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m-y-fandoms · 3 years

Text

COMMISSION: Joker/Akira/Ren x Reader Part 3

This fic assumes Mishima isn't a confidant, the reader is the Moon arcana instead, keep this in mind.

word count: 6.3k words, SFW

- Admin Myah

Over the next few weeks spent with Akira, or… Joker, as he seemed to be called when the situation demanded, you learned that the world was much more complicated than you ever could’ve dreamed. Sure, you praised yourself for being a little less of a sheep than the idle-brained teenagers of your everyday life who thought of nothing but gossip, status and appearances, but now you felt insignificant, like you’d been asleep all this time until Akira, Ryuji and Ann had placed six symbolic hands upon you, and shaken you to life. Layers upon layers, he explained the subconscious world that lay beneath, which ached to be revealed, only to those who’d open their eyes.

＊

It’d been a rush, your first time in the Metaverse. You’d insisted to Akira, though he protested, that you wanted to see what all of this near-unbelievable nonsense he was explaining was all about. He’d never taken non-Phantom-Thief confidants into the Metaverse, and he was hesitant, silent for a long while before deciding that your help was worth the risk. After all, he’d already told you everything, and they had no way to erase memories… yet.

You remember Akira taking your hand, the skin on skin contact. Up on the school’s rooftop with Ryuji and Ann flanking you, Akira had told you it was a precaution, to make absolutely sure that you transferred into the Metaverse with them and landed in the same place. You had to be touching one of them, for your safety, and he’d eagerly volunteered. With the cat in his bag seeming to smile at you over his shoulder (an occurrence which made you feel like you were going looney already) he tapped an app icon on his phone, some scary red little square, and with that, your body lifted, began to float, or so it seemed. Red completely consumed your vision, red and black ink like those blobs you’d seen the Phantom Thieves appear from when this all began. You gasped, stumbling back a step as if you could escape the all-encompassing wave, and Akira, sensing your trepidation, squeezed your hand slightly.

The rooftop faded, and you felt like a character from a videogame fast-traveling to their destination. Almost as fast as it appeared, the trippy red and black sludge subsided, and before you sat a dark, dreary scenery. A castle, one that obviously belonged to a malevolent ruler sat amongst a purple sky and the smell of despair.

“What the…” your mouth hung agape for a second, taking in your surroundings before letting your eyes trail down to where your hand met Akira’s. Assuming you no longer needed it, you shook him off gently, not even sparing a glance his way, and his eyebrows creased just the smallest amount, not that you noticed. You were too focused on the giant cat before you, knee-height, with a round, bulbous head. “Is… are you-?!”

“Much more handsome and dashing in this form, wouldn’t you say?” Morgana - now confirmed - gave you a sly look as you leaned down to his height to run your hand along the fur on his head.

“Wow… so cute!” You cooed.

“Hey! Stop it! Stop it! I am a warrior and to be taken seriously!” he whined, shooing away your hands, his fur on end.

“Ha!” a sharp laugh rang out behind you, and you turned to see that Morgana wasn’t the only one who’d made a drastic change. Ryuji was now clad in some kind of leather pirate’s uniform, his demeanor far more fearsome and a skull mask across his face. Ann donned a skin-tight body suit and cat mask, and Akira wore a lavish long coat, red gloves, and a masquerade mask. He looked like a magician from some fairytale, or perhaps the leader of some band of Robin-Hood-inspired band of vigilantes… although you supposed that was kind of what he was now… either way, he would make amazing source material for your main protagonist. Such swagger, a commanding presence… he didn’t seem to exactly be the same Akira you’d met earlier.

＊

The trip to the Metaverse was almost completely uneventful… almost. Just once, when you’d begged Akira to press forward and show you the inside of the castle, something called a “shadow” attacked, and you got to see the band of thieves in action. It was shocking, leaving chills running down your spine. Here were your classmates, people your age with ghost-like spirits materializing at their backs, flipping through the castle’s corridors, shooting guns and slingshots and magic at terrifying beasts. It was all so fast-paced, so stunning, that your body locked up witnessing the battle. A shadow spotted you in the background, defenseless and clearly not part of the Phantom Thief entourage, and taking the petty opportunity only a sore-loser on the ropes would take, struck out against you. You shrieked, your hands uselessly coming up to defend your face as if it would help. Akira’s eyes widened, his reflexes so much faster in this realm, and turned on his heel, diving in front of you to deflect the blast of frosty energy swirling toward you. It bounced off of the side of his large steel dagger and ricoheted back at the shadow. After assessing the situation and asking if you were okay, Akira decided it was time to return you back to the real world. It was too dangerous for someone without a persona to wander here. The thieves would return later, once you were safe at home.

＊

Anyway, now you believed him, you knew everything he was saying, about Kamoshida and his fucked up mind, about confidants, personas and metacognition was real and very much a serious matter. Now all that was left was to decide just how you could help them, what kind of deal you could strike with the clever leader of the Phantom Thieves. Of course, he didn’t expect you to get something and give nothing.

It was decided that you’d offer your knowledge as a writer to help with negotiation and charming shadows in the Metaverse. You’d turn those golden lines you wrote on the pages into real-life lessons, and Akira would learn to seduce shadows, to out-smart them, to persuade them to give up everything they had: their money, precious belongings, even their very selves. He would flirt, threaten, intimidate, any honeyed word or silver-tongued method he could use to make deals with shadows go along more smoothly. Perfect. It would help him out immensely. But, what did you want, he’d asked again.

It felt embarrassing, now that you were put on the spot, forced to disclose it, but although those “golden words” translated well into lessons for others, you found that you couldn’t as easily take your own advice. You struggled with human interaction in your real life, especially of the romantic kind. You could write a healthy relationship out on paper, create the ideal love interest from scratch for a story, but stumbled along words like some socially incompetent fool once it came time to apply that knowledge. As much as you hated to admit it, these days even getting true, realistic romantic moments down on paper was a struggle. The well was drying up, writer’s block, as you’d explained it to your online friends. It was near impossible to make something from nothing, and you had nothing. No real romantic experience. You couldn’t help but think this was the route of the problem. Your writing, your precious romance novel would flourish, if only it’s author wasn’t completely clueless.

“Date me…” You mumbled, surprised out how your long moment of pensive introspection had accumulated into this clunky statement.

“What?” Akira let out a breath he’d seemed to be holding the entire time, just watching you think on what method of reciprocity was worth your help. Losing your nerve at the incredulous tone of his voice and the raise of his brows, you shrunk back a bit, ready to defend your words.

“W-wait!” You held a hand out between you. “Not really. I mean…” how to word this…? “Like, fake!” He looked even more confused than before. You released a noise of frustration. “What I mean is, you take me on dates - fake ones - stupid little stuff couples do, for my writing, of course…” You looked toward the ground, suddenly extremely interested in your shoes.

“How does that benefit you in any way?” He smiled, a bit forced, a blush dusting his pale cheeks.

“Well I- I’ve been having writer's block lately. I mean sure, I can give you lines and lessons from my previous works, drabble and things I’ve learned, written down in the past, but I have no fresh material. Stagnation is every writer’s downfall, but I have no experience, I need more to go off of… and then maybe I can even transfer what I discern from our… interactions - er… dates I mean - to you. Does that make sense?” You looked up at him hopefully.

“Uh… no,” Yeah, you knew it didn’t, but that’s all you had for him. His hand shook, much less confident as Akira than Joker, and he shoved it in his pocket.

“It’s hard to explain, I just… that’s my deal. Will you take it?” You clutched your bag a little closer to your body. “We don’t even have to tell anybody. I just want to experience it… going out… with someone…” It sounded a little more pathetic now that you were actually hearing yourself. You both stood in silence, Akira contemplating your words. It wasn’t that he didn’t like you as a person… it was just… complicated…

“Give me a day to think about it,” he spoke quietly, giving you a polite send off before parting ways.

That night, anxiety set in as you rolled around in your bed restlessly.

Did you sound like a creep? Were you being unreasonable? Was this asking too much of him? Does he think you’re crazy? You’ll probably never hear from him again. He’d probably rather find a way in that crazy Metaverse to erase your memories so he can forget the awkward exchange ever happened. Maybe he’ll kick your shadow’s ass one day.

You debated going to school the next day.

＊

Akira’s night, though not as horrendous as yours, was not a peaceful one. Like so many nights, he found himself awoken to the clink of a ball and chain, dressed in striped rags as he stood and walked to the bars of his cell. The twins were waiting, as always, anger in their eyes.

“Look alive, prisoner!” Caroline spoke.

“Our master would have a word with you!” Justine chimed in. Akira looked up, meeting Igor’s large grin.

“You’ve forsaken a bond, Trickster. One must ask, why?” Igor’s hands splayed over a deck on cards on his desk.

“Huh…? What do you mean?” Sleep lingering in his mind, and confused as to why he was here this time, Akira replied.

“I’ve told you, the bonds you strengthen over time and the new bonds you form, they will be what wins this fight. You can only complete your mission, save all that is, through the support your confidants provide, so why have you abandoned this bond?” Igor’s fingers folded together, hands clasped, a show of disappointment. “Now is not the time to not try hard enough.” Was that a hint of frustration in his tone? If so, he didn’t show it.

“...I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Akira rubbed one eye lazily.

“You’re not trying to understand, worm! Wake up!” Caroline’s fist banged down across the bars, startling Akira slightly. He looked to Igor again, who held up a single card between two fingers. On its face sat two wolves, both howling up at a glittering moon.

“The Moon.” Igor stated plainly. “Illusion, fear, anxiety, intuition, uncertainty, complexity, secrets, the unconscious mind. A friend, a possible lover, someone unsure of themselves and others. Creativity, shadowed by doubt. Someone who supports others but not themselves.” As he spoke, images of your face flashed in Akira’s mind. Igor threw the card into the air, catching it upside-down, letting the wolves fall into the moon, swimming in its glow. “Reversed: release of fear, repressed emotion, clarity, misinterpretations overturned. Someone who can fix what was upright. But you’ve passed over the opportunity.” Igor swipes his free hand in front of the card, and it disappears.

Scenes play out in Akira’s head. Confrontation with shadows, confrontations with real people, but these aren’t real… or rather, haven’t happened yet.

He receives clarity.

The Moon has more to offer than lessons on charisma, seduction, trickery, persuasion. His intuition will grow, his ability to perceive things before they happen, the ability to read and understand people, and be understood in return. Other bonds will grow, empathy will grow. More friends, closer friends, a flash of blue hair, white uniform, red hair, headphones, then a tidy uniform, a Shujin uniform, gloves, a beige jacket, and finally bouncy curls and a soft, high pitched voice. With your help, the Phantom Thieves can grow. Bonds will strengthen. Complexity, Igor had said. More than meets the eye. Was there more to you? You weren’t too bad, obviously intelligent… a bit odd, but kind enough, and he did find you cute… but pretending, a fake relationship? How could a fake bond strengthen

The card reappears, as if out of thin air, and Igor points to one upside down wolf.

“Me.” Joker whispers, as if guided by an unseen force. Igor points to the other wolf.

You.

He awakens with a start, nearly knocking Morgana off the bed. He has an answer for you now.

＊

He finds you at school the next day, huddled in the library and not where you’d said you’d meet him. You’d been dreading this, waiting for the rejection, your hand trembling slightly on the book in your hands. He sits across from you, a look of determination on his face. Waiting for him to speak was torture.

“I’ll do it.” He holds out a hand, waiting for you to shake it, seal the deal. A contact has been signed.

＊

Your first date with Akira is clunky, unpracticed, unprecedented of course. He doesn’t know much about what to do, either, so he takes you to Le Blanc for dinner. Some coffee and curry, maybe a soda and some conversation on the side? It couldn’t be too bad, right? That’s what dudes do, he thought, bring their... pretend sweetheart somewhere for dinner, right? Sojiro is teasing, of course, wondering who this new person was, why Akira was holding their hand. He smirks like a dad proud of his boy, and Akira, too embarrassed under Sojiro’s scrutiny now to sit down and serve you curry, rushes you upstairs.

After being dragged by the hand up rickety old stairs, you end up in Akira’s room alone. You look around, taking in his sparse decorations, humble belongings. It then strikes you that you are, in fact, alone. Alone with a boy in his room, for the first time in your life. You didn’t know how you got here, and so fast. Maybe you were in over your head. Maybe you just needed to calm down. This was part of the process, right? Real couples did this, to get to know each other. He beckons you over, gestures for you to sit on his bed with him. You’re hesitant, but Akira isn’t making a big deal out of it, and you’re not really alone, with Morgana right there, so you sit, as far from him as you could be on the surprisingly soft bed. Struggling for words and new to dates himself, Akira decides to treat you first and foremost like his friend. That makes this all easier.

He spends the next hour or so describing Mementos, his mentor Igor, the twins. He wants you to know everything, and it surprises him. His other confidants, save for the actual Phantom Thieves, don’t know anything about the hidden world their bonds are healing. He describes the arcana to you, the tarot, the way his soul resonates with The Fool, Ryuji The Chariot, Ann The Lovers. His doctor friend is Death, Sojiro the Hierophant. Morgana here is the Magician, and proud of it. He explains how he feels a bond with them, as he now does with you. They make him feel like he can do anything. You’re included in that now. You feel warmth rise to your cheeks. How could he say that so casually? It wasn’t like it was a love confession or whatever, but you had trouble seriously telling your online friends you appreciated having them in your lives without adding a joke or meme in there somewhere. Why did he even need your help? He seemed well spoken. You said so, voicing these opinions aloud.

“Huh.. you know, I actually don’t usually talk this much,” he smiled. “Must just be you.” He was only half teasing. You looked away nervously, feeling the need to change the subject.

“S-so, what am I?” You began to stroke Morgana’s fur, and this time he didn’t seem to mind.

“You mean your soul?” He scooted a bit closer.

“Yeah.” It didn’t go unnoticed.

“The Moon.” He replied softly.

He spent the rest of the night explaining the levels of Mementos, and some of the wicked people whose hearts he’s had the displeasure of seeing inside, but the absolute pleasure of changing. You say you aren’t surprised so many people are walking around so hurt inside or eager to hurt others. When the “date” ends - neither of you having even gotten that promised coffee or curry downstairs - you’re touching, sitting shoulder to shoulder looking at the moon outside his window with Morgana on your lap. The room seems a little warmer, a little less humble. Akira mentions with a sheepish grin that it’s getting late, and offers to walk you home.

Rank Up!

＊

You sit in your bed that night, Akira now having returned to Le Blanc, and think about if this will make good writing material or not. You had to have learned something, right? There was something to be gained from every experience… but you can’t help feeling like you’ve warmed up to the thought of Akira a bit more… not too much, however. You smiled to yourself at the thought of The Fool, tricked into dating the Moon, for all it can offer him.

He’d been so awkward at your front door when he dropped you off. You could tell he had no clue what to do. He was frantically looking around. People in movies kissed their date at this point, cheek or lips, depending on how the date went, right? He confessed that he’s one of those people who truly don’t know anything about romance, like you’d mentioned earlier in one of your conversations. You tell him it’s fine, that you didn’t expect anything, that you just met the other day. He thought he was being clear, dropping hints that he might want to peck your cheek, just a quick gesture to kick off your fake relationship, but maybe he wasn’t as slick as he thought. The hints seemed to go over your head. Maybe he really did need help.

＊

Your second date comes in the form of you begging to go back into the Metaverse for some inspiration. He fights you, bringing up the last time a shadow attacked you, but you are persistent. He gives in, taking you to the highest rung of Mementos, where the shadows are weak and he can keep you safe adequately on his own. It is a date, after all, no Phantom Thieves tagging along. Mementos is a bit more frightening than Kamoshida’s Palace, you mention, and he eases your fear, promising to protect you here, always. You take in his Phantom Thief uniform in more detail as you walk the long corridors of the realm of the subconscious and decide he looks quite handsome in it.

You watch him battle a demon that is the personification of lust, a succubus-like creature dripping with temptation and love, or so it thinks. Joker uses all that you’ve taught him so far, which isn’t much, and cons the false idol of love out of their money. It was quite comical yet a bit sad to watch the shadows expression fall from a cocky to a defeated one, but preformative love you’ve decided, is doomed to lose. The irony flies over your head.

From this experience, watching Joker fight with speed and grace, you settle on a genre for your novel. It will be a high-fantasy romance. Joker will inspire your main character, of course, but the love interest… was still undecided. You started drafting her to look like Ann, act like Ann, give off the energy and power Ann does. Ryuji was an option at first as well to inspire the love interest’s personality, but he was a bit too brash. You wanted someone strong, but soft and elegant at the same time. These characters were loosely based on the Phantom Thieves, anyway, so it didn’t really matter.

＊

When you leave the Metaverse, though Akira is a bit exhausted, he takes you to a local casual restaurant to make up for the last time at Le Blanc. There, sitting across the counter from you two is an older gentleman. Yoshida, Akira whispers, is a friend of his, another confidant. The Sun. Yoshida makes small talk, asking politely if you’re with Akira, and you feel your stomach clench. You knew this was fake, the agreement was clear, but hearing it aloud, the awkward ‘we’re just friends’ that was coming made you sweat. It still felt like rejection anyway. When Akira confirms that yes, you are in fact dating, your eyes widen, the coil in your stomach releasing. He smiles, taking your hand. This has to be an act, a show to play up the relationship. He’s just performing his duty, his role, holding up his end of the deal in order to simulate a real relationship and give you worthwhile source material… right?

Either way, you appreciate not being publicly humiliated, and smile back. That night, you write down everything, and what it’s like to not be alone.

