#instead of realizing that actually she deeply cares about him and the frustration and snark is bants and wishing he cared about himself

[tubapun]

Marcille would still be doing all this for Laios if he and Falin had switched places btw. It'd be a little less romantic but like. That's her bestie. She'd do dark magic for him.

[thecrimsonvalley]

RDR Secret Cupid - “Love isn’t real”

Happy valentine’s @jelloandclawsart! Here’s my fic for the @rdrsecretcupid2020 I was so delighted writing this fic because there is nothing that brings me more happiness than these two dorks trying to work out their feelings (+ fun camp interactions, I adore fun camp interactions.).  Please enjoy and have an awsome day!  ~~~

Hosea was angry. Arthur could recall that he had seen this generally mild mannered and well versed man a tad miffed before, even thumbing onto slightly upset but this was different. He was fuming to the degree in which even Susan kept her distance, instead choosing to rushing about pestering John with a heap of scoldings for trying to sneak into the food preserves once more. 

Sitting over by the camp fire, Arthur threw a little glance towards one of the men that had helped in much of his raising. Only Hosea's back was visible but it seemed he was absorbed in whatever task he had taken up, loud mutters and mumbles rising from him in irregular intervals. 

While scratching the back of his neck, Arthur rose to his feet, making sure to pour two mugs of coffee. In his mind he had been debating if he should even approach, perhaps it would be better to allow this storm to blow over on its own. It was the more sympathetic thoughts that had won. Hosea was clearly agitated out of his mind to the point where it seemed to bring him a good bit of dismay. How many times had the older man not been there for him when he had been in a similar state. It was just some overdue return of the same kindness. 

Taking a few steps closer he caught sight of Susan observing him. She had just about caught onto the collar of young John's shirt and was halfway through the gesture of tugging him over towards the washing bin. Their eyes did meet for a split second and Arthur thought he could detect that small warmth in them, the one that indicated to him of how thankful she was for him intervening.

As he got closer, he could finally make out a few words that were uttered on such a low and rumbling tone it almost drowned out towards the surface of the table over which Hosea remained hunched. Sentences such as “I'll show you, you bloody bastard” and “you complete moron” seemed to be just a few which were actually completely audible. Clearing his throat, Arthur took the last steps, raising the mugs as an almost timid gesture of peace. 

He watched as Hosea raised his glance, studying him for a few seconds before grunting out a “sit down”. Doing as he was told, Arthur curiously peeked at what the other man was so deeply entranced by. It did little to clear the situation. 

Spread out between Hosea's arms were several pencils, some of them of the fancy ink variety, along with papers in various shades of red and pink. The entire scene was nothing but peculiar. Whatever it was that was keeping his father figure so occupied, it was a job that the older man didn't take too lightly on. 

“You... doin' a little craft project there?” Arthur asked, trying to add his general sideways grin. 

The reception of his attempt at encouragement was lukewarm, Hosea just moving his hand out to grab the extra cup of coffee and down half of it in a matter of seconds. 

“It's a gift” the older man then answered as he started to rather furiously cut out delicate flower patterns out of an especially deep crimson red paper “a gift for this camp's greatest idiot!” 

A small moment of enlightenment finally came over Arthur as he could not suppress another smile, finding relief in the fact that Hosea was too upset to even notice it. A squabble. That was what got the most collected man of their small gang so up in arms. It hadn't really been a first and he was certain it wouldn't be the last but there were no stopping his own amusement at how a man Hosea's age could get so incredibly worked up because of something Dutch had said. 

Realizing that the word exchange had done little but fuel his mentor's anger further, Arthur cleared his throat, turning his mug between his fingers. Acting as a bringer of peace wasn't really something he had perfected, neither did he expect to ever have to but he knew for a fact that Susan wasn't going to step in between this. More than once she had been the one scolding the two older men for acting like a bunch of scorned teenage lovers. 

“You know Dutch” Arthur said with the best honey voice he could summon “he says more than he means, it's just his fancy words, Hosea.” 

“Oh I'll show him just where he can shove his fancy words!” 

