can embarass herself even more, but Killian barely gives her a moment to linger on it, ducking his head and kissing her. “It’d be an honor, Swan.”

They don’t ever return the jacket – leaving it on the ship for reasons that are both piratical and sentimental and Henry learns more sailor’s knots and more technical terms and Emma doesn’t actually crash the ship when she musters the courage to take the helm on a three-person cruise to Boston a few months later.

And, eventually, they get back on the ship and Emma can point out constellations now and she’s just on the cusp of falling asleep, her head resting on Killian’s shoulder when he mumbles something about buried treasure and jewels and he barely gets the question out before she shouts yes in his face and Henry sends photos to the small family they’ve built in Storybrooke.

They celebrate with cupcakes.

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs #cs fic #HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATIE #i unfortunately cannot send an actual man dressed like a pirate to you #so here is some kissing instead

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memories-are-mine · 6 years

Text

The Pirate King

Chapter 4: A Realization and a Plan (Anne)

The Whole thing together is on AO3

Finally, we get an Anne chapter!

Summary: Anne despairs as she discovers Phillip is gone, makes a plan, then sees her plan won’t work and makes another, much more dangerous plan.

As Anne Wheeler ran, she didn’t let her feelings catch up with her. She just had to get out of there and find someone who could help her. Help him.

For a split second, she glanced back, not stopping, looking for Phillip in the small crowd now surrounding him, but it was thick, all of them focused on what must have been Phillip in the center. She could only see traces of his white shirt as they pulled him away.

She was almost tempted to snap at them. If they carried on like this, they would hurt him, but a statement like that would most likely get her a knife to her chest. Or to Phillip’s. Or both.

She kept running, clutching the simple wooden box, the whole reason she came back to the place, to her chest. Thank god it was light.

The box was full of letters, letters from her older brother, W.D.

He had been here with Anne since they were children, since right after their mother had died of sickness, and Anne had taken the job working for the Carlyles. He had sworn to her that this would not be the life they lived, and so he had left to find a better life for them. Those letters he sent were the highlight of Anne’s day. Then, they stopped coming.

Seemed like Anne couldn’t hold on to someone she cared for. Nasty habit.

Anne was startled from her thoughts when she heard Phillip cry out her name, then again, then halfway through a third time, he was silenced. She began to worry for him again, although she tried not to, what had they done to him to shut him up? That’s when she smelled the smoke.

The fire was all around her in a matter of seconds, most of the expensive wooden pieces of furniture catching immediately, making it a very dangerous place for Anne to be. She was running to the back door, there was no way that she was going to prance right back into the hands of the pirates, but hearing Phillip call almost made her turn and run straight to him.

But now she had to get out the back. She couldn’t help Phillip if she was dead. She couldn’t let her feelings get to her. At least not yet.

Anne started to run, dodging timbers falling and debris every which way. At that moment, she thanked her lucky stars that she had always been nimble and quick on her feet. The absurd amount of climbing trees and then swinging from them probably helped with that.

Her one focus was getting out that door. She couldn’t see a thing through the smoke but she knew that she was almost there.

A beam fell toward her, silent and deadly, and while Anne increased her speed, she wasn’t fast enough and the beam caught the back of her leg as she ran, leaving what she knew would be a nasty burn.

Her leg screamed in pain as she fled the house, still clutching the box to her chest. Part of her wanted to lie down and just take a nap, her leg certainly wanted to, but Anne kept running. Not to the mountain hideout, as Phillip had told her to do, but toward the docks where he had been taken.

She shoved through screaming crowds and dodged stray animals, guards, anyone who might get in her way as she ran towards the docks. She had to stop them, kill them, do something. Whenever she passed one of the town’s soldiers, she would yell at them as she passed, but they never seemed to hear her. Anne knew it was unwise to go alone, but she never even slowed down. She only hoped she wasn’t too late.

While the entire city was in chaos, with noises of all kinds going every which way, the dock was eerily silent. No ships. No pirates. No Phillip. She was too late.

That’s when Anne’s leg gave out and she collapsed on the dock in despair. She had done a pretty good job of not letting her head catch up with her feet so far, but now that she was here all alone on the dock, they crashed into her like the waves on the beach nearby, overwhelming her.

Phillip was gone. He was dead, or in the hands of the pirates, or god knew where, but he wasn’t here. He had sacrificed himself, given himself up, for her.

Anne thought of him, thought about the way he had been kind to her, kind to everyone when no one else was. She thought about the way his eyes matched the color of the ocean a clear day, how he looked when the rare smile flitted across his face.

Anne wondered what might have been happening to him. Was he cold? Hurt? Scared? All three?