Rank Up!

＊

Days pass, Kamoshida coming and going, justice being served, and you spend more and more time with your fake boyfriend. Your parents let him come over, and in your room you let him read some of the old poetry you’ve written, some lame pining drabble from your younger years, and some more recent things you’re proud of. He scours your room, digging up old hobbies and photos. You tell him all about them. He tells you he enjoys learning these things about you. You simply smile. It doesn’t seem to be the reaction he was looking for. Not liking the small frown that adorns his features, you pick the conversation back up, asking if he thinks you’ll ever have a persona. He smiles, maybe someday.

Rank Up!

＊

The Phantom Thieves are gaining fame, only more fodder for your writing. The more you hang out with Akira and his friends, the more real it feels. Your online friends can feel it, too. They sense you changing, talking less of writing and more of Akira. They tease you, of course, but they don’t get it. He’s just a main character… just a muse.

This time, Akira walks home to Le Blanc alone, wondering if he should tell you how he feels. He doesn’t like it, holding up this pretense of a fake relationship, pretending the glances and touches don’t matter. He wants to tell you…

...that he’s slowly falling.

You receive a little gift in the mail the next day. It’s a deck of tarot cards. The return address is blank. You call him to tell him all about it, and end up discussing the pros and cons of each card all night. What a coincidence that you should receive your own deck all of a sudden.

Rank Up!

＊

There are moments where you’re afraid you may be falling, too. There was the time that a blue-haired young man stalked you and your friends through Shibuya, turning corners when you did, always on your trail. When Ryuji finally got fed up and confronted the weirdo, asking why the hell he was following you guys, he’d revealed that his name was Yusuke, a student of a painting master, and that he was simply following inspiration where it lead.

“Your friend there, I was drawn to them,” he points elegantly, like some manga bishounen, past Ryuji and toward you. “I beg of you, allow me to paint your form. Something about your normalcy stands out. What I mean is, there is beauty to be found in not standing out, a silent grace in being so plain.” You could tell Yusuke meant no harm, that he simply may be a bit socially inept with his words, as well, but the way he was talking about you set something in Akira on fire. He stood in front of you, shifting until his body blocked yours from Yusuke’s sight.

“They aren’t plain.” He spoke with a dangerous edge to his tone, and you felt your heartbeat speed up. The hint of jealousy in his voice at Yusuke’s request for you to model for him, and anger at him calling someone he found so fascinating plain was evident.

＊

Yusuke seemed to be in denial in the coming days. Though your little troupe seemed to constantly be bumping into him, offering him sound advice and trying to awaken him to the mire of corruption that was the truth behind his mentor, Ichiryusai Madarame, he refused to see reason. He dove further into his art, but you could tell he was hurting. You used your time with Akira these days to teach him how art, much like film and literature, can reflect false truths and influence people. The deception, corruption and shallowness of the media extended to the art world, as he learned after one or two gallery visits with you.

It was then, in a gallery displaying Yusuke’s work, as you sat in a secluded corner alone discussing ways to take down Madarame, that Akira started to flirt incessantly.

He takes your hand, bringing up romantic tropes in movies he’s seen that seem so forced, one-sided, cliche, uncomfortable. He mentions that he would’ve done better, explains how those scenes would’ve played out if he had any say.

“Is that so?” Your brow raises, amused by how animated this usually quiet boy could be when he was passionate about something.

“Yeah! Of course! What, you don’t see me doing that?” he laughed breathily, going on about how the male lead of some high-school romance film Sojiro rented for him was clumsy, forceful, and didn't give his lover time and space to think about their feelings. “I would’ve treated them much, much better… “ his words trail off, as if lost in thought.

“...Is that so?” You ask again, studying his face and asking yourself how you didn’t notice before how beautiful the hue of his eyes were. You sure as hell were noticing now… steely grey, sharp, deep, purposeful. You’d have to write that down… for research purposes of course. When you pull yourself back to reality, no longer lost in the swirl of his irises, you realize he’s staring at you, and has been for some time.

“Do… can I-” he speaks, throat dry, and scoots himself closer. “May I kiss you…?” His voice is soft, so soft, scared.

“...Yes.” You answer, naturally, impulsively, voice just as soft. When Akira leans forward, and softly presses his apprehensive lips to yours, you feel like you’ve been set on fire. Your mind begins to go crazy, while your body is frozen. It’s not that you didn’t like it, some part of you did. You wanted more, but it felt wrong. This wasn’t real. You didn’t truly like him… right? This kiss was fake, for research purposes… to cure writer’s block…

...right?

You were frozen more from guilt than nerves. Weren’t first kisses supposed to feel like little butterflies in your stomach? Did he think he owed you this? Were you taking advantage of him at this point? Did he feel forced to kiss you to keep up his end of the bargain?

Akira deepened the kiss, a hand on the back of your neck, guiding you, begging you to reciprocate. When you didn’t, lost in your own head, he pulls away, a small frown tugging at his lips.

“W-we… we should head home. I’ll walk you…” he sighs. You both stand, make your way back onto the main street from the museum, and are silent the entire walk home.

You think he’s silent because you’ve forced him to think he needs to kiss you, and now regrets his decision. He thinks you’re silent because he’s just forced a kiss upon you, just like some Chad from a movie who can’t understand boundaries. Neither of you know your silence is for the exact same reasons.

Akira drops you off at home with a quiet ‘goodnight,’ and walks home, clearing his head in the cool night air.

“Stupid… jeez… fuckin’ stupid,” he huffs, repirmanding himself. This wasn’t real. You’d stated that from the beginning. This relationship was to benefit your writing, to help him in the Metaverse, nothing else. Nothing else.

Nothing. Else.

It was his fault he let himself develop real feelings. He has no right to be sad, to blame you, to get upset. You’d stated the terms from the very start…

Maybe he really was The Fool.

Rank Up…?

＊

The next few weeks are awkward.

Both of you think it’s your fault.

You go on dates like usual, but they are strictly business. You get writing material, he gets advice, no touching, and certainly no kissing. Yusuke joins the group. Things are great… friendly… strained, tense. Akira wonders what the hell he’s doing, if this bond is even worth it. Weeks pass. He feels your bond with him growing, but not in the way he wishes. It felt like all of his other confidants: visit, gain, rank up, gain power, learn. He wonders if he can keep this up. His heart aches. He wants to touch you more, but can’t, wants to tell you more, but won’t let himself.

＊

One rainy night, he calls you, like he often does when you can’t meet up in person, and tells you he can’t do this anymore. You lie, and say you agree. The guilt won’t let you tell him the truth, that you want to end the farce, move onto something more real. You can sense your feelings for him growing stronger each day, and it’s not fair to him. Without fighting, without the big “it’s not you it’s me you” you’re used to reading about in books, you tell him you respect his decision, and it’s over. When Akira hangs up, he finds himself a bit angry inside. You didn’t even try to fight for the relationship. There was a tiny little part of him that hoped you felt anything for him, that maybe it meant something to you. He cries that night, for the first time in a long time. They are angry tears, frustrated ones.

＊

In your bed, you find yourself sitting upright, dead inside, unfeeling, empty. You feel like a part of you is gone, but can’t pinpoint why. You don’t even notice the tears sliding down your own cheeks as you sift through the pack of tarot cards that mysteriously came into your life. You find The Moon, and play with it, twisting it between your fingers before sending it flying across the room like a paper dart. Did this mean you couldn’t hang out with the Phantom Thieves anymore? Were you losing your only in-real-life friends and… boyfriend(?) all in the same day?

You sifted through the cards and gently set aside the Emperor, the Lovers, the Chariot. Then your hand drifted over the Fool. You held it out in front of your face. A dancing man looking up at the sky with a jesters cap perched upon his head smiled back at you.

The start of a great journey, freedom from constraints. Each day is an adventure. Courage, anything can happen. There is a need to experience new things, to let yourself experience the love you deserve. Be willing to take risks.

A sad, thoughtful smile crosses your lips. You turn the card upside down.

If you disregard the repercussions of your actions, you are the Fool. You cannot see the position you’ve put yourself in. Is everything what it seems to be?

A breath catches in your throat, a wave of nausea hitting you. You scramble for your phone, and dial a number.

Silence, ringing, silence.

“...Yeah…?” Akira sniffles. He’s been crying???

“I want… can we talk… can I come over?”

“It’s late.”

“It’s not, we came home way earlier than usual. You’re just using that as an excuse.” You were feeling a little braver than usual, the spirit of the Fool within you. You heard him thinking, a sigh that came through as static.

“Yeah… fine, I’ll be waiting.” Relief washed over you.

＊

When you knocked on the door after speed-walking to Le Blanc, Sojiro let you in with a warm smile. He obviously didn’t know about your falling out with Akria, yet.

“He’s upstairs,” he gestured, exhaustion evident in his voice. You rushed past, thanking him with a small bow of your head. Only now was the inevitable fear starting to sink in. Akira heard footsteps creaking on the stairs. Sojiro never came up unannounced, and with that realization, his back stiffened. Morgana picked up your scent, excusing himself, passing you on your way up the stairs. He could take a hint.

He stood immediately, stepping toward you, stopping halfway. You shrunk into yourself, unable to meet his eyes.

“Akira… I wanted to talk…” you muttered.

“You said that… about what?” He was more than a little pissed, but he was always one to hide his temper well.

“Can we sit…?” You gestured to his small sofa. It didn’t feel right to sit on the bed. He hesitated, before shuffling over and sitting next to you. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?” Oh, there were so many things, but he wanted to know what you thought was worth apologizing over. Maybe he wasn’t being fair, he dialed back his attitude a tad.

“For… making you enter into the agreement in the first place. Someone’s affections, their love, their touch and body… it’s not something that can be forced. It should never be pretend.” You felt like the biggest hypocrite ever right now. His head shook a bit in disbelief, blinking hard.

“I wasn’t pretending!” His hands flew to his hair, mussing it. “That was the problem.” He sighed heavily.

“What?” You couldn’t believe what you were hearing.

“I wasn’t being forced… are you… you must be the most oblivious person I’ve ever met.” He laughed cynically.

“But-”

“Wait, wait, why did you think I ended our” he put air quotes up, “ ‘fake’ relationship.” He needed this clarification, now. For closure, for redemption, to fix things, whatever may come next.

“Because… because I was forcing you to date me! You were uncomfortable?!” You could feel your voice begin to break, tears clawing to escape. You’d never felt so disgusted with yourself as you did right now.

“Are you serious?” He took both of your hands, looking you in the eyes. You nod. “Answer truthfully. Do you have feelings for me? Real ones?” You bit your lip, that feeling of selfish guilt creeping like bile up your throat. You nod again. “This whole time?” Another nod. He releases you, turning away. “Sheesh, maybe I’m the oblivious one here…” he spoke more to himself than to you. You both sat in tense silence, not sure what to do, what to say.

“Akira…”

“It was real to me,” he moved closer, trapping you against the end of the couch.

“Really?” Your heartbeat was going crazy, and he leaned ever so slightly closer, his hand on the back of the couch for support. “I broke up with you because it was hurting me to pretend I didn’t have real feelings for you, and to think you didn’t want me back, not for real. I thought… that you’d always think of me as just some character for your book.”

“No… Akira… had I known you felt this way…” He leaned in further, your noses bumping slightly, clumsily. This time, he felt no discomfort, no hesitation from your side. His heart fluttered in excitement. You could feel his breath on your warm cheeks.

“May I kiss you?” He asked again, a secondary, unspoken question sitting beneath his words.

“Yes.” Your voice was shaky, but you were sure, for once, of what you wanted. His hand went to your back, cradling you into his chest to lay down flat against the couch. With a passion he’d been holding back, he pressed his lips to yours without reservation. You sunk into the warm, plush feeling, tilting your head at a better angle. He kept the kiss soft, shallow, low pressure, looking for you to give him the signal to stop. When your arms reached upward, snaking around his neck and pulling him harder down into you, he groaned softly, barely audible, before passing his tongue over your lips a single time. You parted your lips, allowing him access, and his hand, pale and trembling, came up and found its way under the hem of your shirt, splayed nervously against the smooth skin there.

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hookedonapirate · 3 years

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A/N: So, I found this in my drafts that I only wrote a few hundred words for, and when I read over it, I was like, "Wait, what happens next?" I honestly don't remember where this was going or if I even knew where at the time I wrote it. And lately, I've been in a writing slump because I took some vacation time from work and wrote every day, then ever since I went back to work, I haven't been able to write anything. Not for my original story or any of my cs wips. NOTHING! So instead I made the picset above to show where this story will go.

Killian Jones has seen all types of people step inside his flower shop since he opened it five years ago, but the day Emma Swan stormed into his life with a fire unlike any other person he's known, is one he will never forget.

“How do I passively aggressively say fuck you in a flower?” she huffs out with not so much as a smile as she slams some cash down on the counter in front of him. She’s out of breath and her long, blonde hair is disheveled like she just sprinted across Storybrooke to get here.

“Hmm.” Arching a brow with subtle amusement in his smile, Killian scratches behind his ear as he mulls over her question. “You know, most people ask about flowers for anniversaries or special occasions…”

“Yeah, well, I bet most of those people haven’t been fucked over by their exes and then were invited to the wedding of their cheating ex and the person he cheated on them with.”

“Ah, I see,” he says, trying to sound as casual as possible; he too knows what it feels like to be fucked over by an ex. “And you want to give this ex of yours flowers for his wedding?”

She sighs with impatience, and it’s such a shame those lovely green eyes hold so much pain and anger. “No, I want to send him flowers as a way of telling him to fuck off for inviting me. I want something pretty but deadly, something that says I don’t want to have anything to do with you ever again. I have to get to work soon, so if you could help me out instead of questioning me, that would be great.”

Killian nods and runs a hand over his stubbled chin. “Well, there are orange lilies to express your hatred for this person, there are horseshoe geraniums for stupidity, yellow carnations for rejection, or to say you’ve disappointed me.” The woman seems intrigued by the suggestions, so he continues until something finally sparks in her dazzling green eyes. “Petunias symbolize resentment and anger, and aconite means hatred or be cautious. And of course, there’s always the black rose which symbolizes death.”

The last suggestion has her arching a brow. After a few seconds of thinking it over, she nods. “I'll take two dozen black roses.”

If you would like to be tagged or untagged, please let me know

@onceuponaprincessworld @teamhook @artistic-writer @ilovemesomekillianjones @hollyethecurious @gingerchangeling @ultraluckycatnd @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @snowbellewells @let-it-raines @wellhellotragic @itsfabianadocarmo @lfh1226-linda @sophiaaz @becausetheyrehappythisway @thislassishooked @hookedmom @resident-of-storybrooke @kateroselin @chamomileandmint @kday426 @sals86 @lawgeeks @yasbio2015 @xsajx @delightfully-difficult-pirate @wanderingjpg @squidvisious @tenaciouskittynight @biefaless @animatedshorts @lassluna @ejunkiet @melsbels @meat-pie-with-sauce @roseyflush @ivalane @tiganasummertree @nowforruin @qualitycoffeethings @nikkiemms @oncechicagolove @theonewiththeory @lostinwonderland314 @darkcolinodonorgasm @arshini01 @companion-mala @carpedzem @youareafeverdream @maguilar1028 @mayquita @courtorderedcake @shady-swan-jones @timeless-love-story @laschatzi @officerrogers @spartanguard @andiirivera @ouatpost @jarienn972 @winterbythesea @winterbaby89 @distant-rose @xhookswenchx

#cs ff #captain swan #flower shop au #emma takes killian as her date to neal and tamara's wedding #cs graphic #florist killian #hannah writes #kind of

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esepoimipullula · 3 years

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BIG spoilers for Fantomius: L’inizio e la fine by Marco Gervasio

Can I just... rant a little bit about how freaking HAPPY the last two episodes of this series made me?! Oh, whatever, I’ll do it anyway. It might just be my love for unlikely protagonist/antagonist team-ups but I LOVED the temporary (or not-so-temporary) alliance we ended up with.

First of all, I really liked Pinko going from “bumbling minor adversary/enemy who’s comically uptight and a bit arrogant but a good person at heart” to “stone-cold badass” in like two lines. It actually fits very well, all things considered.

(”I could have left like Lord Quackett and his girlfriend did! But I’m not a coward, I don’t run away!”

“If injustice is law, it is our duty to oppose it!”)

On the other hand, I also liked him going back to planning to catch Fantomius and his team as soon as the Glomgold emergency was solved and the situation went back to normal. Pinko is not a cold man, but he puts his duty above all else. And his duty is not to any mayor or to any law, but to Duckburg and its citizens. He has to defend them from Wrong and make things Right for them. To him, stealing is Wrong, whether you’re stealing from the poor or from conceited or dishonest nobles. To make things Right, you have to catch the thieves. Likewise, exploiting those who are defenseless against you for your personal gain is Wrong, whether you’re a criminal or someone in a position of power. To make things Right, the one who’s doing the exploiting must be brought down and exposed, by any means necessary. These two thoughts can and do coexist, one doesn’t cancel the other out. Not even if the thief helps catch the shady powerful person in the act. I can appreciate a character with such strong convinctions and ideals.

Then... there’s Lady Senape. (A small side note: did any Fantomius stories with her ever get officialy translated? Because I’ve seen people on here refer to her with her original name and I can’t help but wonder... do you guys know it literally means Lady Mustard? Like, because she’s kind of a foil to Dolly Paprika? Paprika... Mustard...?)