With vigour, Hosea slammed the flowers down onto a small patch of glue, the card before him coming together little by little. Biting the inside of his cheek, Arthur was about to try his second attempt when his eyes settled onto the figure of Dutch, approaching them with the same casual and careless expression as always. In a small act of desperation, he tried to seek the man's gaze only to feel his guts twist in frustration as there only came a cheerful smile onto Dutch's lips. 

“What's this now? Still teaching him how to read?” 

As Dutch's hand made contact with Hosea's shoulder, Arthur could feel how he instinctively moved just a few inches back. He felt certain that he could almost feel Hosea emitting heat, his eyes looking so furious as he rose from his chair. The movement was so quick that the chair he had been seated onto fell over, causing Dutch, despite all his confidence, to take a quick step back. 

“Here!” Hosea hissed out as he shoved the card into Dutch's chest “you moron!” 

Before anyone in camp could get their bearings, Hosea had stormed off, still cursing as he disappeared out of their views. Arthur soon moved his eyes from looking after him and instead back towards Dutch who stood as if frozen, mouth gaping and hands meekly holding onto the card. 

“Well, you gonna open it or not?” Arthur said with a sigh as he rose to his feet. 

He wasn't even certain that Dutch had fully heard him but still obeyed. Finally able to take a gander at this marvellous craft project, Arthur first and foremost took note of what amount of time had been put into it. There were cut out flowers as well as delicately inked birds and hearts. In the middle of it it all, in a cursive handwriting that would have made the highest of noblemen jealous were the words “Love isn't real – Dutch van der Linde”.  

It was as if he could hear the cogs in Dutch's head turn. The older man looked down at the letter, then out into thin air, then back onto the letter: repeating the gesture a good couple of times. When something finally seemed to sink in, the only thing he uttered was a low curse. 

“You told him that?”

Arthur gave a disapproving look towards the man before him. He wasn't well versed in his mentor's love business but even he could figure out that this wasn't a sentiment that would give any romantic sparks.  

Swooping in by their side came Susan who nimbly tugged the card out of Dutch's hands. Reading the words she soon came to give just as much a judgemental look as Arthur himself had. Somewhere he was certain that, had John mastered his reading abilities, even the little half feral kid would have been disappointed. 

“Now listen here” came Dutch's defence “he took it out of context, I was just...” 

“You were just doing what you always do, using your honey words without thinking” Susan huffed. 

For a short moment, it seemed like the older man was about to derail into a speech of defence as if he had been a man in court but the realisation of more dire matters at hand seemed to catch up with him. 

“Yeah, I agree with Miss Grimshaw” Arthur said with a shrug of his shoulders “you really went and screwed yourself over there.” 

“Thank you for the vote of confidence son.” 

Dutch's eyes were staring intently straight ahead, towards the point where Hosea had disappeared. They seemed filled with a regret that made Arthur himself have a small bit of pity for his mentor. 

“Well don't just stand there!' Susan hissed “he's going to be unbearable to be around so you better figure something out to make this up to him.” 

“Like what?” Dutch muttered. 

“You'll come up with something Dutch, you're real good at doing that.” 