As Anne thought about all that, she realized something. She did not want to have to spend the rest of her days without him. They would never be able to be together, of course, but she just wanted him here, and safe. She would never be able to live with herself if god forbid…

A noise shook her out of her thoughts. The sounds of feet getting on the dock that had been silent up until then. Anne looked up and saw one of the pirates who had captured them in the house.

Anne slowly got to her feet, thinking about all of the fun ways that she could get this guy to tell her exactly where Phillip was. He saw the look on her face, and took off in a dead run, toward the fortress where Phillip’s parents were hiding out.

Anne took off after him, her leg slowing her down and screaming with pain but she was determined to catch the intruder before anybody else got hurt. The funny thing was, the pirate never even looked at the locals still strewn about on the streets, he simply pushed past them. The guards were too preoccupied with helping with cleanup to do anything, and Anne ignored them this time, too. It was obvious that they would be no help to her.

The pirate made it to the entrance of the fort and Anne picked up her speed, however much her leg protested. She had to get into that fort. If the man was going there, he was going to see Phillip’s parents, and Anne wanted in on the conversation. And maybe to commit some light murder along the way.

All of the sensible fear she should have been feeling was numb, at least the fear for herself. The fear for Phillip was still strong, and it was all that was keeping her on her feet.

The pirate had a hasty conversation with the guards at the door, who, somewhat reluctantly opened it. Anne sprinted towards it and reached the doors just before they closed.

She stuck her good foot in the door as it closed, to the surprise of all three people inside.

The pirate was being held at swordpoint, but he was grinning like a child on his birthday. There was a sick twist in Anne’s stomach. He was enjoying all this.

“Miss. Wheeler?” One of the guards who she knew vaguely asked. “Everyone thought you were dead. Where were you?”

“I need to see the governor and governess,” Anne insisted, saying nothing else.

“Oh how exciting, so do I,” The pirate piped up, sneering at the look on Anne’s face. It was clear he recognized her. Anne was about ready to punch the smirk right off when she was interrupted.

“Alright, alright,” the guard said. “Come in, but be quick about it, can’t have any more pirates.”

Anne knew that there were no more pirates, that they had taken Phillip somewhere, but she said nothing for the moment.

They were led to the elaborate chamber where the governor and governess, Phillip’s parents, were staying. For a hideout from intruders, it was elaborate and beautiful, and Anne felt a spike of anger that they were doing nothing but sit here while people suffered on the streets outside. There was enough room in here to fit half the town.

The Carlyles both drew in sharp breaths as the pirate was brought in, the guards following after. Anne brought up the rear, sliding into a corner and staying silent. She was eager to hear any information the pirate had, and she wasn’t going to compromise her chances by opening her mouth. She still had enough wit left to do that.

The pirate made a mock bow at the governor. “Governor Carlyle, I wish I could say I was here under less grave circumstances. But I’m afraid I’m here on behalf of my captain.”

Anne drew in a sharp breath, leaning in close to catch every word he said.

The pirate drew something from his pocket and the guards tensed for a moment, then relaxed when they saw it was only a piece of paper. A note.

He handed it to Governor Carlyle with a flourish worthy of P.T. Barnum himself, if the stories rang true. “If you want to see your son alive again you’ll do what that says.”

It took all of Anne’s self-control not to scream. She wasn’t sure what scared her more: the note that said that Jenny had Phillip or the fact that, judging by the looks on the faces of the Carlyles, they didn’t seem to care. It was no secret, especially to Anne, that Phillip’s parents cared a lot more about their station and their money than their son, but seeing it here, now, was even worse.

“That will be all,” the pirate said. “I will show myself out.”

Of course, he did not do that. The guards showed him out. To the gallows. But he smiled at Anne as he left, knowing that he had succeeded in rattling at least someone today.

Anne took a deep breath and didn’t leave her shadowy corner as the Carlyles appraised the note. Then, Governor Carlyle took the note, folded it up neatly, and subsequently dropped it on the ground.

Anne had been planning to ask them to help save him. It appeared they weren’t interested.

“We need to go assess the damage,” he told his wife. “I’m sure there is a lot that needs fixing, and the house as well. We can only save so much.”

They swept out of the room without so much as looking at Anne, which, sadly, she was used to by now.

They left her alone in the room with the fancy furniture, the expensive paintings, and the ransom note that, if they had just cared a little more, could have saved Phillip.

Anne walked over and picked it up. As she had suspected, Captain Lind wanted ransom for Phillip’s life. She had told them to meet at specific coordinates to exchange the ransom for the prisoner.

40° North, 68° West.