Anyway, I really, really loved her in this one. Seeing her go from the usual petty but cunning and ruthless enemy to unlikely ally ro actual friend was extremely satisfying, even if most of her character development happened offscreen.

Now, this is probably an unpopular opinion, but... I’ve always liked her as a character. Because she’s a foil to Dolly but she’s not just some Clingy Jealous Ex or a shrew who can’t actually manage to do anything on her own, because she’s kind of a foil to John, too, because I have a fondness for friends/lovers to enemies situations, and because I was utterly charmed by her first appearance. The mystery, the tension, the whole Chinese theatre thing with the symbolic colours... it all made a big impression on me, y’know? So, that’s why I was pretty disappointed when it looked she was never going to get any real character development. In any direction, I mean. Had she turned out into something like a Big Bad to rival Glomgold, I would have been just happy that she got a little something more to do in the Fantomius stories.

And that was were I thought her character was headed to when I began reading L’inizio e la fine. I mean, she WAS getting the chance to seriously mess up everyone’s future, right? And well, she did, pretty much...

But the prologue of L’inizio e la fine came with a little article on Lady Senape herself. Probably just to recap her previous appearances for forgetful or occasional readers, sure. But between explaining why she wanted revenge on Fantomius after Fu Man Etchù, comparing and contrasting her to Dolly, and showing Gervasio’s studies on her character, the writer slipped in a bit of backstory that... I don’t really remember if it had ever come up before, honestly.

“Jen Yu comes from a family of Chinese farmers and she’s a descendant of Ching Shih, the nom de plume of the lady pirate who terrified the Chinese Seas at the beginning of the XIX century,” the article said. And being fascinated by lady pirates, Ching Shih herself, AND the idea of Jen Yu having a backstory offering all kinds of possibilities and parallels (did she go from downtrodden peasant to ruthless thief, unlike John who went from dissatisfied nobleman to gentleman thief? Did she discover her ancestry and immediately decide to emulate Ching Shih to take revenge on society for a difficult upbringing, kinda like early days Paperinik? Was a secret diary involved? Were her parents honest folks or was Ching Shih’s glory reduced into a family of petty thieves and crooks, and either way, did Jen Yu ever want to commit great and daring crimes to make her pirate ancestor proud? Did...) I couldn’t stop reading too deep into it. Though in the end, my main take from it was... “Wait, is she getting an actual backstory and an article all about her because she’s gonna be... important?? Sympathetic??? Someone the readers will be supposed to root for at some point????”

Nevertheless, I tried not to raise my own hopes too much. For all I objectively knew, Senape was just gonna be petty and vindictive and have her backstory never actually mentioned or referenced in-story and...

And then, Distopia and La fine e l’inizio happened. And the only thing that didn’t make me absolutely giddy about her was the lack of “Well, you know, one of my ancestors really was a pirate!” lines during the whole “boarding Glomgold’s ships” sequence.

Of course, I did spend the week between those two stories theorizing how Senape would turn out to be secretly working with Glomgold and spying on the group even as she pretended to have become their friend. Or betray everyone and ally herself with Glomgold as soon as things got too tough for her liking. Or help take down Glomgold but then immediately try to steal the golden mask again and turn back to the asshole I knew and loved (even as I longed to see something more done with her...). Needless to say, I didn’t (dare hope to) think the change would stick or even bring about any significant character development. And yet, what did I get?

Senape working together with Dolly and Copernico for a whole year without ever selling them out. The three of them being actually a good team. The three of them becoming actual friends. Senape and Dolly giving up on their “Lol your boyfriend used to be my lover don’t you feel sooo jealous when you think about it?” “Bitch you broke his heart and you’re an asshole and I want to punch you in the face” dynamic to... become an honest-to-goodness adorable duo? And Senape becoming a permanent (?) member of the team because Dolly asked her and Copernico vouched for her and she was all for it because she liked working with them?? Dolly defending Jen Yu from John’s objections and John giving in even if he rightfully doesn’t trust his ex completely???

*squees*

Btw, I’m also just so happy about Dolly having what seems to be shaping up as a regular female friend that is also involved in her criminal life. She deserves that. <3

If it doesn’t all go back to normal in the next Fantomius series with a sudden backstabbing, that is. I’ll be very sad for Dolly if that happens. Hope they just keep being besties.

#disney comics #duckverse #fantomius #i actually do ship dolly x senape a little #i mean just look at that last panel #'we have a lovely guestroom... ;)' 'are you asking me to stay? ;))'#honestly if i can lowkey ship dolly and john with copernico i can be open to other poly possibilities right?#maybe even an ot4...

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auxiliarydetective · 3 years

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Writer's Month - Day 10: sunshine | aged up/deaged

Another fandom? Yes. Another OC? Yes. Do I regret this? Yes. Will I apologize. No. It's too late for that. Time for some cringe, because this is based off an anime. Namely One Piece. What you need to know for this story is that my OC (Inari) has an ability that's based off a master-servant relationship. Basically, Inari always has a master. She has to obey their every command and, in return, gets powers related to their personality or own powers and abilities. Her allegiance/her master changes whenever someone defeats her old master or she is saved from death by someone, leading that person to become her new master.

Okay, have fun. Don't die from the cringe.

Inari stretched and let the sun shine down on her face. It was a lovely day in the New World, even if it had been somewhat chaotic. First the volcanic ashes raining down and now this stranger that Luffy had decided to pick up… Hopefully he was at least nice. A sudden crash coming from the kitchen ripped Inari out of her thoughts. “I’ll go check it out”, she called to Franky, who was standing at the helm. She jumped up and sprinted across the ship, to the kitchen, almost bumping into Zoro and Sanji in the doorway. The door and wall segment of Sick Bay had been blasted apart and Luffy was laying on the floor in the rubble, getting up. The stranger had woken up. He stood where the door once had been with his gigantic mechanical arm, standing at double an average person’s height, looking menacing as ever. “Nami-san, go outside”, Sanji told Nami. Nami nodded, visibly happy to get out of there. “Take care of it, please”, she said, then hurried out. “Straw Hat Luffy”, the stranger said menacingly, walking slowly towards Luffy. “Why are you a pirate?” Luffy grinned. “To become the Pirate King”, he said with pride. The stranger’s mechanical arm made an intimidating wind-up sound as he clenched its large fist. “Pirate King… Pirate King?!” Suddenly, he hurled his fist down on Luffy, who was narrowly able to escape. Zoro and Sanji, being the number two and three fighters of the crew, charged at the stranger in defence of their captain. Inari rushed after them, seeing it as her duty, even if her allegiance currently did not lay with any of them. Angrily, the stranger ripped the dinner table out of its place and hurled it away while Luffy was still standing on it, almost sending him flying into the stove. “Get out, everyone!”, Inari called to the rest of the crew. “We’ll handle this!” Just then, Sanji landed the first hit, as evidenced by a loud bang. But the stranger managed to block his attack and throw him away since Sanji’s foot had gotten stuck in one of the parts of his mechanical arm. Luckily, Sanji landed safely and skillfully on his feet. Then, Zoro stormed at the man, drawing his sword. A sharp, metallic clang cut through the air as it clashed against the large metal arm. The stranger blocked the attack, prompting Zoro to jump out of the way of his punch. Now it was Luffy’s time to attack. He managed to get only two punches in before being knocked away by a kick in the stomach. Inari watched closely from cover behind the overturned dinner table, unsure of what to do. “He’s strong”, she gasped. Never since their encounter with Kuma two years ago had she seen someone who had been able to hold their own against all three members of the “Monster Trio” of Luffy, Zoro and Sanji. “Be careful, Inari-san”, Sanji warned her. Quickly, he jumped into an attack from behind. But this backfired horribly on him as he was thrown right back, crashing into the ladder that led up to the balcony. Zoro attempted the same right after, but was also blocked. Then, he charged right at the stranger, only to be grabbed and slammed into the ground, leaving him winded. Inari gasped for air. Zoro usually took many more hits before showing even the slightest sign of damage. Luffy tried taking revenge, but was blocked off. Angrily, Inari threw a jet of water at the stranger’s chest to throw him off balance. This did practically nothing. It was like fighting a fire with a water pistol. But at least it distracted him and gave Zoro the time he needed to get on his feet. “Damn you, Z!”, Luffy yelled before charging into action once again. “Z…”, Inari whispered. The name branded itself into her skull. Steadily, the four of them kept attacking this Z. If this was going to be an endurance battle, so be it! He could not hold up against all of them forever. Suddenly, something large bumped into the ship. Z grinned. “They’re here.” A cold shower ran down Inari’s spine. More attackers? If they were on his level, the other six crew members would not be able to hold even one of them off for long. Inari drew her war fans and charged into close combat like her peers.

Even if her attacks were not leaving a scratch, the least she could do was try. Finally, they got a minute to breathe as they were able to knock Z back together. “Things are getting bad out there as well”, Sanji remarked. Really, there was shouting coming from outside. It did not sound like much, but Inari knew to trust his extensively trained senses. “Let’s end this now, everyone!”, Luffy decided. They charged at Z with new energy, doing the best they could in this small space while also trying not to destroy more things. Suddenly, Inari found herself face to face with Z, his giant mechanical fist slamming down towards her. Just before it could crack open her skull, she felt herself being grabbed by the waist and pulled out of danger. She felt the flurry under her skin of her allegiance changing. It may sound hard to believe, but she could feel her powers switching, the symbol on her left arm being warped into a different shape and her hair and eyes changing color. “Are you okay, Inari-san?”, Sanji asked worriedly, setting her down on her feet. “Yeah, I’m fine”, Inari said quickly. She knew that, every time her allegiance changed, it meant she had just narrowly been saved from death. Even though this had happened countless times already, it still gave her shivers every time it happened. She took a deep breath and the fear was out of her system. Behind them, Zoro tumbled across the floor, catching himself after another attack. He cursed and charged forward again. “Go outside and help the others”, Sanji said to Inari. “He’s not an enemy for you.” Inari could already feel her body getting ready to move to the door by itself. That had been an order. She nodded, smiled and sprinted for the door, dodging the splinters that were shooting from the dinner table splintering apart.

When she stepped on deck, she was greeted by a frightening sight. They were surrounded by large warships. On the grass stood a man in a weird ninja-like costume, doing a weird dance. Squiggling and tightening in his rhythm were vines that were squeezing the air out of Usopp, Franky and Brook, even if the latter did not possess lungs in the first place. There was also a woman with blue hair in a cape, presenting purple flames in her hand. But what confused her more was what was further away from her: Robin had shrunk, seeing as her sweater was now too big for her, and looked significantly younger. But Nami had turned into a kid and was completely sunken in her coat. And Chopper… Chopper was tiny. He looked like a tiny plush figure one might win at a price counter, with large eyes, a large head and a small body. “Inari!”, Chopper screamed, his voice even more high-pitched than usual. “You have to defeat her from afar! Don’t come down here!” Inari furrowed her brows and nodded. She took on a combative position, slashing her fans at the strange caped woman. Blades of air rushed at her opponent. Her first strike hit, as did the second and third, drawing the woman closer to the middle of the mast. The strange man continued his dance, aggressively chanting “Mosa! Mosa!” At his commands, vines wound themselves towards Inari, but they fell victim to her bladed fan. However, this made her lose her focus on the woman, who shot a ball of her purple fire at her. Inari was able to catch the ball in a gust of wind and divert it. Suddenly, a loud noise erupted behind her. She whirled around, just in time to be simultaneously hit by a ball of purple fire and hurled away by the shock wave of an explosion that tore apart the entire floor the kitchen was one. She shot backwards through the air and crashed into the mast, losing consciousness. When she landed on the floor beneath, between Sanji and Zoro, who had also been knocked away by the explosion, she had shrunk significantly in size. The jumpsuit that had once been short now almost fit her entire body. Her tattoo covered not only her wrist but almost the entirety of her forearm. During the bombing that followed, Inari did not move an inch. She woke up only hours later in her bed, with a throbbing pain in her head and the body of a six-year-old. Her room looked gigantic now. When she stepped out onto the deck, she collapsed to her knees. Everything was damaged or even fully destroyed. Their beautiful ship… “Oh, Sunny…”, Inari whispered. “What are we going to do now?”

#one piece #monkey d luffy #roronoa zoro #one piece nami #vinsmoke sanji #usopp #tony chopper #nico robin #franky #soul king brook #one piece oc #fanfiction #writersmonth2021

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starstruckteacup · 4 years

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Cottagecore Films (pt. 11)

A Little Princess (1995)

starring Liesel Matthews, Liam Cunningham, Vanessa Chester, Eleanor Bron

synopsis

I was extremely disappointed in this film, to put it lightly. The story itself was beautiful, but that is thanks exclusively to the novel on which it was based. The movie itself utterly failed to convey the magic and timelessness of the book. The acting was flat, emotionless, and forced at every point, from every actor (except for maybe Cunningham, but he was absent for half of it). One would think a gaggle of girls would have some form of natural chemistry, whether pulling them together or apart, but not a single child actor portrayed even the remotest semblance of a relationship to another. (Note: I describe in my review of Pan’s Labyrinth what quality acting from a child looks like, for reference.) Even Matthews and Cunningham could not pass a believable father-daughter relationship, despite the story being about that. As far as emotional acting, the adults were just as bad as the children. They couldn’t even feign a single moment of joy, sadness, or anger, regardless of the context. I actually laughed for the entire scene during which Sara nearly died because of how bad the acting from the adults was. At least Chester seemed somewhat worried; Bron and the nameless police officers stood around so vacantly it looked like they forgot what was happening. I really was appalled by the abysmal acting, especially when so much was handed to them in the story. I want to preface my next point by saying that yes, I know computer animation was still a work in progress in the 90s. But this was horrifyingly awful. I have never once, not in my entire life, seen CGI as terrible as the monster in Sara’s stories. I nearly gave up on the entire movie within the first five minutes because of that monster. And it kept showing up, which absolutely ruined whatever favor I tried to hold for this movie. If you don’t have the budget, which this film clearly didn’t, don’t try to animate a monster. It’s that simple. I wish I had more words for it but it was truly so atrocious that I’m at a loss. Any good will I hold for this movie is due to my fondness for the story (no credit to the film), the settings (while not exceptional, they were fairly pretty), and Liam Cunningham’s acting. 2/10

Elizabeth: The Golden Age (2007)

TW: blood, mild gore, torture, racism against indigenous people

starring Cate Blanchett, Geoffrey Rush, Clive Owen, Abbie Cornish, Jordi Mollà, Samantha Morton

This film is the sequel to Elizabeth (1998) (see part 10 of my film reviews), which continues the story of Queen Elizabeth I as her rule progresses. Tensions between Catholic Spain and Protestant England grow ever greater, escalating to treasonous plots and assassination attempts. Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots, and King Philip II of Spain conspire to depose Elizabeth and place Mary on the throne, restoring Catholicism as the national religion. Even as these events lead to war between the two superpowers, the court provides no sense of stability as new faces and new stresses surround the Virgin Queen. She forms a strong friendship with the pirate Walter Raleigh upon his return trip from the New World, where he seeks to establish colonies under the English flag. However, his stay is extended greatly when Elizabeth’s selfishness and pride take over, and are only broken down in the face of battle when she puts him at the forefront of the British navy. Outnumbered, Elizabeth will need Raleigh’s loyalty and cunning, along with the unwavering loyalty of her people, if they wish to survive the Spanish onslaught.

While still a drama, this film proved to be much more war-oriented than its predecessor, but I’m not sure it did either as well. I liked the deeper look this film gave us into the Elizabeth’s mind, especially with her social and emotional conflicts. They remind us that she is still human, despite the somewhat cold appearance the first film gave her at the end. She is more mature, and even more prideful, but there’s still a limit to what she can take as a person. I think the first film gave a better portrayal of her complicated mind, but this was a solid continuation of what years of ruling can do. I also liked how much detail they put into Raleigh’s character, which the first film didn’t do as well with its secondary characters. We got to know more about him, even if he did still feel somewhat surface-level. I think the dramatic aspects could have felt more high-stakes than they did, especially for the characters who were actually in danger. Even though so many characters were actively committing treason, I only felt that level of tension with one: Mary Stuart. Her death was particularly elegant and laden with symbolism, and even though I knew the outcome historically the scene still delivered the anxiety it was meant to. The others simply didn’t have the same delivery. Even the assassination attempt didn’t project any kind of concern, regardless of one’s historical knowledge. The war focus was a fairly different take than the first had, which I appreciated. The film established a strong balance between the tensions in England, Scotland, and Spain, and did a good job making the stakes very clear for each group. Given the uncritically positive stance on England that this film takes, I would have expected the film to villainize Spain a little more to form a stronger dichotomy between the two rulers, but Spain was presented rather neutrally to the audience. The Spanish ruler and nobles didn’t have much character, despite being the antagonist. As for that uncritical positivity regarding England, I do have a bit more to say. Although to an extent it makes sense that the film would lean in favor of England, given its content and the point of view from which the story is told, it became overbearing at times. England could do no wrong in this film, despite children dying in battle, indigenous people being humiliated and dehumanized for show, talk about slavery, and a complete disregard for the suffering of non-white and non-Protestant groups. In contrast, the first film heavily criticized England, from Mary of Guise shaming Elizabeth for sending young children to war, to Elizabeth frowning upon Walsingham’s torture methods (granted she never stopped them, but she didn’t approve as readily as she did in this film), and so on. Although England in truth did all of these things without rebuke, the film could have handled it more gracefully and came across less like propaganda, at the very least. 5/10

Loving Vincent (2017)

TW: suicide (action offscreen, death onscreen)

Sensory Warning: movement of the impressionistic paintings can be very disorienting for those with sensory processing difficulties. I had to break from watching multiple times so as not to become ill.

starring Douglas Booth, Eleanor Tomlinson, Jerome Flynn, Robert Gulaczyk

This fully hand-painted animated film follows Armand Roulin, a young man with a severe temper, on his way to deliver Vincent Van Gogh’s last letter to a living recipient. When he reaches the town where Vincent died, he begins speaking to a variety of villagers with their own stories about the artist, and their own theories about how he died. Armand tries to piece the puzzle together, wondering if the death was not a suicide as claimed, but rather something more sinister.