Arthur felt unable to repress a snigger at the comment. This granted him a death glare from the other man and a mutter of “Get the horses ready... and not a word”. 

~~~

The ride had not been as giving as Dutch had hoped. His original plan had only involved grabbing Arthur for some damned directions around the place but of course Susan had insisted on them bringing John too: something about how she would not be held responsible for her actions if she were left alone to take care of both the camp and a feral child. This had meant a lot of whining from the child once they were in town, mostly of why he was not allowed to devour the hand picked sweets. 

With their ride starting to come towards its end, he sighed. Had he not grown older and wiser? How badly had he formulated that speech to have Hosea all worked up like that. It was thoughts he kept tightly to himself, of course. Arthur already had enough snark material on his own, there were no need to feed them further.

Arriving back at the camp site, he made sure to tell Arthur to keep John away from his tent, though it seemed his words were taken with a pinch of salt as of now. Hurrying over towards the washing bin, Dutch knew that he would never get to live this down. He wasn't so sure yet if he deserved to live it down or not but that was a matter for another day. For now, all he could wrap his mind around was to fix this, no matter what it would take. 

Tugging his fingers through his hair, he made sure to at least glance at himself in the mirror before grasping the gifts, all quite cliché in nature yet the best he could muster with such a short notice. Taking off down the small trampled paths, he was struck by the thought that this was the first time that he had bought a bouquet of flowers for Hosea. Before that there had been hand picked things but nothing as extravagant as this. It had put a deep dent in his pocket and yet it felt worth it.

He decided to follow the stream. He had learnt one thing through their years together and that was that whenever Hosea was upset or needed a breather it seemed that water was where he would take off to. Moving slowly along the larger stream, Dutch tried to rehearse in his head. It needed to be a good apology this time, that he felt in his bones. 

Stepping into a light clearing, he soon caught sight of Hosea seated on a large rock right by the bank. It appeared that his companion had taken to throwing small twigs into the rushing waters and observing them being carried off. Clearing his throat a tad, he took notice of the other man turning his head barely an inch before turning it back towards the waters. 

“Can we speak?” 

“Oh you do that” came Hosea's answer, his tone dripping with as much anger as hurt “you're real good at that!” 

The line cut deep and Dutch allowed it to do so. A little nudge at the ego builds character. Those had been kinder words from this man whom he had such adoration for yet couldn't always wrap his head around. For most of his life, he was used to having a charismatic power over others but with Hosea it was the opposite. He was quite certain that the other man had no idea just how strong that hold was. 

“It wasn't a good line” Dutch answered as he slowly approached “real clumsy.” 

Hosea just huffed, throwing another stick into the waters. Dutch counted it a small victory that the stick had not been aimed at his face. Gently he put the basket down from his arm as he moved the last few inches between them. 

“I'm sorry, I truly am.” 

“You're good at being sorry...”

Another score was won for Hosea's side and Dutch felt he could do little more than nod in agreement. No matter how he tried, his position as leader of their strange little family of misfits meant many missteps along the road. 

Deciding to rather go out bold and brash than to stand about with his nerves in a bunch, he kneeled down by Hosea's side. Glancing at the other man's eyes he felt his heart pinch, seeing the faint traces of tears upon his cheeks. Softly he reached forward, happy to see his companion not tugging back from his fingers drying what remained of them. 

“I'm sorry” Dutch murmured “think you can forgive me for that?” 

“I don't know where you get those ideas from” Hosea answered on a sigh “you never think further than your own nose length.” 

Silence fell between them, only the sound of the stream keeping them company before the man by his side decided to speak up once more. 

“If love isn't real, then what are we?” 

Hosea's words came to feel like a bullet piercing his skin and without a moment of hesitation, Dutch rose to his feet, grasping the other man's face in his hands before pushing their lips together. Hearing a surprised yet muffled sound from Hosea, he tugged back, showering the other man's cheeks and forehead with kisses, ignoring the light laughter and half hearted beg to “Stop acting like a fool!”. 

“This is not love” Dutch murmured with his fingers gently cupping Hosea's chin “this is so much more, this can't be put into words, this is greater than any love song or poetry ever printed in the time of man.” 

He watched how Hosea's eyes seemed to widen in amazement, at first carrying that same glossy nature but then there came a loud laughter out of the man's lips. Within a few seconds he was engulfed in his companion's warm embrace and, seizing the opportunity, he held on tight, spinning him around in a half circle before letting him down once more. 

“What am I to do with you?” Hosea murmured, his fingers sliding along Dutch's cheek “how can I stay mad when you use your viper words like that?” 

“You think that I am persuasive now” Dutch said, making a sweeping gesture towards the basket “just you wait.” 

With pride he watched how the other man moved over towards it, uttering a “Dutch this is worth a fortune!” yet not protesting any of the gifts further than that. His mind seemed to finally come back from the thousand miles trail of thoughts it had been derailing off into. Hosea was smiling again and that was all that mattered. The coin would come but he would never find company quite as this ever gain, of that he felt certain. 

“Dutch?” 

“Yes love?” 

“Is there any particular reason why you've brought me an empty box of chocolates?” 

The question caught him completely off guard and, his mouth slightly open, he turned towards Hosea who stood there, gently waving the expensive heart shaped box about to show its content had been mercilessly ripped out. 

“John Marston!” Dutch shouted towards the camp's general direction, words that, despite their velocity were almost drowned out in the loud laughter of Hosea.    