That was in the middle of the ocean somewhere, and it seemed the Carlyles weren’t going to help her one bit to save their own son. So she was going to have to find someone else who would.

P.T. Barnum, the only person in this godforsaken place who might help her, and it was another pirate.

Anne only hoped that she remembered the way to his house. And that he wouldn’t kill her on sight.

She only hoped that when she had seen Phillip at their dinner table, it had been more than just a one-time thing.

#phillip carlyle #anne wheeler #the greatest showman #tgs #tgs au #pirates of the caribbean #pirates #pt barnum #charity barnum #phillip x anne #anne x phillip #carlwheeler #caroline barnum #helen barnum #jenny lind #wd wheeler #rewrite the stars #a million dreams #protective circus fam is back yall

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animentrohetaliate · 6 years

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Made this earlier. It’s now on my twitter.

To expand on this: Like, I REALLY wanted Negan to get his comic arc, at least for AOW. But Gimple’s plan to do that is to kill off Carl halfway through AOW to get Negan to be shown Mercy by Rick.

Carl in the source material becomes the the main character immediately after AOW. Gimple wants to give all that storyline away, probably to some TV-only character like Daryl or Tara or Enid or Henry.

Carl’s storyline after AOW is also the only good one too. As far as I can tell, Michandrea’s is just dying and catching Carl have sex, Maggie has an okay one I guess, Rick just basically goes to Alpha and then loses his lover after pushing Sherry into a table and killing her which makes her ex-husband Dwight, Rick’s right-hand man upset. Negan sits in a cell and talks to Carl once, beheads Alpha, and breaks Lucille....Rosita cheats on Eugene with Siddig, gets pregnant with Siddiq’s baby and dies. Ezekiel moves to Alexandria and dies. Michacarol and Ezekiel broke up during the timeskip and she comes back as a pirate after wandering to Oceanside for reasons. Jesus and Aaron get into a forced relationship and then kill Beta in a really stupid way, some characters like Magna and her group that do nothing show up at some point. And that’s the A New Beginning and the Whisperers without Carl and Lydia. Like, NO! NO ONE WANTS THIS SOAP OPERA NONSENSE ONSCREEN!

Carl on the TV show is Rick’s main motivation and the story established this very early on. Carl dying taints Rick’s whole purpose. What’s the point of watching? The story was about Carl growing up in the apocalypse and Rick showing him the new world. Who wants to go back to seasons 1-7 knowing that Rick fails? Like, this is stupid, stupid, stupid storytelling!

Also, Carl is a main character who’s survived hordes and he gets taken down by two walkers in the silliest way possible? He goes to these walkers with Siddiq randomly that are completely out of their way and kills them to release their souls because some random strangers mom told them to? I guess? And then some the walkers appear out of nowhere like ninjas and he randomly trips over a deer and pushes the walker that he’s grappling with to the right where he can’t see it, let’s the other one fall on him, and only pulls out the gun he had the whole time when it was too late. AND WE DON’T FIND OUT UNTIL TWO EPISODES LATER THAT HE WAS BIT! And Gimple says that we should’ve known when he was bit. BTW this is coming from someone who was suspicious that he’d been bit from his behaviour in 8x06 and 100% CERTAIN of it fifteen minutes into 8x08. The scene with Siddiq was utterly absurd but absolutely forgettable.

This makes no narrative sense! CARL fires the first shots of All Out War in 7x16 and then in 8x01 just a few days later in showtime with no build up suddenly he wants to spare Negan and end the war peacefully. That’s why most people thought Daryl and/or Morgan would die. Morgan had the all life is precious viewpoint until just before the war and Daryl is running around recklessly and wrathful doing nothing but grunting and wasting screentime.

Someone mentioned to me that Chandler’s lines at SDCC and Walker Stalker are longer than Normans and I know that someone else on TSDF site a few weeks ago took the ratings/reception of each episode and matched it when the characters involved. The numbers came out with Carl/Michonne/Rick higher than Daryl/Carol. If they decided to kill a season 1 character off for ratings/shock value Carl was the one who should have been safest. Carol has Michonne’s comic storyline and Rick’s is basically over after AOW imo. Daryl is just there because AMC think Norman’s pretty.

And the way they were milking this death annoys me. They kept advertising a major death by walker in all their social media. And then reveal it at the end of the episode like “find out how he dies next time because we need to generate buzz build-up for two months ha” it feels like it was unneccessary shock value, especially when you realise that Carl was only one season ago at the very bottom of everybody’s “who will die next season” lists/predictions. NO ONE WOULD HAVE SUSPECTED HIM EVER!