This film was spectacularly breathtaking. The amount of work that went into painting every scene was awe-inspiring, and definitely sets the bar high for any other films of its kind. The team of artists that created this film represented Van Gogh’s unique art style exquisitely through their loving application of oil-based paints, and truly brought to life the emotion he put into his works. I wish I hadn’t struggled so much with the constant movement, as I feel I would have been able to appreciate the film in its entirety better, but as it was I struggled to pay attention to the story because the art style consumed too much of my sensory processing capabilities. As for the story, I thought it was interesting, but I found it lacking despite the incredible artwork. Foremost, after some cursory research, I discovered that the homicide theory on which this film was based was only acknowledge by one individual, and spurned by hundreds of others. Although the film leaves the verdict open-ended, both to Roulin and to the audience, the story itself seemed to lean into the homicide theory, then completely give up on it with no resolution, so it came across as fairly noncommittal. I won’t argue for or against the theory, as I don’t know nearly enough about Van Gogh to assert an opinion, but I’m somewhat unsettled by the amount of weight it gave to it without any kind of evidentiary support, only to dump it as if the writers changed their mind themselves. The pacing was also slow for a murder mystery, which is basically what the story turned out to be. I would much have preferred the film to cover Vincent’s life, or even the days/weeks leading up to his death, instead of only featuring him in other people’s flashbacks. This kind of existential impressionism should capture the life of its creator, not the mundane views of people who didn’t understand him or even hated him. There wasn’t anything wrong with the film, per se, but I wish the writing was given as much love as the art was. 7/10

Part 1 // 2 // 3 // 4 // 5 // 6 // 7 // 8 // 9 // 10

#cottagecore #gardencore #naturecore #flowercore #cozycore #historical drama #period drama #art film #film #film review #movie #movie review #activities #mine

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momo-de-avis · 4 years

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1, 3, 10, 15, 20, 21 and 25?

hello friend!

1. Tell us about your current project(s) – what’s it about, how’s progress, what do you love most about it?

Currently, what I am just wrapping up is the thing I want to narrate on voice (yeah... imagine that) that I had locked up for AGES because I knew where I was going and got stuck mid-way unsure how the hell how I was getting there. It’s sort of light horror magical realism about dealing with trauma and recovery, and I’m happy because JUST recently I passed the checkpoint of THIS WAS THE PART I COULDN’T GET THROUGH! I GOT IT! I REACHED DENOUEMENT BITCH!

Also, it was really hard to write, I won’t lie. And it reached the point of weird. Not fantastical weird, but weird to me. I hope I manage to capture that with my voice 🥴

3. What is that one scene that you’ve always wanted to write but can’t be arsed to write all of the set-up and context it would need? (consider this permission to write it and/or share it anyway)

Honestly? I don’t think there really is one... anymore. I do everything chronologically. Unfortunately, I can’t do that thing writers often advise, to leave blanks to fill in later. If I do that, this damn ADHD brain will NEVER AGAIN bother itself to do it. If I don’t have the motivation to do it now, it will never happen. I have also learned to trust my instincts: if it’s too boring to write, don’t write it at all. If it’s too boring to write, it will feel too boring to read. Just straight up skip it, nobody cares. Reduce it to a sentence, that’s it. So I end up getting to the exciting-scenes-I-really-want-to-do pretty fast.

Also, like... I love experimenting with so many genres I don’t think there’s one I REALLY would like to try but never did? I would like to do better, much better, but never actually dipped my pen in it? I don’t know, man, I don’t think there’s one big ass scene I haven’t tried that I can think of.

10. How would you describe your writing process?

Re-read what I last wrote. Always. This works as both a quick revision of my last writing and a way to get in the mood and also to remind myself of what last happened, because I forget everything except the head God gave me and which I carry on my shoulders.

Set the music, or the ambient sound.

Stare at the blinking cursor for five minutes.

Start writing.

Erase a whole paragraph.

Write another 3 paragraphs.

Stop for 10 to 25 minutes to check if the correct usage in this context should be “white-out”, “liquid corrector” or simply “corrector”, and then it turns out I don’t even use the goddamn thing anyway.

Write another 3 pages.

Coffee and cigarette break.

5h have passed. Time is an illusion.

Oooooh, Discord messages! Everyone is talking shit about their relatives, why not make another 40 minute break for the chance of some juicy gossiping?

What do you MEAN, 1h has passed?

You have another hour before dinnertime. Why not get furiously in the mood and just miraculously gain every goddamn inspiration point lost in the previous 7h you were trying to fish for brain cells in the atmosphere? So furiously type out 10 pages that, once you revise in about 3h later, are full of typos, missing a THOUSAND words, and good luck understanding what the hell you meant with all those broken sentences and so many goddamn commas and M dashes.

But ah, completion.

15. Which is harder: titles or summaries (or tags)?

Gonna be real honest here. Summaries. I’m not so bad with titles. Mostly because I use the same principle for them that I did with academic papers: only bother myself with those after everything is done by pulling a sentence or an idea straight out of the text of the source of inspiration. But ask me to SUMMARIZE THE DAMN THING? It’s an hour and a half of me stammering bullshit punctuated with a million “AND THEN--” and nobody understands a damn thing.

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

I do a LOT of repetitions I don’t think people pick up on. I mean, literal transliterations of chunks of texts, either from a previous page to the end, or from an existing source to my text as like, an homage I guess. With this one I’ve been working on, I literally repeat entire passages but they’re so far apart they’re hard to tell (at least for people like me, who Have No Braincells), but there’s a reason it happens and it also has to do with the narrative too.

This is completely irrelevant but I am going to say anyway, for Wordtober, for the Prompt uhhhhhh I think it was Legend I did this story about a bunch of pirates who go after the legend of Lover’s Cove and it’s from the perspective of a pirate named Largo. That’s actually a character from something major I’ve been developing, and at the very end he meets a fiery-red-haired woman who happens to be Anne Bonny, I just thought it would be funny to explain how they meet, and also, Largo is a reference to Largo La Grande from Monkey Island because that guy is so funny and I love Monkey Island to death. Nobody cares but this matters to me 😔

21. What other medium do you think your story would work well as? (film, webcomic, animated series?)

I’m boring, so none. I’ve worked on film before, did a couple of music videos (yes...), and right now I’ve been attempting illustration but LOL. Right now I’m stuck with writing only

25. What part of writing is the most fun?

Definitely the process of creating. Even the revision part is fun for me. I don’t know this process is fun, but I love it. Just... birthing something from scratch and shaping it into something real, whole, complete, is immensely enjoyable. These days, is the only way I manage to get out of the world and feel something akin to... peace, quiet, you know. I don’t even particularly enjoy the researching part, though I very easily get way too lost in it, don’t get me wrong, but the creation part is just so compelling man...

#thank you friend and sorry this got long 😔#Anonymous

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chromium-siren · 5 years

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Nightingale (Part 4)

(A/N: After writer’s block, I can finally continue the story! Yaaaay! Also, a big thank you to @kyber-hearts-and-stardust-souls for helping me with ways to continue the story!)

TW: bomb threat.

PHASMA

Brendol’s visit brought us some reassurance, but of course, we didn’t know who to trust. What if Brendol was still working for Vader? No, that probably wouldn’t be reasonable, especially since I literally just met him today. Nonetheless, Hux and I waited for that Tuesday Brendol said he would arrive with the equipment.

The days seemed to inch by, almost as if some higher power was intent on tormenting me- a fact made obvious by the nightmares I was beginning to have about Vader. He would loom above me holding a machete, a sadistic grin twisted on his face, or I would watch him set fire to Nightingale packed to the gills with patrons. Just as soon as he was about to push me into the flames, I woke up in a cold sweat to the sound of my alarm and Pudge’s concerned meows.

“It’s okay, Pudgelet, Maman had a nightmare,” I cooed, gently petting him as I looked at my phone lockscreen. It was a picture I took of Hux, one of him in deep thought with his sax across his lap- until I took note of the day. Tuesday. It was here. Brendol was supposed to meet us at the club to set up the cameras at around four, which meant there was just enough time for me to prepare everything (mainly my costume) for Friday’s ball. Immediately, I slid my finger across the lockscreen and texted Hux.

[txt]: today’s the day brendol comes

[txt- Armie]: four o’clock, right?

[txt]: yes. set up and everything, maybe a tech rehearsal

[txt]: is your costume ready?

[txt-Armie]: working on it. making white tie look like a mess is tough.

[txt- Armie]: also, fake blood and saxophones don’t mix. I think I ruined a mouthpiece.

[txt]: ditch the blood or put it somewhere else?

[txt-Armie]: probably. see you, love.

[txt]: xoxo

Sighing contently, I made my way downstairs to have breakfast, feeling the satisfaction that we might as well be getting our revenge on Vader soon enough. Or so I hoped...

HUX

Life at the law firm went on as usual- meetings, marking sheet music, Krennic looking like his usual shifty self. Hold up- Krennic being shifty? This was new, even for me. Hesitantly, I stood outside his office door, expecting to hear music- instead, I heard a frantic phone conversation.

“It’s at seven p.m., but we can afford to be fashionably late. Yes, Nightingale. I have all the information, I picked it up a while ago. Do I have to come in- oh, fine, it is a Halloween Ball anyway. I figure I’ll wear the cape. Yes, I’ll see you then. Thank you.” The phone hung up and I heard footsteps. Immediately assuming the worst, I tried to get away as soon as possible. Almost luckily, Krennic made his way out of his office in the opposite direction. But I was still so nervous, that when my phone vibrated, I almost yelped in shock. Looking down, I noticed it was my dad. Thank the Maker.

[txt- Brendol]: Just checked into my hotel, will be at Nightingale at four. Athena reminded the staff ahead of time.

[txt]: Thank you, dad. See you then.

I put my phone away, but not before reminding myself about the meeting at four.

“Adelaide?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’ll be leaving a bit early today for, um... an appointment.”

“Noted,” she said, typing away at her laptop. Obviously I couldn’t say what I was doing, otherwise someone would hear and get suspicious. At around three or so, I got out of my chair, shut down my computer, and made a beeline for my car. Within a few minutes or so, I was at Nightingale, facing my father. I noticed Kylo and Poe were there as well, they had explained that they were volunteering as wait staff to help catch Vader in the act.

"Okay, everyone, thank you for coming ahead of time. As some of you know, Nightingale is in trouble- Vader wants to take control of the club in the name of some Emperor," Brendol said. "We'll need to set up cameras throughout the club, because we'll have evidence to send Vader to jail. Sound good?" Everyone nodded and got straight to work setting up the cameras. For a while, I glanced at Finn, the staff supervisor and our maitre d', stealing a kiss with Rey, our tech person.

"Will you two be at the ball?" I asked.

"Yeah, I'm letting Thannison have maitre d' duties so Rey and I can go on a proper date," he said before whispering in my ear. "I'm also hoping I'll propose to her, Maker willing."

"Good luck," I said, smiling at him as we both placed and set up cameras, making sure to keep them in inconspicuous places. But little did we know, we were being watched.

PHASMA

After preparation, rehearsals, and all that jazz, the Halloween Ball finally came. Thursday's technical rehearsal went off without a hitch, and it was relieving to know the lights (and cameras) worked properly. As for me, I made sure my ghostly flapper costume looked fabulous- and it did. A white dress I found was tattered and stained with dirt and blood, with a high enough slit showing one of my garters- and the skeletal leg! At the center of my feather headband, instead of a jewel, there was a skull, and a strand of black pearls made for a fabulous lavaliere rather than the classic white pearls. But what I prided myself on was my makeup- I had made my face look pale, and painted my eyes and cheeks to look sunken in, and topped it off with a ruby red pout.

The team was also ready for the evening, made obvious by their elaborate costumes- Rose wore an elaborate steampunk ball gown, Poe was dressed as a goth, Kylo wore hippie togs, Thannison wore an elegant pirate's costume, and Mitaka was dressed as the Phantom of the Opera. Now, I knew Hux and I looked good in our zombie Jazz Age couple costume, but Finn and Rey certainly took the cake. Rey's arms were wrapped in gauze, and a bejeweled white dress shimmered in the faint light. Next to her was Finn, a mighty pharaoh who commanded respect. Right next to Thannison was a skeleton toting a double bass, as well as Frankenstein's monster with a guitar. Along with a wolfman with a trumpet, an evil clown on trombone, and a ghost on drums, Hux introduced them to me as friends from a band back in his college days who would be accompanying us. I was glad to see everyone present, but I worried about Brendol. Why was he running late? Hux then took me aside, still looking handsome in his destroyed white tie and tails.

"My dad will be here in a minute or so, darling, so don't worry," he said, gently placing a kiss on my pale forehead. Like a miracle from God, Brendol's car pulled up to the curb and stopped. He emerged from the car with a bow, wearing an elegant baroque ensemble that would make him the envy of the Sun King or any other monarch.

"Forgive my lateness, but thank you all for arriving on time," he said with a nod. "Now, waitstaff," he said, turning to Rose, Poe, Kylo, and Thannison, "you are equipped with pens that can record conversations, which would come in handy when around anyone that seems suspicious. But remember, this is no easy task since everyone will be in costume."

"Understood," Rose said.

"Rey, you and Finn are our spies. Both of you have hidden microphones and cameras in your costumes, so as you mill around, you'll be taking pictures discreetly by touching the red gem on your collars." Both of them nodded. Brendol explained the rest of the plan to the staff as I made double adjustments to the cameras hidden within the plants. "Very well then, are we all prepared?" Brendol asked. Everyone nodded in agreement as we all got ready for the ball to begin. "Wonderful. I'll be helping tend bar ut needed. Best of luck, everyone," he said, as we all walked into Nightingale. All the staff (including Pudge, our resident mouse catcher) was equipped with cameras to see if anything suspicious was going on. Once the ball ends, we would probably be sifting through footage to see if anything of interest popped up.

I sat at my vanity, warming up my voice and putting on the last of my ghostly makeup when I heard a slight jingle and the sound of Hux's shoes tapping on the floor. The door then creaked gently open, and Hux appeared before me, his white tie and tails destroyed and covered in dirt and fake blood. His face was painted pale green and adorned with nasty looking scars, and a biohazard symbol was “etched” into his forehead. Hanging from his neck strap was an alto sax that looked like it had seen better days, the shine gone from Hux playing it so often. Despite that, I smiled sweetly at him. “You look dapper.”

"It's almost time," he told me, offering me his arm as Pudge nudged my leg, his black bowtie collar jingling merrily. I walked out onto the dark stage, the audience silent as corpses (ha, ha), waiting for what I had in store for them. I nodded at one of the backstage technicians, and he began to play a custom CD we had made for the beginning of the concert. With help from Hux's co-worker Kylo, we made a perfect voiceover welcoming out guests to the ball. Now an ominous voice boomed throughout the club, startling many of the patrons (I swore I even heard a few screams!).

Welcome, foolish mortals, to the Gory Twenties. Blood flows like bootleg liquor, the jazz is hotter than Hell, and the dead walk the Earth once more. There is no escape from this possessed speakeasy- no one has survived to make it out and tell the tale! Keep your wits about you, otherwise you may be cursed to remain in this prison forever among restless flappers and murderous mafiosos! Like we said, there's no way out!

Psychotic laughter, followed by ghostly sounds played over the loudspeakers, along with clanking chains and cries of desperation. All was silent as a fog rolled across the stage. Then my disembodied voice rang out.

Those fingers in my hair/That sly come hither stare/That strips my conscience bare/Ooh, it's witchcraft...

The lights go up, and we are revealed with wild applause to the audience, creatures of the night welcoming our victims to an Art Deco bloodbath. I sang on, scanning the audience for some sign of Vader, but there was no gas mask in sight. During the bridge, I did my usual routine- flirt with Hux and anyone else in the audience, vocalize a little, and do a sultry dance in place. It was during this that Rose gave us a confirmed sighting.

"He's here. Do you see the mobster guy in the white cape?" she asked. I silently replied, making sure to step away from the microphone. "That's where Vader is sitting. I'll notify Brendol and the others ASAP. Tell Hux." I slid close to Hux, whispering in his ear about the bad news while Mitaka played a solo.

"Mafiosos, over at table twenty," I said, and then that was when I noticed his face turn pale as a sheet.

"Krennic."

"What?"

"The man in the white cape is Krennic. I know him, and I hate that bastard," he said angrily. "I have the great misfortune of him being my co-worker."

"Should Kylo investigate him?"

"I would think so, but he'll have to use a fine-toothed comb to go through it all." Mitaka cleared his throat at us, and that signaled me to start singing again, all the while shooting death glares at Krennic.

HUX

I was angry. Angry at myself for telling Krennic, angry at Krennic for having the gall to show up, and angry in general because I had an untrustworthy co-worker I had confided in who would probably betray me! Nonetheless, the police were called, and would be on their way to, eventually, remedy the situation. But for the time being, nobody did anything suspicious or out of the ordinary, and the performance went off without a hitch- the crowd loved it!