~~~  *I wish to add that back in camp: John is desperately shoving chocolates into a surprised Arthur’s mouth in an attempt to hide the evidence*               

[the-devil-herself]

Never Enough - Chapter 2

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 2 DESCRIPTION: Certain mates of Jotuns receive soulmate marks on their bodies. What happens when Loki’s mark is found on a girl with immense power? RATING: M NOTES/WARNINGS: Also available on AO3! The link is here as requested.  Please give me some feedback if you can, I love the inspiration it gives me. Also let me know if you want to be tagged! I’m going to post the first 22 chapters of this story over the next few days, and, hopefully, I will find my muse to write more.

TAGGED: @kneel-before-queen-loki

Present Day

Bang! Bang!

I let out a frustrated groan. I knew who it was. "I'll be out in a minute!" I yelled back. The banging only stopped for a minute before it began again.

Tony had been trying to get me out of my room all morning. He started this obnoxious banging since 5 am, and there was no way in hell I was actually waking up that early. The only thing I was told was that there was a "family meeting" happening soon. A lot of the Avengers would be back from missions so we needed to be prepared to start as soon as they returned. They still hadn't shown up, but I could tell they would be here soon.

Bang! Bang! Bang!!

Tony's knocks were getting louder. I quickly put on a pair of pants and opened the door to a very agitated billionaire. "What the hell Tony?" I exclaimed, walking right past him. I checked the clock in the kitchen and saw it was 7 am. "Tony," I groaned as I started making myself breakfast, "it is a weekend, and I had perfectly relaxing plans for sleeping all morning. What is so damn important?"

Tony crossed his arms over his chest and simply stood there. He maintained an annoyed and frustrated glare at me as I pulled out the bowls and spoons. I finally stopped what I was doing and stared back, but he wasn't moving. I threw my arms up. "Alright!" I gave up. "What is it?"

"Thank you for finally crawling out of your cave to join us, Dana," he snarked back. I ignored him, though, and focused on my cereal.

However, when I turned around and looked at the living room behind the kitchen counter, I saw why he was so pissed. All the Avengers were sitting on the couches, looking straight at me. I couldn't tell if they had been waiting for a while, but I prayed it wasn't long. Thor was seated by himself in one of Tony's comfortable chairs, grinning at me like always. No one else looked amused.

"Dana! We've been waiting for you," Thor greeted me. He was oblivious to the annoyance of the other members at my tardiness and came up to me for a huge hug. I held him tight, having missed him for all these years.

"What are you doing here?" I inquired incredulously.

Thor laughed and walked me over to the couches where the rest of the team sat. Everyone seemed to relax a bit more at seeing my reunion with Thor. "I'm here to see old friends, of course!"

I didn't believe him. "But I haven't seen you since..," I drifted off, knowing mentions of that day were probably still too raw for him,"..since New York."

Thor's eyes clouded for a moment. Regret, pain, mourning, and anger all passed through his face in a matter of seconds, but I still saw it. He caught himself and returned to his usual friendly smile. He responded, "It indeed has been way too long, but now it seems there are things we need to discuss. All of us."

I turned to the others, but they too seemed confused about what he was talking about. All except Tony. He just continued looking pissed, and I had a reason to suspect it wasn't just because of my stubborn behavior earlier. He refused to sit down, choosing to stand by the couch were Natasha and Steve sat quietly. He had been uncharacteristically silent during the whole interaction as well, which was always a cause for concern.

Bruce was the first to break the silence. "Thor, what's going on here?" he asked the question on all our minds.

Thor sighed and smiled at me one more time before beginning. "My... brother," he started, causing everyone to tense up, "has spent years in Asgardian prison."

"Where he belongs," Clint piped up. He was sitting on the floor at Nat's feet, exhausted from having just returned from a mission.

I shot Clint a glance warning him to be nice. Yes, Loki destroyed half of the city, but Thor still cared for him deeply.