Carl had almost no screentime since season 4. And even in season 4 his storylines were being given to annoying, longdead characters like Gimple’s Darling, Carol. CARL should have killed Lizzie! Carl, not Daryl/Maggie should’ve been the one who came up with the plan to kill the outpost people! Carl’s recovering arc that should have followed NWO was removed completely in return for Daryl and Jesus having their first date running through a field with Benny Hill music blaring. Jfc.

The storylines that he did get during Gimple-era [sexual assault from the Claimers/Marauders, befriending Ron, NWO, Negan were ignored. He has no symptoms of his near-rape that would suggest trauma and his comic conversation that he has with Rick afterwards is removed in favour of Rick comforting AMC’s darling Daryl. Carl mentions to Rick during 6x11 that a kid with a messed-up face would scare everyone when the group goes to Hilltop.0 This is brought-up again with Negan in 7x07 where he breaks down. IF the show had gotten around to Lydia, the “I think it’s sexy” and Carl removing the bandage and being confident WOULD have happened (hopefully) but now we won’t so what was the point of shooting his eye out in the first place if you weren’t going to do anything with it?

Robert Kirkman is involved in lawsuits with AMC atm. Chandler turned 18 around the time they were filming 8x08 and due a pay raise. Carl is the most important character in the source material and Kirkman’s favourite. I would not be surprised if AMC had fired Chandler for this.

Oh, and the way Chandler Riggs was treated, I’m not even going to GET INTO THAT! “Oh, by the way I know you were accepted into the university nearby, that you just bought a house in Senoia, that you were super stoked to have your comic arc and get screen time finally and we said we’d keep you for three more years at least, but you’re getting killed off. He gets bit by a random walker in the episode we’re rehearsing right now. Lol. Good luck kid.” I know he’s off in LA making music and seems mostly over all of this. But it makes me appalled at how unprofessional Gimple is, though he did the same thing to Emily Kinney in S5 and Mezzara did it to Laurie Holden in S3...

Actually, this is EXACTLY what happened to Andrea. Random walker bite in the dumbest way possible in a finale, revealed to Rick and Michonne, character who is a major character in the comics and important to Rick... Immediately after the actor was told that they’d be around for a while longer. Huh. Isn’t this what got Mezzara fired? Why is Gimple still employed?

I was originally going to put Carol as “What Gimple Thinks We Like” because he writes almost every Kingdom episode and Carol/Morgan/Ezekiel are the only characters with coherent storylines on the show. He only seems to care about the Kingdom. However, with the “We’re diverting from the comics by killing the comics most important character in order to adapt the comics faithfully by sparing Negan who doesn’t really have much of a storyline after AOW anyway....” made me put Negan.

I’m not even going to get other points on here into the trash people filler nonsense, the S8 Eugene constant flipflopping nonsense that makes no sense and continues to take screentime, and the stupid cliffhangers.

#the walking dead #amcthewalkingdead #twd #chandler riggs #carl grimes

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marvel-dc-hybrid · 7 years

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Fanfic Recommendations | Vol 1

I wanted to create this recommendation list to bring more awareness to many wonderful writers here on tumblr. The fics that I picked from each writer is one that either got me hooked to their writing style or a fic they’ve posted recently that I just really love.

MARVEL

13 Going on 30 Bucky Barnes x Reader (13 Going on 30 AU) by: @buckys-fossil When your 13th birthday party goes awry, and you make a life changing wish - you wake up to discover you’ve flash forwarded 17 years ahead.

Daddy Issues Bucky Barnes x Reader by: @you-didnt-see-that-cuming A descendant of Thor, you have your powers stolen from you by HYDRA, and the only way to get them back is to steal the Avengers software. But when sending a certain new Avenger to track you, things don’t exactly go as planned. (Series)

Little Notes Bucky Barnes x Reader by: @marvelfic You always writes reminders on your hands, so you always have a marker on hand. You often fall asleep and when you wake you sometimes find new notes written on your hands written by none other than the Bucky Barnes.

Unbreakable Bucky Barnes x Reader by: @imaginesoftheheart Your life is a constant struggle with trying to control your powers and Bucky always on your nerves but one day, he goes too far. (Series)

“Why is she wearing my hoodie?” Bucky Barnes x Reader by: @writing-soldiers Bucky tries to figure out the reason behind his missing hoodie one day, only to discover you as the theif.

Can’t Sleep Loki Laufeyson x Reader by: @coffeekeyboardsss You and Loki find comfort in each other when you’re both having trouble sleeping. (Series)

Sleepless Loki Laufeyson x Reader by: @writingafterhours You suffers from steady nightmares and find help in the arms of your neighbor down the hall.