Despite our situation, we were having a good time and the patrons enjoyed themselves. The fun kept going when one of the other musicians handed Phasma his trombone. Knowing the direction this was taking, she smiled and laughed- as did I.

“I only have experience with piano, ukulele, harp, and some percussion so I’d like to apologize for this trombone concerto,” she said with a joking smile. “Armie, will you accompany me and make this a duet?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

“Yes indeed, my love,” I announced, readying my alto sax with great ceremony. Both of us nodded at the drummer, who picked up a woodblock. The drummer began tapping out a light beat on the woodblock, keeping time. Phasma flashed a dainty smile, and raised the trombone to her lips. What followed was something that sounded like a Wookiee getting in a fight with a porg- I was the porg. From my spot, I could see that despite her lack of trombone experience, Phasma was having fun and getting into it. Inspired by her, I got into it as well, punctuating her notes with trills, awkward squawks, and glissandos, even adding an altissimo scream. I played the part of the stereotypical cool jazz musician, lifting my saxophone up, swinging it forwards and back, and swaying it from side to side with every crappy note we played. Phasma and I played our final sour notes, and the woodblock assumed the role of the metronome one last time. The audience applauded (either because it was funny or out of relief-maybe both) as I bowed and she curtsied, an angelic smile dancing on her face. She handed the trombone back to the original owner, a faint ring of lipstick on the mouthpiece.

“And for my next performance, I will attempt to play Armie’s sax,” she said jokingly, as I dramatically clutched the alto to my chest.

“Oh no you won’t!” I joked, and she laughed in response.

“Just kidding! I can't play it anyway," she replied, kissing my cheek gently. “Now we’re going to be a bit more serious for this number,” she said, lowering her voice an octave or so, perching on a bar stool. In her ruined white flapper dress, crystals and sequins glittering, she looked like a dove, but also like an angel. None of the other musicians played as I closed my eyes and played a slow, yearning (and in tune) melody. Like she tended to do during these sensual numbers, she closed her eyes and did a breathy hum before beginning the lyrics. The others joined in as I played a sensual phrase just as soon as she lifted her eyes and sang.

“The moon was all aglow, and heaven was in your eyes/The night that you told me/Those little white lies…” Just then, she stopped short and let out an audible gasp of fear. Standing in the foyer of the bar, looming like monsters in a bad dream, the mafiosos stood, smirking. In a stark black pinstriped suit, Vader stepped forward, dark glasses making him look even more sinister than he was.

"Lovely ball you've put together, Miss Phasma," he intoned.

"You don't belong here, the police are on their way," Phasma hissed.

"Not anymore," Vader argued. "We've brought you a gift." Krennic stepped forward, holding one of the cameras, and proceeded to pour his expensive glass of champagne on it, dropping it to the floor. It sparked like crazy, and burst into flames as Brendol ran forward with a fire extinguisher.

"You won't get away, Vader!" Brendol hissed, as they laughed viciously.

"I believe we have, and for that, your deadline got shorter and shorter. You have until the first of December to scrape up that ransom money. We'll be watching," Vader said, but not without leaving a suspicious box on his table. Immediately, I whipped out my cell phone.

"I need the police."

PHASMA

With that, Vader left the club, along with his goons. I looked nervously at the box, which began to tick ominously, fearful for what might happen. Police sirens wailed, and a squad car as well as the bomb squad showed up just in time.

My mind immediately went to Vader and Krennic. how somehow, he must have known- or someone had tipped him off. Who could I trust? After all, Vader wasn’t just a threat to Nightingale, but to the town as well. And frankly, not knowing what his plans were scared me. Desperately, I looked at the anxious crowd, my eyes meeting Brendol’s. I thought I was being paranoid when I assumed that Vader might have placed something like a bomb in the club, but the box confirmed my fears. In the best interest of the patrons (and because one of the police officers advised me to do so), I decided they would have to evacuate for their own safety.

“Ladies and gentlemen, due to safety reasons, we’ll have to end the celebration earlier than we expected.” I awaited the boos and demand for refunds, but no one said a word. Sure, there were a few groans of disappointment, but those were halted by firm words.

“Last call for drinks!” Thannison said, getting into his role of a Caribbean pirate, and a steady stream of people made their way to the bar, hoping to get in a last drink order before the fun would have to end. Immediately, I had an idea. I whispered something to Mitaka, and he played a longing piano line. The bassist and drummer picked up the tune, and Hux played a wistful tenor moan. Bowing my head and closing my eyes, I took a breath and sang into the microphone.

“I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places…” The party atmosphere slowly dissipated, thanks in part to Vader’s surprise appearance, and all that remained was a somber mood. It seemed more like a funeral than a Halloween celebration. I heard the sound of someone sniffling and holding back tears, and noticed that my own eyes were starting to mist and tear up. My voice quivered as I continued to sing the melody, making the song sound even more melancholy than it was. At the end of the verse, I composed myself as Hux and Mitaka took a solo. Pudge knew I was sad, and ended his mouse catcher duties to rub up against me and comfort me. The rest of the musicians fell silent as they were evacuated, leaving me singing as I made my way out of the club, makeup ruined by my tears- but I didn't care. Just as I sang the last note, the police came running out, the suspicious package being revealed to be a smoke bomb which was recently defused.

Patrons milled about outside, confused and desperate for answers. One of the police men handed me a megaphone, and I began to confess everything to the patrons.

"Ladies and gentlemen... Nightingale is in danger. Vader is demanding five hundred thousand dollars by the start of December, and if we don't make it," my voice began to quaver, "Nightingale will be no more." More murmurs resounded through the crowd, and I handed the megaphone to Brendol.

"But... we'll find some sort of way to catch Vader in the act and get the club back. Mark my words, it will be done!" he said, to the cheers of the patrons. Someone took up the chant of "Save Nightingale!" and the crowd roared the chant in unison. It was a powerful scene, one that empowered me- and sent the wheels turning in my head for a plan. If we were going to get Vader out of the way and Nightingale back, then we might as well have to do an old-fashioned heist. Because Vader should have known better than to cross paths with me.

#nightingale #my writing

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artistic-writer · 6 years

Text

Alii Dimidium Lunam (The Other Half of the Moon) - CS Werewolf AU - Ch 14 (NSFW)

Title: Alii Dimidium Lunam (The Other Half of the Moon) by @artistic-writer artwork by @cocohook38 & @artistic-writer

Rating: E (overall rating) for explicit sexual content, language, and themes throughout. Trigger warnings will follow and be added as they are needed to avoid spoilers.

Art by @cocohook38 - Poster - Emma - David - Killian - James - Walsh - Graham - Liam

Chapter Art by @cocohook38 - Ch1 - Ch2 - Ch3 - Ch4 (NSFW)

Art by @artistic-writer - 1 - 2 - 3 -

Also on: AO3 - FF

A/N: TRIGGER WARNINGS: Torture, Killian!Whump, chained to a tree, bound, forced change, electrocuted, cock and ball torture, scalpel, medieval device, blood, bruised, bloodied, broken bones, cries of agony, captor taunting, delirious dreaming, awoke with cold water

If you are, in any way worried about what this chapter may entail, please send me a message and we can chat about what worries you. Alternatively, you may skip this chapter altogether, head straight to ch 15 when it is posted and you won’t miss any information.

Massive thanks to my wonderful betas, @hookedonapirate who is one of the best beta’s this fandom has to offer - I seriously love her guys, and she deserves all the good things <3 <3 and @kmomof4 to whom this fic is also gifted for her upcoming birthday, and creating the @cssns Thank you to my crew, @hollyethecurious @resident-of-storybrooke @courtorderedcake @doodlelolly0910 and special thanks to @killian-whump @killianmesmalls and @sherlockianwhovian for how they helped later on this fic. And to @flipperbrain who drew THIS piece of art for this fic in December, before it was even written!

Taglist: @cssns @resident-of-storybrooke @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @hookedonapirate @winterbaby89 @courtorderedcake @initiala @cocohook38 @branlovesouat @teamhook @snidgetsafan @sherlockianwhovian @shireness-says @wingedlioness @lenfaz @therooksshiningknight@ilovemesomekillianjones @bmbbcs4evr@blowmiakisscolin @deathbycaptainswan @onceuponaprincessworld @chinawoodfan @seriouslyhooked @snowbellewells @wordsmith-storyweaver @jennjenn615 @delightfully-difficult-pirate @doodlelolly0910 @tiganasummertree @hookedmom @thejollyroger-writer @rachie1940 @unworried-corsair

Want to be tagged/untagged? TELL ME HERE

——————————————————————————————

Killian wasn’t sure if it was the flow of Emma’s dress that made it look like she was moving in slow motion, or if she actually was. She wore a full length ballroom gown, the skirt held outwards by a stiff petticoat and a silken ribbon around her wrist to hold the trailing train aloft. It was the most brilliant white, covered in iridescent pearl beads that caught the lights as she descended the stairs.

Her hair was plaited into a circle that laid over the back of her head like a tiara, a slither of wire adorned with silver leaf shaped beads woven into the golden blonde locks. They were sparkling in the light, twinkling like the stars, and a similar pattern of beads was incorporated into the bouquet she was carrying. Blood red roses mixed with white, the human symbols for romance and a new beginning, were carried at her chest, a delicate charm bracelet fitting loosely around her wrist with opposing half moon shaped charms dangling from it.

When Emma reached the last step, Killian stepped forward and extended out his hand to her, which she took and finally stepped off the staircase. The heels of her shoes fell silently on the ultra plush cream coloured carpet which was laid out like a runner, the edges held to the floor by bright, shiny silver metal fixings. It was just one thing about the day Killian knew he would never forget, even if it distracted him from the beautiful creature in front of him.

Emma fit into her dress perfectly, almost as if she was sewn in. It rustled as she moved into his space, the scent of the roses between them invading his senses and making him smile. It was a joyful smile, almost one hundred percent happy, but as his eyes roamed up and down her glitzy figure, he couldn’t help but let a few sideways smirks slide over his lips as he imagined how Emma’s skin felt underneath the skirt.

“Down boy,” Emma warned him with a coy smile.

“Emma, you look…” he began, his cheeks flushed and his smile unwaning. Her beauty had stolen the air right out of his lungs and despite his wolf stamina, he couldn’t recover.

“I know.” She smiled at him, clutching his hand a little tighter.

“I never thought this day would come,” Killian admitted shyly, a hint of sadness tainting his words. Emma let her bare shoulders drop a little and Killian couldn’t help but reach out and trail his thumb over the jut of her collarbone.

“Didn’t I tell you it would be okay?” Emma smiled warmly. She reached up, her free hand cupping his cheek and she traced the outline of his scar with her soft, silky thumbpad.

“We’ve just been through so much,” Killian told her, turning his face so that he could kiss her palm. Her skin smelled sweet, more so than normal, and Killian couldn’t stop himself from inhaling the scent that wafted from her wrist.

“And we’ll go through so much more,” Emma told him with a nod. “But whatever happens, we will always have each other.” Emma smiled at him again, the skin around her eyes crinkling and her lightly blushed cheeks pushing her eyes closed a little.

“I promised you forever,” Killian reminded himself out loud. “Come what may.”

“You did,” Emma beamed.

“Will you still love me when we are old and grey?” Killian teased. He took her hand in his, running his thumb over the ridges of her knuckles and looking down, watching his fidgeting hand nervously.

“Killian Jones, are you nervous?” Emma teased back. “Stalling, maybe?”

“Stalling?” Killian laughed, aghast. “Never.”

“Good,” Emma told him as she slipped her hand from his and lifted it behind his head, lacing her fingers through the soft, downy hair at the back of his neck. It was a little bit prickly from his recent haircut for the day, already growing back at the edges of his collar. She pulled his face to hers, planting her brilliantly red lipstick coated lips to his tenderly for a quick kiss. “Because I really want to marry you.”

“Hmm,” Killian hummed, wrapping his arms around her waist and leaning into her. “Conveniently, you are in a gown. And I’m in a tux. And look, you even have some flowers,” he smiled, nodding to the bouquet in her hand that was becoming increasingly squashed between them.

“Whilst I would love to do this right now,” Emma smirked, running a single finger down the side of his face and over the point of his elvish ear seductively. “I need you to do something for me first.”

“Anything,” Killian said earnestly, leaning forward and nipping at her exposed collarbone.

“You have to wake up,” Emma said softly.

“What?” Killian frowned, pulling back when Emma stepped out of his embrace. She walked backward a little, clutching the flowers with both hands and staring at him with pleading eyes. Killian’s heart took off in his chest, the scene behind Emma fading away and leaving her standing in the darkness, her dress the brightest beacon.

“Killian, you have to wake up,” she whispered again, her voice fading away as tiny fragments of her figure began to blow away as if they were dust. Panic washed over Killian and he reached out, clutching onto particles of his love that simply slipped through his fingers like dust in a beam of sunlight.

“You have to wake up!” A harsh voice invaded his ears, a sudden weight pressing down on his entire body as Killian’s entire vision faded to black and he felt the pull of reality once more. He hadn’t even opened his eyes when a sharp, stabbing sensation signalled the cold water hitting his entire body, his lungs gasping for much needed air and his eyes flying open. He shook his head a few times, flicking away the water as it dripped down his face and from the end of his nose, mixing with dried blood as it did and turning the droplets pink.

Killian’s delirium cleared and his vision eventually focused on Walsh standing in front of him, a now empty bucket swinging from one hand. He could barely lift his head, the shivering from the ice cold water setting into his bones and rendering his neck muscles useless with spasms. The tiny, now melting, cubes of ice littered the forest floor at Killian’s feet and he was completely naked, the rough bark of a huge oak tree digging into his bare back and his shoulders wrenched painfully backward because his arms were chained around the trunk.

“There you are,” Walsh spat, leaning forward, his face inches from Killian’s. Killian averted his gaze to watch the water running down through the hair on his legs, his jaw clenched tightly and the wounds on his face reopening from the force of the water hitting him. “I thought I’d killed you,” Walsh laughed. “We don’t want that just yet.”

“What...What do you want?” Killian stuttered, his skin rubbing the bark as he shivered. He gulped, the distaste for his captor evident in his words and leaving a disgusting taste in the back of his throat.

Walsh laughed a sadistic chuckle that left a crawling sensation over Killian’s skin. “Now isn’t that the million dollar question?” He snapped, moving around the tree a little and checking the chains. They were secure, padlocked together tightly at the back of the old tree, Killian’s hands wrapped up in them midway and holding his arms backward.

Killian shuddered when a new wave of shivering passed over him, tiny ice cold droplets of water dripping onto his body and making him twitch involuntarily. He pulled against the chains but they were not moving, not even an inch, and he casually tried to cast a look at his surroundings.

There was no noise of anything nearby. No road, not even the barest rustle of leaves from any wildlife and Killian knew Walsh had them somewhere secluded. There was a crude looking wooden table set up behind Walsh, a rickety chair barely big enough for an adult next to it and an assortment of what Killian could only describe as tools on its seat. Walsh began moving them, one by one, deliberately so Killian could see, and resting them on the table top. They seemed to be alone, the wolves from earlier nowhere to be seen or smelled, and Killian briefly wondered how he had come to be naked and chained to a tree.

“Trying to remember?” Walsh taunted, reading his mind. “Let me fill in some gaps for you. With a story.” He grabbed the chair and spun it in his hand, turning it backward and setting it down in front of Killian. He sat on it astride, leaning forward and resting his forearms over the aged wooden back. “Once upon a time, there were two wolves,” he began in a sing song voice.

Killian felt his anger rising, the tensed muscles in his jaw clenching his teeth together so tightly he thought he might crack a tooth. He flexed his fingers, balling his hands into fists on either side of the tree as Walsh continued.

“Brothers,” he clarified. “And when their father died, there was an epic battle for dominance.” He shifted his weight on the chair and it groaned a little, the wood creaking and wobbling to one side. Walsh sucked in a breath and rubbed a hand over his smooth chin. “When it was all done, and one son had come out superior, there was a quiet period. The other son didn’t mind because the new alpha had chosen a barren mate, so one day, his time to rule would arrive.”

“Just get to the point,” Killian spat, blood infused spittle dripping from his lip and falling to the leaves at his feet.

Walsh jumped to his feet and was on Killian in a flash, grabbing his hair and wrenching his head back painfully until he cracked his skull on the bark of the tree trunk. Killian cried out, pinching his eyes closed and holding his breath until Walsh released his hold and sighed. “Don’t interrupt me,” he said calmly, smoothing Killian’s hair flat and returning to his chair.

Killian’s head began to pound, his temples throbbing and the pain from the smack covering his scalp. He tried to shake it off again, but it just made his eyeballs hurt and his vision cloud at the edges of his periphery. He didn’t look up when he heard the creak of the chair once more, instead focusing all of his pain into staring at the ground.

“Now, where was I. Oh yes!” Walsh declared triumphantly, leaning back in the chair and waving a finger in Killian’s direction. “The brother knew his time would come, and if he wanted to rule sooner, all he had to do was kill his brother and make it look like an accident. Easy, right?” Walsh shrugged but Killian did not answer. “Wrong,” Walsh said darkly, pushing himself to his feet once more.

Killian lifted his head a little, ignoring the lights pulsing behind his eyes as he struggled to adjust to the new level of vision. More light invaded his pupils and made his head ache even more, but he watched with a furious fascination as Walsh made his way to the table nearby. “The one brother, let’s call him David, went and had a child,” he laughed to himself, running a finger over the sharp edge of a blade. “And now, with her unscheduled birth, the other brother, we’ll call him James, would never be king.” Walsh lifted up the implement he had been touching and held it in front of his face, the blade glinting in the sunlight that poked through the trees. “That is,” he began, his voice trailing off as he bit his bottom lip in anticipation of using the tool. “Unless she died.”

Killian eyed him suspiciously as he continued to inspect his table of torture tools. “Or was exiled,” Walsh shrugged, a sly smile spreading over his lips as he stroked over another of the tools. “Imagine if she got pregnant. David would have no choice but to exile her, right? Leaving him without an heir and, hopefully, distracted enough that James could overthrow him easily.”

“What does this have to do with me?” Killian growled, his limbs beginning to tingle from the lack of sensation.

Walsh turned to look at him, pressing his finger to the point of the blade. “I’m so glad you asked.” He sucked in a breath as he stalked towards the tree again and Killian tensed, flinching away a little. He turned his head to one side, involuntarily submitting in hopes he would be spared any more torment.

“I’ve tracked her, to here,” Walsh told him, waving the blade around in front of his face and motioning to the forest around them. “Divine taste she has, almost like the finest dining you have ever encountered. But she has this scent, like a blemish on her otherwise beautiful smell,” Walsh said with a smack of his lips, imagining Emma’s scent the first day he had smelled her at Misthaven, but then his face turned up with a grimace. “Tainting her. Ruining the way she smelled for me,” he growled angrily. He stepped impossibly closer to Killian, almost pressing his body against his and pinning him into the tree even harder.

“It’s you,” he spat, eyes flicking over the profile features of Killian’s face, his hot breath condensing against his cheek. Walsh’s eyes lingered on the scar in Killian’s face and he curled his lips, disgusted. “You reek of human, a half breed mongrel who isn’t worthy to walk the earth, let alone touch her, and yet you are all over her, because wouldn’t you know it? You’re the mongrel she has been fucking!”

Walsh’s evil cackle filled the forest as realisation dawned on Killian. The story sounded familiar, it was something Liam had told him about once, but at the time he had neglected to see the relevance. Werewolf culture wasn’t something he had taken the time to follow as intimately as Liam had, only stopping to briefly learn a few of the rules required of all werewolves. Don’t tell humans. That was about all Killian knew, but Walsh’s tale had triggered his memory of past bedtime stories and he audibly sighed.

“Now he gets it,” Walsh crouched over, levelling his gaze with Killian’s. He tapped the point of the blade against Killian’s unscarred cheek and ran his tongue over his teeth as he twisted it and watched the blade cut into his flesh. “You’ve been fucking Emma Nolan. The heir of Misthaven.”

Killian wrenched his head sideways again and Walsh’s fiendish laugh rang out in his ears. The mere mention of Emma made his blood boil, Killian’s rage building up beyond his control and before he had time to reason with himself, he tried to lunge forward and grab at Walsh, but his arms remained pinned to the huge trunk of the tree. He yelped in pain, relaxing back into his helpless position whilst Walsh laughed at him.

“What? You don’t want a scar to match on this side?” He tapped the blade against Killian’s cheek again and Killian flinched away with a growl. “No? Pity. Chicks dig scars,” Walsh laughed, the maniacal sound disappearing as he looked down Killian’s body. “See, the problem is,” Walsh began, sliding the back of the blade deliberately down Killian’s chest until it caught on the curled hair over his pubic bone. “I don’t think you should be. Fucking her, I mean.”

Killian kicked out his leg, trying to bat Walsh’s away with a knee, but Walsh simply grinned at him and replaced the blade to Killian’s groin. The cold steel pressed against the underside of his flaccid penis, the skin of his scrotum shrinking a little more from the contact with the cold and Killian visibly gulped. Walsh’s face lit up a little, his grip on the scalpel blade tightening. “I don’t think you should be fucking anyone, mongrel,” Walsh spat with revulsion. “Maybe we can change a few things, here and there, you know, to reduce the risk of you siring any filthy half breed progeny.”

Walsh slid the blade sideways, slicing through the skin on Killian’s sack. Killian ground his jaw tighter, the sound of squeaking teeth filling his ears. There was a cool sensation between his legs that was quickly replaced by a sting and then hotness, the stream of blood that spurted out of a nicked vein spraying onto his inner thigh. Killian hissed through his teeth, pressing his thighs together and flopping his head back against the tree trunk as Walsh laughed harder.

“Maybe the boys and I can show Emma what she is missing and then who knows, she might get the taste for pureblood,” Walsh threatened, running his tongue over his teeth, pausing to tap the tip against the point of his canine.

“She’s not a piece of meat,” Killian growled through clenched teeth, turning his head to face Walsh in a challenge of dominance he could never win in his current predicament.

“Funny, isn’t it? Her an heiress and you a mongrel. A real Lady and the Tramp situation,” he taunted once more, returning to the table and discarding the used blade back with the other implements. “I’m bored of this one now,” Walsh said idly. The scalpel hit the table with a clatter and another grabbed Walsh’s attention, his eyes lighting up when he spied the two-pronged tips of his heretic’s fork. He picked it up, turning to face Killian once more, tapping his fingertip against the spiked tip to test its sharpness. “Now this is more like it.”

“Please…” Killian implored with a fresh wave of unbearable pain shooting through his scrotum. Letting his head hang limp once more, the sting in his shoulders turning to a numbness that was just as painful, he tried to push through the throbbing in his groin.

“Oh, don’t beg,” Walsh told him firmly, stabbing the harsh points into the soft flesh under Killian’s jaw. It forced him to lift his head and it was then that he realised he was fitted with a thin strap of a collar. Walsh passed it through the middle of the device and refastened it, settling the other pointed end of the four-pronged device onto the skin covering Killian’s sternum. Killian winced at the new sensation, the prongs digging into his skin and causing a burning sensation each time he moved his head or lowered it too much through fatigue. The prongs were so sharp that Killian feared if he fell unconscious again he would surely pierce his chin, and as he was chained to the tree he had no way of shifting to wolf form to heal faster.

“What do you want?” Killian gulped, his words changed by the angle of his neck and the bob of his Adam’s apple passing painfully over the prongs of the fork.

“I want Emma!” Walsh shouted out, his voice echoing through the trees. He was panting hard, his eyes wide with a crazed stare that had Killian a little bit apprehensive. Walsh was unhinged, clearly obsessed with Emma too, and when he grabbed Killian’s face between his long, dirty fingers, the fork dug into his neck a little more. “But you are the wolf she wants, and it’s vile!”

Killian stared into the void of Walsh’s eyes for a second, the soulless windows reflecting nothing back but hate. He kept his breathing calm, the muscles in his jaw ticking evidently as he rearranged his head so that the heretic’s fork spikes were as comfortable as they possibly could be. “Why don’t you unchain me so we can settle this like real wolves?” Killian tried but Walsh snorted.

“What, so you can give me another scar?” he mocked.

“Death doesn’t leave a scar,” Killian said darkly.

“You know what was wrong with you?” Walsh smirked boyishly, continuing when Killian didn’t respond with anything but an angry stare. “You were nothing. You had no ambition, Killian, and a man who wants nothing has no price.”

“I’m a wolf,” Killian snapped, his words almost a gruff bark.

“Of course you are,” Walsh said sarcastically, tracing the outline of the scar on his neck again. “And luckily for me,” Walsh pointed to his own chest and began to grin. “But not so much for you,” he pointed to Killian, eyes lighting up again with a crazy look. “I’ve found something that you want more than life itself,” Walsh sneered. “Maybe hurting Emma will inspire you.”

“Don’t you hurt her,” Killian growled.

“Maybe I’ll let you watch,” Walsh mused, ignoring Killian’s pleas. “Emma will come for you, because she loves you, for whatever reason, and she will find your crossbred mongrel carcass instead. Then, when she is crying over your corpse, I can really have some fun.”

Killian pulled against his chains, ignoring the jab of the heretic's fork as he clenched his jaw. “I swear,” Killian threatened, his voice low and dark. “If you touch one hair on her pelt…”

“You think I care about your idle threats?” Walsh ran his tongue over his bottom lip with a smirk, wagging a finger accusingly at Killian as he returned to the table. “I knew you would be a fighter,” Walsh told him over his shoulder, his voice changed to a more normal tone and the rage in his eyes barely there. Walsh was a psychotic, there was no doubt about it, and the calmness in his tone made Killian a little fearful. When he turned around again and Killian spied the cattle prod in his hands, his fear turn to sheer terror as he pulled against the restraint of the chain once more. “Let’s see how long you can fight off your change.”

The crackle of electricity and blue spark between the tip of the prod made Killian panic. He wasn’t scared of the shock, he could handle that part of torture, but if his body succumbed to his change, his bones would be ripped from their sockets and he would be stuck in his wolf form until he healed. All werewolves had the ability to heal faster when in their canine state, but if the body was shocked into a change, it would enter a sort of safe mode where it wouldn’t change back to human until it felt the danger had passed.

Luckily for Killian, unless Walsh decided to end his torture and kill him, he would heal. Unluckily for him, he would shift whilst chained to a tree and it would all but kill him anyway.

“Please, you don’t…” Killian tried to reason but his words were halted by the spasming clench of his jaw when Walsh jabbed the tip of the cattle prod into his ribcage. His ribs were still broken from the alleyway assault and they crunched in his torso as he twisted away from the source of his pain. Killian’s entire body went stiff, the current passing through every ion in his muscles and tensing them all at the same time. Killian’s head snapped back, his skull hitting the tree again with a painful grunt and his words disappeared, turning into a long, monotonous cry as he shook and fought off the inner wolf.

“Now what did I tell you about begging,” Walsh said with mock sweetness, taking a deep breath to steady himself as he shut off the device and Killian’s body went limp.

Killian sucked in a breath, gulping in air hurriedly and ignoring the sting of the heretic’s fork against the fleshy underside of his chin and the sharp stabbing in his balls. His body ached, the tingle of electricity still thrumming through his arms and legs, his lungs burning as they desperately tried to fill with oxygen. Being electrocuted didn’t just send Killian’s lungs into a spasm, reducing their efficiency, but it also sent a jolt of excruciating pain through his nervous system and every hair molecule that covered his skin shrunk and pulled tight over his bones.

“Is..that…” Killian panted quietly through gritted teeth, eyes fluttering closed.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t catch that,” Walsh mocked, stepping closer to Killian and cupping a hand around his ear. “What did the mongrel say?”

A new rage fuelled Killian’s hatred for the wolf in front of him and he wished his could end his life right then and there, if not to protect himself from the inevitable torture that was about to come, but to protect Emma. If Walsh managed to get him to change, Emma wouldn’t be safe, but despite Killian’s fears for the she-wolf he loved, he wouldn’t give in without a fight. Even if it was verbal.

“I said,” Killian panted a little louder, peeling his eyes open to catch Walsh’s gaze once more. “Is that all you got?” he spat, dark eyes boring into Walsh with a challenge the Neverland beta was shocked to see.

Walsh was taken aback for a second before his lips spread into another evil smile. “I know what you are doing,” he told Killian firmly, teasing the end of the electrical stick over his flesh without turning it on. Killian flinched away instinctively and Walsh stifled a laugh. “And know this, half breed,” he spat out the term against Killian’s face, the spray of his spittle landing on Killian’s cheek. “I’m in charge here!” He roared, igniting the electrical spark at the end of the pole once more and stabbing it into Killian’s pectoral muscles.

Killian began to cry out once more, but the current tore through his muscles and made every fibre contract again. Killian’s back arched off the tree trunk and he shook, the chain holding him still rattling when it slackened behind the tree. Walsh didn’t let up for a while longer this time, making sure Killian was almost out of breath, red faced and the smallest dribble of foaming spittle appearing at the corner of his mouth before he pulled the pole from his body again. Killian went limp again and the heretic's fork stabbed through his chin, the taste of blood invading his mouth mixed with the copper tang of rust that coated the medieval tool.

“Make no mistake,” Walsh threatened, turning on the current again and stabbing the cattle prod into Killian’s thigh. “I’m in control of you and your change,” he snarled, his face lighting up when Killian’s eyes rolled back in his head and it shook violently from side to side, his lips turning blue from lack of oxygen and the heretic's fork tearing even further into the flesh of his sternum.

Killian couldn’t hear Walsh’s voice, only the high pitched buzz of tinnitus that rang out in his ears and accompanied the crackle of electricity that surged through his body. Every muscle burned, stretched to their absolute limit, and the vicious movement of Killian’s body against the tree tore chunks of flesh from his back and shoulders. He pulled against his restraints, sure his shoulders were going to pop from their sockets and feared the huge, cast iron links that bound him would tear off his hands.

Finally he felt relief when Walsh stopped electrocuting him, the tingle in his limbs turning into a dead weight and his body sagging. The wetness of blood coated Killian’s back and ran down over his legs, pooling slowly at his feet. Bruises appeared at the sight of every electrical intrusion and his chest heaved, breath catching dryly in his throat, lips cracked and head lolling forward only to spring back when the heretic's fork stabbed further into the flesh of his jaw.

“You are resilient,” Walsh observed, almost impressed. “I’ve known purebred werewolves to have changed by now.”

“Must be my human side,” Killian snapped, his muscles twitching with aftershocks and thick, dark red blood dripping from his chin as he spat out a mouthful of the copper tainted liquid.

Walsh made a noise in his throat and then his gaze flicked down to the black, plastic coated pole his hand. Killian followed his eyes as best he could and noticed that the cattle prod came with a current setting and that it was currently on the lowest it could be. With a devilish grin, Walsh cranked it up to the maximum setting, a low buzz from the charge of electricity filling Killian’s ears.

“Let’s get rid of that then, shall we?” Walsh grinned. He flicked the switch and the lightning shaped blue light jumped between the two contacts at the end of the stick, the charge sizzling audibly. Before he had time to jab him again, Killian called out, the scent of Graham and Emma invading his nostrils from over Walsh’s shoulder. He peered into the thick forest behind Walsh and noticed the huge man beside his love, downwind and hidden from his attacker, a long finger pressed to pursed lips as they stalked their prey.

“Wait!” Killian stalled and Walsh froze. “You’re right,” he said flatly. “I don’t deserve Emma. If you let me go, you win. She’s yours.” The words felt foreign on his tongue, dirty, almost like he was giving up and Walsh cocked his head to the side as he regarded Killian’s sudden change of heart. Killian tried to ignore the sting of pain in his chest, the burn site of the previous electrocution having left its mark like a brand against his skin, hoping that Walsh wouldn’t turn around and smell his saviors.

“Just like that?” Walsh narrowed his eyes.

“Just like that,” Killian agreed. “I’ll leave town and never return.”

Walsh dropped his arm by his side, the sizzle of the cattle prod fading away as he turned it off. He rubbed his chin, the daily sprout of his stubble like velcro under his fingertips. “See, here is my problem,” Walsh told Killian honestly, stepping closer and reigniting the cattle prod. It was inches from Killian’s face, the blue spark lighting up his eyes. He swallowed hard and tried to ignore his body’s inner wolf fighting with him to come out and tear Walsh’s throat out. “You’re lying,” Walsh told him darkly. “I know you’re lying because your lips are moving.”

“I’m not,” Killian blurted, making his voice sound more desperate as he caught sight of Graham circling around behind Walsh.

“You must think I have a terrible memory,” Walsh said slowly, inspecting the tip of the cattle prod and watching the spark jump between the contacts with a morbid fascination. Killian looked confused and his expression just made Walsh revel in his power, even more, tilting his head sideways and running his fingers over the fleshy bump of his neck scar. Killian’s face paled. “I knew you’d remember too,” Walsh spat. “This is about you, and what you did to me. I don’t want Emma, although a taste wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

“Stay away from her,” Killian warned helplessly.

“Or what?” Walsh ground out. “You are hardly in a position to stop me.”

“Maybe not,” Killian growled. “But she has people. You’ll be sorry.”

Walsh took a small step back and inhaled deeply. “No, Killian, I think you’re the one who will be sorry.”

There was a split second before the charged rod hit his skin that Killian remembered seeing Graham emerge from the leafy shadows but after he was electrocuted at maximum voltage, he could no longer contain the wolf inside of him. Every nerve ending was stuck between pain and never ending tension, the blue spark of electricity licking at the skin covering his ribs just long enough before Graham reached Walsh that his body responded in the worst possible way. Killian’s cries mixed with a harrowing howl as he shifted, joints popping from their sockets and unable to fully find their place in his canine form because of the chain holding his arms apart.

He grew into his wolf form quickly and the heretics fork strap snapped almost instantly, falling to the forest floor, silently forgotten. The jut of Killian’s barrelled ribs made his back arch and his hind legs kicked out into the space in front of him as he struggled against the chain. His cries were pure anguish, his jaws snapping at nothing, desperately gnawing at his own fur as he fought to be free.

“Killian!” Emma screamed, rushing between Graham and Walsh as they fought over the cattle prod, both careful to avoid touching the live end. She raced over to the tree, horrified by what she saw, a huge black mess of fur and twisted limbs yowling in pain, begging her with his eyes for some sort of help. Emma searched around the tree, finding the padlock behind the huge trunk and pulling at it helplessly.

“Here!” Ruby called, rushing over as best she could with a pair of bolt cutters she had sourced from Walsh’s torture table. “Use these!”

Emma grabbed the long handled tools from her human companion and went to work on the chain, cutting through all three layers that wrapped themselves around Killian’s previously human wrists. Seeing him in such an unnatural state was scary, the adrenaline rushing through her body as he finally fell into a heap at the base of the tree and silence filled the clearing. Emma threw the bolt cutters aside and ran around the tree, ignoring the fleeing Walsh as he tore past her in wolf form and scurried from the woods.