Day One Peter Parker x Reader by: @spiderholland You have a crush on Peter, but Peter has eyes for someone else. Will you ever get the boy of your dreams or will you have to remain friends and move on? (Series)

Homecoming Peter Parker x Reader by: @love-allthingsmarvel Your date with Peter goes haywire when the Vulture crashes the Homecoming dance.

Late Night Kiss Peter Parker x Reader by: @thespideyimagines Spider-Man came crashing through your window at midnight and you had no idea what to do. (Series)

One Jump Ahead Peter Parker x Reader by: @imaginingadifferentlife You came up with theme songs for each Avenger and you decide Spider-Man’s to be ‘One Jump Ahead’ from Aladdin.

Regret Peter Parker x Reader (Royalty AU) by: @that-sokovian-bastard Royalty AU, where you are the princess of Kingdom of Avenge while Peter is the prince of the Kingdom of Midtown. (Series)

You Have No Idea Peter Parker x Reader by: @killer-barnes You and Peter go to school together, however once Peter shows up at Stark tower, you’re is curious as to why he is there.

Dysfunctional Parenting Steve Rogers x Reader by: @vibranium-ass You are the clumsiest person your friends and family knew. Your accident prone tendencies leads to comfort from your husband, Steve.

Pokémon Go Steve Rogers x Reader by: @buckyywiththegoodhair Steve uses the popularity of Pokemon Go as an excuse to spend more time with you.

BINGPOT! Avengers x Reader by: @avengerschatroom A group chat with the Avengers... with quotes from Brooklyn Nine-Nine.

Redemption Barry Allen x Reader by: @dccomicsimagines You are a meta-human who was sent to kill flash but fail because you end up falling for Barry.

Ditch Me Again Dick Grayson x Reader by: @attackonbatboys You and Dick were a couple but the relationship ended. He sees you after a few years and notices you with a child he never knew of...

Your Family Needs Help Dick Grayson x Reader by: @uncpanda You help your boyfriend, Dick, take care of his brothers after their wisdom teeth removal.

Absurdity Jason Todd x Reader by: @posiey You defend Red Hood to someone who thinks he’s dangerous while Jason overhears. You declare yourself the leader of the Red Hood defense squad.

Attraction to a Stranger Jason Todd x Reader by: @avengerdragoness Jason is trying to get your attention at the airport by slipping a paper with his number on it in your favorite book.

Best Birthday Ever Jason Todd x Reader by: @dc-imagine-central You are a single mom and Jason’s next door neighbor. Jason agrees to babysit your son one day leading to your son’s best birthday ever.

Family Jason Todd x Reader by: @maruthor Domestic life with Jason and your life with an adorable yet noisy newborn.

Opening Up Jason Todd x Reader by: @batboys4life Jason has been through a lot with his death and resurrection and finally decides to open up to you.

Rough Night Jason Todd x Reader by: @tim-help You were up all night working on a research paper and Jason just got back from a rough night on patrol. You’re both tired and in desperate need for cuddles. (closed blog; moving to @florallfawn)

Stalker From Another Universe Jason Todd x Reader by: @addicted-to-dc You wake up to suddenly find yourself within your favorite comic book universe. But who or what sent you there in the first place? (Series)

You’re Who? Jason Todd x Reader by: @angstytodd You and Jason live together but you have yet to meet the Batfamily. One day the batboys come over to discuss something with Jason but hang out with you instead. While Jason is still asleep.

You Faked Your Death Jason Todd x Reader by: @batmagines Jason has come back years after his death.... and eats all of your favorite cereal.

What You Are to Me Jason Todd x Reader by: @batfamilyimagines You got a small Robin tattoo on your back after Jason’s death but Jason only notices it after he and you got together years later.

How Should I Tell Him? Tim Drake x Reader by: @imaginethatdc You are best friends with Red Robin and you ask him for advice on how to ask your friend Tim out.

Stargazing Tim Drake x Reader by: @dc-comics-imagines You are hanging out with Tim and stargazing when he falls asleep on your shoulder.

Military Sister Batfamily x Reader by: @redhoodshood You are a vigilante in the Batfamily and you want to join the military. (Series)

WIZARDING WORLD

I Think I’m in Love With My Tutor Newt Scamander x Reader by: @fantasticwritingandwheretoreadit You are one of the brightest Ravenclaws at Hogwarts and your excellence in Potions class leads you to tutor one of your professors struggling students; Newt Scamander.