“That bastard,” Graham ground out, turning off the cattle prod and then snapping the device over his knee. “He changed to get away faster. That coward!”

“Is he okay?” Ruby worried, throwing the bag off her shoulder and sinking down onto her knees next to Emma. Graham noticed the two women and joined them, helping to free Killian from the chain. “Why would he do this?”

“Killian?” Emma soothed, ignoring both of them. Killian cast her a sideways glance, his eyes watery and pupils blown. In a more natural position he tucked his legs under himself, trying to make himself smaller, and his tail tucked itself between his legs as he whimpered like a puppy. “It’s me,” Emma told him softly, reaching out and stroking her hand through the fur on the back of his neck. He flinched, kicking out some leaves and tensing which made him yelp out in pain.

“Easy, Killian,” Ruby added softly, pulling the plunger on a syringe. The needle end was stuck into a small vial of clear liquid and she was focused on the amount filling the syringe.

“What’s that?” Emma whispered.

“Ketamine,” Ruby told her in a business like voice. “For his pain.”

Emma watched Ruby lift Killian’s foreleg gently, the movement making him howl in pain. “I’m sorry,” Ruby soothed in a shaking voice, her own emotion getting the better of her. Her hands were steady as she found Killian’s vein, pressing her thumb into his leg to make it bulge through his fur. Once she was content she had found it, she slipped the needle through the coarse, black fur and into the skin, pulling the plunger until she could see blood in the drug, swirling through the clear, thick liquid like smoke. “This will make you feel better, I promise.” Ruby injected the entire syringe into Killian’s leg and he let out a groan.

“How long before it works?” Emma asked her quickly, eager to get Killian out of the forest. Emma rested her hand to Killian’s ribcage, feeling the beat of his heart under her fingertips slow to a steady, more normal rhythm. If only they had arrived earlier. If only they could have stopped this whole situation from happening.

“A few minutes,” Ruby told her honestly. She lifted Killian’s eyelids and watched his pupils grow even bigger as the drug took effect. “Where are you going to take him? Walsh already knows where Killian lives. You can’t go back there.”

“Ruby’s right,” Graham said sadly. “How about Liam’s place? He’s out of town anyway.”

“That’s right!” Ruby agreed excitedly. “His brother’s loft is empty.”

Killian exhaled hard and one leg twitched, almost as if he was asleep and Emma lifted a leg to test his pain threshold. He didn’t cry out this time, so she got to her feet and with the help of Graham, lifted him into her arms.

“Take me there,” Emma demanded quickly, striding past them with Killian in her arms and fury for Walsh in her soul.

#cssns #cs fic #cs au #cs werewolf au #cssns fanfic #Alii dimidium Lunam #the other half of the moon #killian jones #emma swan #wolves of misthaven #artistic-writer #whump #tw: torture #tw: scapels #tw: bound with rope #tw: electrocution

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toooceanblue · 7 years

Text

Title: Gloves and Gold

Fandom: Six of Crows

Pairings: Kaz/Inej!

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12687732

It was late. Late for him even, but her ship had docked well after the sun had set, and she always made sure it was unloaded before she set off on her visits. Kaz refused to look at his watch, the sign of a devoutly impatient man.

He wondered if Jesper had met her at the dock, even this late. He often did still, after all this time, waiting there the moment a runner saw The Wraith in the distance. He wondered how much news they had already shared, his arm slung around her shoulders, talking up a storm of his own with how eager he was to share the latest Dregs gossip.

Kaz wondered, then drew his focus back to the ledgers on his desk. If he was going to be awake this late for something other than a heist, it might as well be to get some paperwork done. Check and sign, and hours onward. She should be setting off to the slat soon, if Jesper and Wylan had not already lured her to a warm bed. It was unlikely that they had, as long as she’d been gone this time.

Almost five months. Not unheard of, but longer than any of them liked. She had only stopped by with Nina briefly before setting sail again, only a few quickly scrawled letters sent their way. She’d been tracking The Pearl for the past several weeks as far as he knew, a ship of a misleadingly lovely name for what it held. It had been on its way to Novi Zem.

He heard the window slide open. Or at least he felt her enter. He turned in his chair to face Inej, a spirit against the night.

She was still just as small of course (no better form with which to fool arrogant captains), hair tugged back in a braid as always. She had cut it short, years ago, but it had long since grown past her shoulders again. Dressed in black and sailing boots, he could see no new scars. That didn’t mean much.

“Kaz.” Her voice was just enough to reach him. Even the sounds from the slat below them had faded to a hum, only an occasional shout or bark of laughter. It truly was late.

He nodded, though he did not rise. “Inej.”

She joined him at his desk, footsteps silent like a ghost, sitting down against him on the arm of his chair. His gloves lay on the table, though that didn’t mean much now.

“We intercepted The Pearl before it reached Novi Zem.” She said. Business first, as usual. “Over a hundred children below the deck, just old enough to start working the plantations. It took a long time to send them on their ways home, those that had them.”

Kaz nodded, writing off a final ledger before placing the pile to the side. “The Captain?”

“Dead. The first mate is alive, but the crew was small. They don't have the means to go on.”

Kaz nodded again, not saying a word.

“The club?” She asked.

“Doing well.”

She smiled at his answer, as minimal as always. “And the dregs?”

“Our territory is expanding. Retcher was throwing a damn fit.”

“Is he dead?”

“No. He knows better than to cross us.”

“Us?” Her smile brightened, her smile. “Did I just hear Kaz Brekker admit to a team effort?”

“Slip of the tongue,” he amended, a habit.

“Hmm. I’m sure.” She leaned in, shoulder against his, the skin of her neck touching his head as she rested there. He took her hand, and ah, there it was, a new scar over the back of her knuckles. He traced it with his other hand, a question.

“Before The Pearl.” She explained. “It was a small ship, but one of their crewmembers was surprisingly capable with a shortsword.”

“You’ll have to tell me about it.”

“Later.” She murmured.

She was tired. Five months at sea, and he was sure she hadn't slept in at least a day.

“You should rest.” He reminded her. To think their roles would ever be reversed like this. She shook her head.

“I have something for you.” She said, placing her free hand down on the table. When she pulled it away, on the desk were two gold bands. “Nina got them,” she explained. “from Ravka.”

He stared. He recognized rings, of course, but… “Nina?”

“She said if I was going to keep coming back to you, we should act like it.”

He had to crack a smile at that, albeit a small one. “As if she was ever so proper.” His eyes stayed focused on the desk in front of him though, preoccupied with the rings, shining softly in the gray-green moonlight. Even the bustle downstairs seemed to quiet with the unspoken proposal. Rings? He wasn’t a ring man, hands still hidden under gloves he hadn’t needed in years. That wasn’t the problem, of course. What was the problem? His hands flexed.

“I’m not asking you to marry me, Kaz.” she said. “We both know that’s not for us.”

“Then what are you asking?” He murmured. He had an idea, but it kept drifting around his mind, impossible to grasp.

“Nothing you haven't already given.” she answered. “These are just a symbol.”

“Rather sentimental, don’t you think?”

“Says the demon who still wears his gloves.”

“I have an image to uphold.”

“So do I.” She leaned against the back of the chair, inches behind him. Her arm resting on his shoulder now. “Gold is very befitting a pirate.”

“Of course. I could tell from how you’re draped in jewels.”

She laughed softly. “I’m not as flamboyant as you, Kaz.” Her fingers brushed his collar. “Is that a new suit?”

“It is.”

“I like it.”

He caught her hand in his own, still resting against his shoulder. He rubbed a thumb along the back, considering. There wasn’t much to consider.

He reached down to the desk, taking the larger of the two rings, and sliding it onto his finger.

“Well?” Inej asked.

“Jesper would say if fits like a glove.”

And there was the laugh, brief and light, before she pressed her lips to his, just for a second. Even now, there were still days when her breath over his felt like drowning, but not today. Her pulse beat strong next to his as she picked up the other ring, holding it in her palm. His look must have been expectant.

“Impatient, Brekker?” She held the ring between her fingers.

“Hardly,” He answered, touching his face to the crook of her neck. “But it’s only fair.”

“Hmm, I suppose. Nina wouldn’t be happy if I wasted her gift.” Inej stood, finally sliding the ring into her finger, and took a few steps away before turning back. “Do you have much more work, tonight?”

“It can wait.” He said, and stood up as well, gloves in one hand and cane in the other, pressed new against the band around his finger.

#six of crows #soc #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #kanej #fanfiction #fanfic #mywriting

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thebeauregardbros · 6 years

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Jaded :: Do they buy into the "happily ever after" ideal? What's their standard?

[A-Z Q’s Meme]I am extremely sorry about taking such a ridiculously long time to answer. Truth be told, this question was so good & relevant to Alus’ storyline that I wanted to write a short story as an answer, but I hit a hard writer’s block in the middle of writing it in the elegant way I wanted to. I may post the full short story at a later date, for now here is a more sloppy answer. Thank you so much for sending in an ask and being so patient. I am so sorry.

In the shortest of words; He did, but does not any more.

It seems that Alus’ life has been a constant struggle and repetition of finding hope and shortly thereafter loosing it, though his strength in heroism is near-unwavering and incredible in ultimate. Each time the blow of reality comes a bit harder than before, but the first blow still may had been the hardest - enough so that Arc’s hope had died long ago.

[WARNING: MAJOR BACKSTORY SPOILERS] I don’t mind if you read it, just maybe avoid it if you wanna be told IC instead! Though you gotta get pretty close to him first~~—————-

The first blow being, perhaps predictably, the calamity of the fallen moon. Though many lost their memories of such a time, Alus and Arc still have vivid memories locked close to their hearts of the days of youth in traveling the entirety of Eorzea and hearing heroic tales of so many an adventurer. Some of the fanciest tales came from their own adoptive father - A Gwenneg Beauregard. He told both fiction and reality, and his greatest passion in life was grabbing the attention of his children with such wonders. He was the hope giver; their inspiring bard, a man of leadership in a position of poverty, but ultimately their greatest hero. A man that never made them feel like the world was destined for destruction. Although the calamity was ultimately a victory for Eorzea, many things were still lost and unsaved - and such a life as Gwenneg’s was unfortunately one of them while the brothers stayed safe, far away. The details of such an event are one of the few things they unfortunately struggle to remember proper, however the effect was still immense.

After multiple negative instances of skipping from caretaker to caretaker in an age of roughly 15 each, Gwenneg’s remaining acquaintances and friends finally generously offered to put the children in a somesuch of a private school instead, and the brothers objected - no longer wishing for outside help, no longer trusting of those they didn’t deem especially close. In truth they were ultimately just stubborn, feeling betrayed by the thoughts of heroism and truth and perfection they had until then were told to be reality.

Due to circumstances I am not in the place to name, Arc eventually left Alus on his own to find his own path in life. Alus thenceforth passively accepted the invitation to schooling, unsure what else to do - completely alone, completely devoid of order from those he trusted, his last resort accepted. The next several years of his life were spent with his heads in the clouds, dreaming of stories old and new like the ones his father used to tell. His heart and mind swelled over time with unrest, and after failing his final quiz - He quit, and left back for Eorzea. Near the docks of Limsa Lominsa did he meet his brother again by chance, now working as a common bartender.

Alus now had as much of a motivation to move on as Arc seemingly did back then when he had left him; He would become a hero like in Gwenneg’s tales. He would bring happiness and order back to the world as a knight in shining armor, a heroic paladin or prince charming. He would do everything in his power to once again fight for what he believed in, regaining the trust he had in Gwenneg back then - Carrying on his legacy in creating it as reality’s truth when it had previously proven to him to have fallen from grace for the egg’s cracking.

Although Alus may have had the right to be upset at Arc at that time, he had promised himself to spread trust and happiness to the world. He accepted Arc back with open arms, and Arc willfully followed him - despite acting a bit of a inelegant party animal at times instead of a hero.

That was the first regaining of hope.

Moons passed - Alus and Arc quickly and miraculously climbed the latter to heroic stardom thanks to their incredibly well-synced teamwork and the immense sheer determination in Alus to become what he wished to.

Three small words passed by the lips of one of those they helped - “Warrior of Light” was reminded and resounded inside them. “That is it..! I am a Warrior of Light!” Alus exclaimed. Arc shook his head in disbelief, saying again and again that it was only a legend, nothing more.Though Alus - he was not one to give up hope anymore. His heart screamed it to be true, and that was thenceforth what he would believe in himself.

More moons passed. Higher and higher profile work was given to them for the good of mankind. They created friends and followers, partners-in-arms believing in their message. Although they were both a bit socially awkward, their childish dreams slowly became more and more true, and continued to do their best to lead a small army.

Eventually, however, this inevitably stepped on some toes of power enemies, armies even they could not conquer.

A large-scale battle went sour. Alus and Arc were lucky to live through it again, but showed up late due to an outside deception. Dozens of bodies surrounded them. Alus did not understand, it could not be comprehended to his innocent and optimistic mind. He cradled the bodies already going cold, doing his best to cast his measly healing spells - to no avail. Once the bodies were buried, Alus went again to the statue of Thal whence he regularly prayed - and in anger, smashed his hand into it. “Why must they be taken?” he spoke in a shaky voice. “Is this not imbalanced?!” he screamed.

Yet again hope felt crushed and illogical to his thoughts. In Alus’ mind it was good vs. evil - and good was always destined to prevail, as long as it worked itself to the bone. He felt he was doing good enough. He felt as though it made no sense for evil to win like this.

Days passed. The twins’ superiors asked them to finish the deed, to track down the villains that slaughtered their friends in ambush. Alus, for the first time, did not care. He avoided work. It was like he was in an entranced, passive sadness and rage. Arc finally pulled him to do one more mission. There, they found something unusual.That was when Hydaelyn spoke in a vision. Clear as day, even Arc had seen it;

“Go, my Warriors of Light -”

and to Alus’ heart, it was a confirmation of a positive truth. Though the deaths of his friends he still found unjust to the morality of the world, he trusted the Goddess’ words - there was an evil to still be vanquished, as there must be a villain for every hero. The unfairness would not stop until he continued to become better and better. Even Arc began to fully believe despite his previous words.

Alus trained hard every day. He would never let anything stop him again.

More moons passed.

The thoughts of their deaths plagued his mind, still - he began the forbidden wonderment if he was the villain at all, himself, for he would too sometimes lose; for he too continued to see the bodies of his combative brethren fall around him; for he too saw the tears in the eyes of the men he befelled with his so-called righteous blade.

Adventure after adventure passed. Upon unusual circumstance, they found themselves at the Church of Adama Landama, a place they were once told to have been found as babes. There they worked for a time. Alus spoke with the priests of Thal. He found comfort in their passions as priests and mages to help others.

Once they resumed work again as soldiers, Alus’ grip loosened on his blade.

In a sunset-dyed sky in Thanalan, wind low and graceful - the heat died down in cold. “Arc…?” he beckoned in a soft, shaking voice.

Turning, his blade dropped lazily from his hand, his arms heavy on his sides. His face streamed tear after tear, yet his face remained stoic.

“I do not want to hurt anyone anymore.” he whispered.

This conflict was frightening. They had a duty to do, and Arc could do nothing but place a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder. They both understood it was not an option. And yet, they both seemed to understand that it was an ultimate wish. They knew that Hydaelyn made them her heroes.

Alus procrastinated. Arc procrastinated. They’d avoid work someone else could do despite how irresponsible it was. They just did not care to think about it at times at all.

In such a time - Alus made the promise to himself to never pick the blade up again. But he could pick up a wand and do the opposite of the sins he committed - he could heal, and that is all he could do. That was all he could do at this point to make himself feel at all better for being a symbolic slave to his country’s war, to a fucked up morality of black-and-white he could no longer knowingly agree with even if it was ultimately aligned to the “greater good”, of which he had to constantly therefore question.

Whilst alone in conflict, he began to heal his enemies from the brink of death. He’d bribe them with coin or food, or anything else he could spare they might like. He aligned himself with beastmen, he spoke to pirates and bandits and thieves, he allowed himself at the mercy of the most hated beings of eorzean society’s standards - And you can bet your ass he was constantly on the verge of being branded a criminal and beaten and left in the wilderness at any time he angered the wrong person.

He did continue to fight and occasionally kill in the line of duty, of which he constantly regretted. It was like he was fighting himself, or that he had two sides of his personality - One that would bully and fight an enemy, and the other that would visit the enemy shortly after the battle to do anything he could to make up for it. He is not very well liked in any form of politics, and he is completely fine with that - Most politics to him are bullshit anyway, as most modern ideas of morality seemed skewed to be.

He isn’t the hero he wanted to be at the beginning of his journey, far from it. He’s slowly come to accept that the world is unfair and horrible, and that there is no such thing as a happy ending - The world will continue until something bad inevitably happens, even if you want to close your eyes the second something good happens and let the credits roll. He knows that he will most likely die someday tired, possibly killed by someone he even tried to awkwardly help, if not the government of a friendly yet corrupt country - that or eventually become sort of priest at best.

Alus does not believe in happy endings anymore. He doesn’t believe such a romantic thing can exist, or is reasonable to expect to exist. In that he finds some sort of peace in not having such a high standard. He can then find happiness in every little good thing that happens - a life being saved, someone falling in love, the flowers blooming on what was once a battlefield trampled by soldiers, or a kid hearing a tale of hope from their parent.