Captain Black Sirius Black x Reader (Pirate AU) by: @azurakenway Pirate AU where the dashing pirate Captain Black saves you from your sinking ship. (Series)

Let’s Be Stupid Together Sirius Black x Reader by: @deerprongs You are James’s younger sister and Sirius always treats you like a sister but you like him. So you do your best to try to show him that you like him.

Meant To Be Sirius Black x Reader by: @felelotlen-felhotlen You are a muggle-born Gryffindor with a horrible relationship with your parents. For winter break, you decided to spend the holiday in the castle with this decision leading you to get to know Sirius Black. (Series)

Living With the Marauders Marauders x Reader by: @sleekeazyz Wanna know the ups and downs of living with the Marauders? Part one of this series is Sirius’ plan to ease your day during your time of the month. (Series)

SUPERNATURAL

If Only Dean Winchester x Reader by: @winchester-writes When you’re feeling down and beating yourself up inside, Dean is there to help and comfort you.

Last Words Dean Winchester x Reader by: @i-write-supernatural-imagines You express your feelings for Dean as he is dying before he turns into a demon.

Wood Smoke Dean Winchester x Reader by: @supernaturalfreewill You fall asleep in the back seat of the impala after a complicated case and start sleep talking about your crush on Dean.

MISCELLANEOUS

My Boyfriend the Pharaoh Ahkmenrah x Reader by: @dem-obscure-imagines You know that hot mummy from Night at the Museum? Now imagine having a crush on him and becoming his *wait for it* BOYFRIEND. This fic is all around cute and fluffy.

Our Son Tadashi Hamada x Reader by: @you-plus-them You know the big brother in Big Hero 6? Well now you helped him create Baymax with a running joke that Baymax is the son of you and Tadashi. (closed blog; moved to @imagine-your-world)

Scars Tadashi Hamada x Reader by: @pepcvina That thing with Tadashi in Big Hero 6? Never happened. Kinda. There was a fire but he survived. The experience wasn’t pleasant and changed him. It takes you to bring back the old Tadashi.

ORIGINAL CHARACTERS

Nocturnal Jason Todd x Lily de Sauveterre by: @guns-n-lilies Not only does she need to treat her boyfriend, Jason’s wounds, she needs to treat his brothers, Tim and Dick.

La Luna Jeremy Connors x Luna by: @imaginingadifferentlife Jeremy Connors is high school senior who isn’t well liked and as a way to escape his mundane life, he dreams at night of a beautiful girl whom he calls ‘Luna’. Alas, Luna is indeed a real girl, who later on transfers to Midwood. Will she be the same as the girl in his dreams or will he realize that dreams can create unrealistic expectations? (Series)

Good Boy Roy Harper x Maia Bailey by: @royslittleharper Maia has to take care of her boyfriend, Roy, after he has been turned into a dog leading to a surprise visit by Maia’s brother, Loki.

A Demigod’s Survival Guide To The Avengers Avengers x Grim Cassidy by: @with-the-words-all-wrong Grim Cassidy was always up for a challenge when Chiron assigns her, the daughter of Death himself, to help the Avengers understand the demigod world. (Series)

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goldenponcho · 7 years

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Battle for Neverland: Chapter 1

Next chapter

So this is a Fox’s Peter Pan and the Pirates fic I’ve been writing and rewriting for literally ten years. I know there’s hardly a fandom for the series anymore, but I think Peter Pan and especially Captain Hook fans of any iteration might enjoy it. I will warn for prominent OCs, so if you’re not into that, that’s cool. I’ll probably post a chapter a day until I’m caught up to where I am now.

The Captain was tired. Strong limbs felt as if they were moving against a current, slave to the rough waters of the very hurricane that had doomed him to this island. Why did he feel so weak? So… Old. His head throbbed when he heard the crow. That insufferable crow… Never had anything grated his nerves like that horrendous sound. “You aren’t even putting up a fight today, old man!” Except for the urchin that horrendous sound came from. Captain Hook strained to shake the fog in his mind, “You’ll not be wanting for a fight when I’m done with you, brat!” Despite the clear anger, he could hear the fatigue in his own voice, and he hated it. Peter Pan cackled, kicking over a bucket of soap water set out on the deck before flying several circles around the Captain, dodging the blows of his sword with ease and swooped back across the deck. Hook snarled, dragging himself toward the gloating boy. He caught his reflection from the corner of his eye, and his stomach dropped. His skin sagged from startlingly gaunt features. Dark bags drooped beneath his tired eyes, and extra skin hung from a thin neck. How long had he been like this? “Feeling a little inadequate, Captain?!” The boy was directly behind him, “Understandable when you have to compete with me!” His frustration redirected at Peter, he hacked wildly, muscles straining to lift his heavy sword. This couldn’t be happening. Had senescence crept upon him so suddenly? To further drive home his helplessness, Peter hovered well within a sword’s reach of the Captain, easily evading his pitiful attacks. Peter made a show of yawning loudly, “I’m bored, Codfish…I think this game is over.” Hook was barley able to get his bearings before Peter had kicked him in the back of the head, sending him toppling off the plank that he had somehow suddenly been standing on. Absolute terror overtook him as he careened head first toward an open set of jaws, and he heard Pan’s crow before the tearing of flesh and bone. Captain Hook’s heart pounded as he jolted awake. It took him a moment to realize he had been dreaming. His breath heaved as he tried to calm himself, at the same time noticing that he and his sheets were covered in a layer of sweat. Heart still hammering, he reached up to feel that his face was not the frail, thin one he had seen in his dream. He held his remaining hand in front of his face, relieved that it as well was still healthy and strong. Relief didn’t last long as another crow rang from outside his cabin. Captain Hook groaned, “Peter Pan…” he spat, disgusted by the taste the boy’s name left in his mouth. He sprang from the silken sheets of his bed and put on his many layers of clothing at an impossible speed, hastily splashing water onto his face from the washbowl on the mahogany table set across from the foot of his bed. He stormed out of his cabin, gripping his sword so tightly his knuckles turned white beneath his glove. “Ready Long Tom, you dogs!!! And blast that accursed boy to kingdom come!!” The crew of the Jolly Roger bounded across the deck, not daring to hesitate at their Captain’s orders. “I’m not exactly sure where kingdom come is,” Peter Pan laughed, hovering just a touch out of Hook’s reach, “but it’ll take more than the likes of you to blast me there, Captain Kipper!” “Gall and brimstone!” Hook clawed at him angrily, “Your day will come soon, Pan! By Queen Anne’s Revenge, I swear it will!!” Peter Pan chuckled playfully, taking a reclining position in the air, “You shouldn’t swear to promises you can’t keep, Admiral Anchovy. Not very gentlemanly of you!” “Perhaps you’d like a pirate rather than a gentleman, you puerile little urchin! FIRE!!” Billy Jukes smirked, lighting Long Tom’s fuse and the cannon fired, just barely missing Pan’s head as he ducked at the last second. “Reload, Mr. Jukes, and SHOOT ME THAT WRETCHED WHELP!!” “There ‘e goes, Jukes!” Mason bellowed, pushing Long Tom around with little effort. He grabbed the torch from the young gunner before he could protest and lit the fuse. “NO, Alf Mason!” Jukes cried, “It’s aimed right at—” Splinters of wood darted over the ship as the mast crashed to the deck, crushing several barrels as it landed. “Have fun cleaning that up, Codfish!!” Peter laughed as he flew toward shore and out of sight. Hook snarled, burying his sword furiously in the fallen mainmast then glancing over to his crew, who were staring dumbfounded at Peter’s shrinking form, “Stop yer gaping, you miserable mullie-morts!! Fix that mast before I plunge this into your gizzards!!” he flashed his hook toward them, and his men scattered, knowing better than to upset the captain when he was in such a foul mood. “Aye, Pan,” Hook hissed, plucking his sword from the mast as if it were nothing more than a flower petal, “it matters not how many times you escape me. It will make it all the sweeter when I finally rend ye in two.” ~*~*~*~ “Ha ha haa! Did you see the look on their faces, Tink?” Peter Pan darted in and out of the narrow spaces between the trees of the thick Neverforest, “I thought Hook was gonna explode! His face turned three shades of purple when that mast fell!” “Sure, Peter,” Tinkerbell yawned, lagging behind him a bit, “I just want to get back home and go to bed.” “Go to bed?!! But, Tink, we’re just getting started! I’ve got so many more pranks to pull on ol’ Codfish today, and I need you for all of them!” “Tin tops and copper bottoms, Peter! First, we almost get gobbled up by O'Look, then we almost get trampled by Never-Beasts… We’ve been up all night! Don’t you think knocking down the mast is enough for one day?!” Peter laughed as if what Tink had just said was the most absurd thing he had ever heard, “Of course