His standard for a happy ending is extremely high. If any, it’s that all war on the planet finally ceases and equality for every race, beastman or human, is achieved. He hopes that the world will one day become a place where no biased hatred exists, where everyone can understand and love eachother regardless of their differences - as long as they aren’t hurting anybody, of course. He wishes for a world where nothing - no religion, no politic, no “side” can part people. And he sure as hell knows that it is most likely none of those things will happen any time soon, lest soon enough for him to live to see it.

In this way, his nihilism has somehow given his mind the freedom to do his best enjoy what he can before it all crumbles away, instead of pointlessly dreading something that is inevitable.

Sorry for such a huge wall of text. But yeah, there’s your frickin’ total backstory.

#alus beauregard #arc beauregard #meme

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princealigorna · 7 years

Text

Hollywood

Dear Hollywood I just want you to know it's to you I address this: I hate you! I fucking hate you You are a genital wart on the clitoris of the Pacific Rim You are a mortal wound to the womb of Sweet California You are the reason little girls leave home with stars in their eyes And come back with broken hearts and AIDS You are why young men seek a fast fortune Only to end up with blue balls and holes in their sinus cavities You make us all a little less intelligent You have turned me from a young intellectual who analyzed Poe and recited Whitman Into a stupid oaf that just wants to see a parade of tits and explosions You have transformed from a land of dreams and milk and honey Into a land of sex, lies, and stalkerazzi You crumble under weak foundations of blow and speed and methadone Your illness is a global pandemic You turn classics into garbage And alchemy trash into gold to line your pocket books You care not for your young You have raised a generation on ass and cock and coke You have shoved your mighty phallus into the ass of America for too long I will be raped not more And you shall weep as you die alone I miss the old days I miss when "family" movies were fun and clean I miss when R-rated films were a secret release for when mom rented them and allowed me to watch with her I miss when a movie could be scary without making Cannibal Corpse lyrics seem tame I miss Lion King I miss Rambo I miss Dracula I miss the part of me that got lost in you I hate everything you stand for I hate your fitted dresses and million dollar tuxedos I hate your "bling" I hate your silly smiles and fake tans/tits I hate your conformity I hate turning on the radio to hear 14 people playing the same number I hate seeing 30 versions of the same fucking film,only with different titles I hate your greed I hate that you make arteurs kill themselves to escape you I hate everything you've become Since when did having a cult of personality actually trump having a personality? Since when did "fuck you" become something more than "fuck you"? How's this sound? "Fuck you and fuck your fucking momma's fucking corpse!" Does that sound endearing to you? Do you still love this messy hair? These $10 clothes? These yellowed teeth? This body fat? You never did? But what about my brilliant green eyes? They still entice you, right? I can still become a superstar, right? I mean I have talent and pretty eyes, even if the rest of me isn't much to look at Ain't it funny how by the standards you set One can become famous whilst among us But only be a celebrity when enjoying the company of their fellow dead? Is this what you wanted Saint Cobain? Is this what you sought, Good Garcia? And you, Miles? Did Ornette, John, and you decide this is what "cool" and "free" is? Was this what you saw on you journey, Adored Kerouac, Buddha of the American Blues? And what of you, Mentor Ginsberg ,true seer of the nature around us? Was this on the itinerary sweet Norma Jean? Does it feel great to be known, Precious Tate? Is it any wonder Roman Polanski became an insane pedophile when you kill the ones that love you the most And whore out your children? Hairless cunts in your porno flicks reflect what Roman knew all along We're all pedophiles It is only a matter of rather or not we lot our conscience get in the way of our carnal desires Do we take our clean cunts with 27 year old breast Or do we fuck the ass and twat and suckle the balls of youth While you sit back and decide rather or not the show is good enough to make a movie about You are a cancer to the young girls of America You with your Paris Hilton and heroin chic and eating disorders You with your syphilis and anal warts and HIV You with your teenage whores smothering the producers' baby batter over their young breasts just to get a bit part in the background You are a land where Christ is found in who plays the new Batman And Satan is the man that thinks for himself You do not make art Instead your writers are like factory line workers Rewarded with mediocrity to produce hackneyed trite Your producers do nothing but make horse shit And force-feed us the undigested corn kernels Your directors lack vision, so think us blind as well Your streets were once paved with the gold of 25 million dreams Now they are leaden monstrosities Pointing the way to a "walk of fame" that lost it's meaning many moons ago A once-great symbol of class, now reduced to a roadmap of the billion genitals you cram down our throats daily, expecting us to shout like eager Vietnamese whores "Fuck me, soldier boy, fuck me!" I reject your notion of beauty! I refuse to throw up a perfectly good grease burger for you I refuse your fad diets I only work out when it suits me Since I now have work and school and I'm not attached to anyone, guess what IT DOESN'T FUCKING SUIT ME! I refuse to pay ridiculously large sums of my hard earned cash on pieces of cloth meant only so I don't die of exposure and to give my balls some privacy, when Wal-Mart has them at half price! I refuse to have smooth skin My pimples are unique This one here is Moe I much prefer my pasty complexion to your "exotic" one, and I like a natural brown and red tan to your seven shades of orange Yes I have a colic! No, I will not fix it! No, I will not use your overpriced gel! No, I will not get that male manicure! And for the last motherfucking time, I don't want my teeth to look like a bleached skeleton! You do not define "cool" to me I know cool Individuality is cool Jazz is cool Noise is cool Comic books are cool( although your movies based on them suck more dick than Carson Kresley in a San Fran gay pride parade) Takashi Miike is cool YOU ARE NOT COOL! I won't allow you to ravage my country anymore In my dreams I bludgeon your "musicians" I eviscerate your producers I vivisect your directors I take a shotgun to your writers And I hang your actors by their intestines And I wake up with a smile You are a dying slut A shell of a once-great deity Your followers abandon you Just like all gods before Because they finally see the lies you sell In response you belittle them You call them off like a plague out to destroy you Instead it is you that is killing yourself No one is pirating out your legacy and your seed,for you grew impotent and infertile ages ago And now we can add incontinent to the list For you are just shitting away your last days into a colostomy bag of tedium Soon you shall be no more Soon I shall be at your wake, mourning the greatness you once were And at your funeral after the eulogy is spoken and the threnody recited I SHALL SPIT ON YOUR GRAVE!

#poetry #my work #hollywood #just as relevant now as when i first wrote it #ten fucking years ago

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feathersandblue · 7 years

Text

Black Sails, the finale, and everything.

This is a revised and extended version of a meta post that I made a couple of days ago, which outlines why I think that Flint's ending as we're shown it on screen is real.

Why I believe that Silver’s story about Flint’s ending is true.

1. The showrunners have confirmed that they had intended to bring back Thomas for a long time, and repeatedly referred to the rule of “no body, no confirmed death” in recent interviews. Which, in turn, implies that Thomas as we see him on screen is real and not simply a hallucination.

This is a contextual argument, which can be dismissed if we only look at the episode as it stands, though I would argue that it isn’t without relevance - the groundwork for Thomas’ return has been laid in earlier seasons, and his actual return is the answer to the question that the show has explicitly asked in episode 4.04. It is answered in the finale, but only if we accept the ending at face value.

2. We saw the cold open, which was framed as a flashback, but not as a part of anyone’s narration or memory. That makes it a true scene, one that really happened. It’s tied to the snippet of Max’ and Silver’s conversation about that estate through the “Previously on Black Sails” montage; a direct follow-up to that scene. No ambiguity there.

3. We saw that scene of Flint being delivered to the exact same compound, with the exact same owner, and and we saw that reunion scene with Flint and Thomas.

Every scene that we see in a movie or read in a book has a place within that narrative. It's one of the most fundamental laws of fiction. The writers can deceive us, they can trick us and later reveal how they tricked us – that what we saw was a dream, or a hallucination, or that we simply didn't see all of it – and they can leave room for ambiguity.

But what they cannot do, what they absolutely must not do, is straight-out lie to us. If they did, then that would be a severe breach of contract, one that would immediately put everything else into question.

The reunion scene existed.

The events therein existed.

It follows that this scene has a place within the narrative of Black Sails.

I’d argue it has to be either:

a) Silver’s story, based on his own imagination,

b) Flint’s hallucination of his own death,

c) the metaphorical version of Flint’s off-screen death,

d) a real flashback that shows what actually happened, with a heavily metaphorical aspect to it that reflects Silver’s narrative about the end of Captain Flint and the reawakening of James McGraw, which has been heavily alluded to in earlier seasons.

So which one is it?

Whenever this show included memories or hallucinations before, the writers were very careful to fill these scenes only with details that the characters who were remembering or hallucinating them knew.

It holds true for Vane’s vision of Eleanor, where everything Eleanor said was what Vane had been thinking about himself.

It holds true for every single flashback of season one and two, from the scene on the Maria Aleyne to the scenes in London. For the London storyline, the events were tied to either Miranda or Flint, and we only saw scenes in which at least one of them had been present. The Maria Aleyne we got from Morley’s point of view, then later from Gates’ resp. Flint’s. There’s one second-hand flashback when Silver tells Max about the scouts Flint had sent to the beach to watch the Urca gold, with the Spanish soldiers dying.

It holds true for Flint’s hallucinations of Miranda, which were also full of details and images he knew. His mind did not create a new virtual environment in any of these.

Unless the writers have entirely changed their modus operandi for the final episode, it stands to reason that the same rules would apply to Flint’s ending as well.

Which leads me to the conclusion that:

a) If the reunion scene had been Silver’s imagination, and nothing more, then neither the compound, nor its owner, nor Thomas, should have looked the way they did simply because Silver had never seen them.

If it had been nothing but Silver’s story, it would have made more sense to simply have Silver recount it, as was the show’s habit with stories – Spaniard named Vasquez, the hanged pirates of Charles Town, the bird that was dinner, and so on. But if it had only been a fabrication, if, in fact, Flint’s delivery to Savannah had never happened, the setting would not match the scene in the cold open in such great detail.

b) The same applies to the idea that the reunion scene would be Flint’s imaginary version/hallucination of his own death. Flint has never seen that place in Savannah, he couldn’t have imagined it like that. He also would not have imagined Thomas being older or bearded, simply for lack of reference.

c) If the reunion scene is meant to be a metaphorical version of Flint's death, including a version of a happy afterlife, then a couple of things don’t add up. For one, an important element is missing, and that is Miranda. And again, If they had meant to indicate something like paradise for Flint, there is very little reason to depict it as a labor camp in Savannah that has no relevance to Flint at all – without Miranda, but with a bearded Thomas. In short, the reunion scene was lacking everything one should expect of an actual afterlife, and had all the signs of being tied strongly to the show’s reality and present.

Also, for both version b) and c): if that scene was meant to be a visualization of Flint’s actual death, there are various details that simply don’t fit.

The scene shows Flint cleaned up, his scratches and injuries older and scabbed over, but not entirely healed. This indicates that time has passed between the scene in the woods and his arrival at the field.

If the scene was meant as a coded version of Flint’s off-screen death, we’re also lacking a cause of death. The most popular theory says that Flint was killed by Silver’s gunshot. But if his arrival at the plantation is his passage to the underworld, where is the deadly wound that caused it? All other wounds are still visible, though mostly healed, and he’s wearing the same clothes. Moreover, if it was Silver’s gun shot that was his end, why are Hands and Morgan delivering him into the realm of death instead of Silver? Or if they have killed him on Silver’s behalf, where are his other injuries?

So these are things that I simply can’t dismiss, things that, for me, are a clear argument against any of these explanations.

The fourth one, on the other hand…

d) If the reunion is real, but framed and filmed in a way that there is a metaphorical aspect to it as well, then it shows us the real events, coded heavily in a way that ties back to Greek mythology – symbolizing the death of Flint, and providing the happy ending to James McGraw’s personal Odyssey all at once. It makes sense to shoot it with a different filter, it makes sense to have the actual way from the gate to the end of the tunnel be accompanied by Silver’s narration, and it makes sense for Silver’s narration to stop at some point because the actual reunion is no longer a part of it.

Silver talks about the reawakening of the man who came before. That part of his story ends when Flint steps out into the sunshine. But because Silver doesn’t really know what went on in that estate - he can be seen lurking in the background while Hands and Morgan accompany Flint in - it would be a part of the story that Silver has not been witness to, meaning that he has no words to accompany it. That particular scene is not narrated by Silver. But if the whole story only existed in Silver’s mind, why would he stop there, and not recount how happy Flint looked when finally reunited with Thomas?

“And when he saw Thomas - Madi, when he saw Thomas, he looked as if he was finally at peace. For the first time since I've known him, he seemed well and truly happy.”

Silver’s words about Flint recounted what he knew and the change he, personally, had witnessed in Flint. Meanwhile, what we saw on screen was a flashback playing out, one that, since it was true and real, extended beyond what Silver could tell us.

4. We know that Silver did not want to kill Flint. It was not his intention to kill Flint. He explicitly stated that he would stand there and talk until Flint accepted the outcome. If he had intended to kill Flint, nothing would have stopped him from doing so once Flint had made it clear that the treasure would stay in the ground.

Instead Silver kept reasoning with Flint, and explicitly expressed his intention to leave the island together with him. Earlier, he spoke of arrangements and of "compromises” that were in place to prevent the war.

What would these arrangements be, if not Flint’s imprisonment in Savannah?

5. The ambiguity of Flint’s fate - the scene cut off in the forest, including the uncertainty over whether it was actually a gunshot that alerted the other crew members or something else, matched the suspense before Madi was found alive. It was just that, suspense, and the resolution of the whole thing came through Silver’s explanation toward the end of the episode. There is no detail that cannot be explained fully by the explanation we’re given by Silver.

6. Jack tells Grandma Guthrie that Flint has retired. If Silver had killed Flint instead, it would not make any sense to tell an explicit lie when the truth would have served him just as well, if not better. The official version of events would still be Flint’s retirement, but why deny in front of Grandma Guthrie that the cat was drowned, if that was what she wanted, and also what happened?

7. If Flint had been killed on that island, lying to Madi would mean that Silver had to trust the entire crew of the Lion not to reveal that secret in case Madi would ask. He also faces the risk of having his entire story proven false in case Madi sends someone to Savannah to investigate. Not to mention that he would have to either invent or undertake a voyage to Savannah for the sake of plausibility to uphold the fiction of Flint's retirement, voluntary or otherwise.

8. The showrunners have repeatedly stated that their ending had the goal to bring the characters into place for Treasure Island. That only works if Flint is left alive. If Flint had died in that forest, there would be no treasure map, because only Flint knows where the damn thing is buried. Taken at face value, the ending fits. It’s still decades before the events of Treasure Island come to pass. Billy can still get off that island. Silver can still lose some more of his leg. Ben Gunn can still be marooned. But if Flint is dead, any canon-compliance has gone right out of the window.

One does not simply make a prequel to Treasure Island for four entire seasons only to arrive at a point where the ending is contradictory to Treasure Island.

This is also a contextual argument, but one that is decidedly harder to dismiss. Within the episode, we can point out ambiguities as much as we like, but if it comes to the narrative of Black Sails as a whole, I feel it would be remiss to ignore that for the show to meet its objectives, Flint has to be alive.

(9.) This isn't really an argument against the "Silver killed Flint" hypothesis, but it's an important aspect nevertheless, in that it explores the implications.

In order to say that Flint is dead, we have to brand Silver a liar. All perceived ambiguity aside, if we want to assume that Flint is dead, we need to believe that Silver is lying.

The episode in itself does not give us any indication for it. There are no tells, nothing to pinpoint that Silver isn't entirely sincere. We have to make the deliberate choice not to believe him, and to accept that Silver would lie to Madi in such a profound way.

This final episode has been the conclusion to Silver's character arc. His decision to end the war is his defining moment, the conscious choice to step out of Flint's shadow and take a stance. He is no longer willing to walk the path of least resistance (going along with what both Flint and Madi want) because he truly believes that the war is a waste of lives and resources. He opposes both of them regardless of the consequences, knowing that he's not only betraying them, but also giving up everything he has gained – the power and glory that are tied to the pirate persona of Long John Silver. It is the moment he comes into his own, where he stops playing a part and makes a difficult – and controversial – decision in accordance with his truest believes, even though these are in opposition to Flint's and Madi's. And the narrative shows him as willing to stand by it, willing to defend it, and being sincere about it, both in his conversation with Flint and the one with Madi.

By saying that Silver lied – not even that he killed Flint, because while he clearly didn't intend to kill Flint, Flint might have left him no other choice – but that he lied to Madi about it to placate her – we choose to see Silver not as a flawed man who makes a questionable decision, but as a despicable villain who acts only for his own, personal gain.

We deny that his love and respect for Madi were ever genuine and true. We disregard four seasons of character development, we disregard two seasons of Silver following into Flint's footsteps while being deeply conflicted about it, and we disregard a final episode where he at last finds the strength and conviction to break free of that downward spiral of violence and rage and sacrificing people for the greater good.

And we do that not based on evidence, but on belief.

Not because it's what the show tells us, but because we reject its narrative in favor of creating a monster for our own benefit.

After all, civilization needs its monsters, doesn't it?

Conclusion

At a closer look, the theory of Flint being killed by Silver simply does not hold up to scrutiny. While it might be tempting to look for possible alternate interpretations, the accumulated evidence leaves us with basically no other choice but to take the ending at face value.

To be able to speak of an ambiguous ending, there have to be two competing interpretations that are equally valid, but that simply isn't the case unless you find a way to dismiss all the arguments listed above.

Maybe the question we should really ask isn't whether there was a gunshot or not, but why we are so willing to believe there was.

#black sails #john silver #captain flint #black sails meta

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