not, Tink!! You know we can’t let Codfish go the whole rest of the day without a few more inconveniences!” Peter sped up, quickly disappearing into the trees, “Now let’s go! We don’t have much time!” “Peter!” Tink sighed, “…oh! That boy will be my undoing!” ~*~*~*~ By noon, the Jolly Roger’s mast was almost completely repaired, mostly due to Hook’s threat of sixty lashes to anyone caught lollygagging. Hook now patrolled the deck, a predatory glint in his forget-me-not eyes. His rage at the boy reignited the frustration at the dream-Pan from that morning, and in turn stoked the anger at the real Pan even further. The boy would never see the day that Hook was too run down to put up a proper fight. One of them would die first. “Robert Mullins!” he called up to the newly erected crow’s nest, “Any sign of those air-born blighters?” “None yet, Cap'n!” Mullins answered, “That island’s been as dead as the River Styx! Suspicious, I’d say!” “Let the brat plot his plots…” the Captain growled with a glower, “One of them is bound to land him belly-side down on my hook.” ~*~*~*~ "Peter, this is ridiculous!” Tink complained through a yawn, “I do not want to do this!” “Oh, come on, Tink! It’ll be easy!” Peter handed her a tiny blue sack only about the size of a ping-pong ball, “All you have to do is drop these into Hook’s supper! Just a few of these will make even the most appetizing food taste like pond scum.” “That isn’t nice, Peter Pan!” Peter turned with a frown toward Wendy, who now stood at the entrance to the chute that led outside, “Not nice at all!!” “Oh come on, Wendy,” Peter replied cheerfully, “since when was I ever nice to Hook?” “Those could make Captain Hook sick!” she said, hands on her hips, “Then he wouldn’t feel like fighting with you anymore.” “Oh, they won’t make him sick! At least, not for any longer than a few hours…” Peter chuckled, “Besides, a little stomach ache never hurt anybody that bad.” “Well you had best be careful. You could never forgive yourself if something happened to Tink… or to Hook, for that matter.” “Hook?!” Peter chuckled, “Why should I care what happens to Hook?!!” “Oh, admit it, Peter. You don’t really want anything that bad to happen to him. Then who would you fight?” “That’s true,” he said thoughtfully, “If I’m going to kill Hook, there are much more fun ways to do it than by poisoning him.” Wendy sighed, rolling her eyes, but she decided against pressing the matter further. “Besides,” Peter explained plucking one of the tiny green balls from Tink’s pouch, “these aren’t poisonous; it’s only filled with Neverswamp water.” Tink sighed, “If I do this, can I please go to bed?” “Of course, Tink,” Peter said apathetically. “Fine, then. I’m going,” Tink said quickly as she tied the bag shut and flew hastily from the Underground House. ~*~*~*~ Tinkerbell peeked from over the side of the Jolly Roger to the scattering of pirates on board. Mullins and Mason were reclined in coils of rope, Billy Jukes lied fast asleep on his stomach atop Long Tom, and Starkey sat at the other end of the ship, lazily picking at his fingernails with the tip of his rapier. “Alright,” she yawned, “now to get this over with so I can get some sleep.” She took one last glance across the deck, then darted through the rigging and down to the hatch that led below, peeking through a crack between the planks of wood. Cookson’s voice echoed through the hall beneath her as Tink spotted him carrying a large bowl of scraps up the stairs from the galley. She quickly darted behind a barrel just as the old Greek sea chef hobbled out the door singing something badly at the top of his lungs, Tink couldn’t tell exactly what. As soon as she was sure he was far enough away, she fluttered below decks and into the galley. She began rummaging through the numerous pots and pans strewn across the counter, first coming to a large pot filled to the brim with something viscous and green. The thick film that had formed on the top made it look very much like the scales of the Croc. Tink took a great whiff of the substance and retched. “Ugh!! That’s definitely the crew’s food. How anyone can stomach this filth every day is beyond me!” Tink quickly placed the lid back over the offending contents and continued exploring the other pots and pans, coming across several other undesirable dishes, until she came upon another pot of soup. This soup was a creamy, almost white color, and its smell was relatively tolerable compared to the other dishes. “This has to be Hook’s supper; it at least bears a resemblance to food.” But before Tink could finish the job, she heard the creaking of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and Cookson’s off-key singing. She yelped and ducked into a large, empty cabinet that sat on the floor next to the counter, “I’ll never get out of here now!” She sat for a moment, her head resting in the palms of her hands, “Great… how will I—OH!” she sat up with a start and plunged her hand into the bag she carried at her side, a puff of glittery powder floating from the brim, and retrieved a handful of the shimmering particles, “I almost forgot about the special dust I got at Small Monday Island yesterday!” She tossed the purple and blue dust in front of her, and it sparkled in the dark cabinet, then glistened white and grew into a small, round opening in thin air just big enough for her to fit into. Daylight shone in from the other side. “Peter will have to come up with some other prank,” Tink mumbled, “I’m going home and getting some rest.”

#peter pan and the pirates #Fox's Peter Pan and the Pirates #captain hook #peter pan #captain james hook #bfn

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