Truth be told, I wasn't around when the battle was fought. I was tucked up with my family in a completely different state. We watched it all happen on TV like most others did, staying up all through the night to make sure the enemies were defeated. However, I did experience something weird then. Days before the battle, my secret mark began to burn again. Gradually, but enough to gain my attention. Then, when I saw Loki on the TV, my wrist began to burn again like it had in New Mexico. I had to excuse myself and place my arm in cold water for half an hour before it faded.

My mark hasn't burned like that since.

Thor gulped, dragging our attention back to him. "Yes, I understand, but it seems my mother has pleaded with the Allfather for these past years to give Loki a chance to... rehabilitate." Multiple scoffs were given from around the room. "Odin has agreed."

"You can't be serious?" Steve demanded. "He killed hundreds, destroyed half the city, and brought about an alien invasion that we're still cleaning up after!"

"Steve," Thor said quietly. "I know. But I cannot defy an order from Odin." Steve backed down. It had been clear since we met him that Thor's father was a king that was not to be disobeyed. With Thor's former banishing, we knew he meant business. "And he is also my brother. He got sucked in to evils beyond our understanding, but I can get him back. I can bring him back again."

"How exactly do you plan on doing that?" Nat questioned.

All eyes were on Thor.

He couldn't look at us back. Instead he gazed at the carpet. "Thor?" I pushed. "Where is Loki?"

Thor eyes turned soft when they found mine again. I could see that same sadness in him that I saw seven years ago. His life was completely different to what he had planned, and his family was torn apart. Finding out your parents lied to you about your brother's heritage for your whole life along with realizing that same brother wanted to kill you was probably taxing.

"It has been requested that he is sent here."

That's when the screaming started. Clint started shouting about how Loki should be dead for his crimes. Steve and Tony argued about whether this was even a plausible idea. Nat tried to calm Bruce down before he had an anxiety attack. Thor stayed silent.

As did I. I continued to sit there and look at Thor. He looked so resigned. His eyes were shut, not wanting to witness the scene before him. The stress had taken a toll on him, and he had no support left. I grabbed his hand and held it between mine, but he didn't move.

"He's a murderer!"

"He'll be dead the minute he steps foot on Earth anyways..."

"... Fury would never agree..."

The fights weren't stopping.

"Tony," I spoke firmly. Everyone stopped to peer at me. "Tony, we have to help Thor."

No response.

"Guys, we can't leave this for Thor to handle alone. The Avengers have a responsibility to protect this world, and maybe, giving Loki a chance to redeem himself is a way of protection. I mean look at what he did in New York. It took six of you to defeat him! He's powerful, he's clever, he has allies and enemies across the galaxy. We don't really want another attack coming from him, do we?"

Thor finally cracked a smile again, silently thanking me by holding my hand a bit tighter. He had needed help all these years, but he never asked. He was always helping us, but now it was time to help him.

Tony considered what I had said for a moment. Although, Clint did not budge. "Dana, you don't know this guy. He's pure evil. I killed friends because of him!"

I released Thor's hand and stood up from my seat. "Do not dare to assume I don't know this man," I snarled, "because you would be wrong. I have met him- in New Mexico. And I saw it all. He's a powerful being, and, guys, we need him as our ally now more than ever. We've been experiencing increases in alien attacks and supernatural occurrences ever since. We could use a magic-wielder like Loki on our team."

Clint and Nat still thought it was all nonsense, but it appeared that I had gotten through to Tony and Steve. Bruce was still cautious.

"She's right," Steve spoke up. "We need more help. Each day new alien tech is invented, and people are now getting access to advanced weapons that we can't outgun."

The whole team silently agreed with what he was saying, but Clint still looked furious. It was expected though, since Clint was the only team member to have been made to kill other agents by Loki's scepter. He had moved on and recovered, but we all knew how hard it was for him to even think about that day and what he did.

"Clint, my dear friend," Thor uttered. "Would you believe me if I said that you were not the only victim of manipulation that day?"

This was news to us. Clint's eyes softened a bit, but his muscles were still tense.

Thor continued, "Loki has admitted to us that he was not in control that day... that a mad Titan had tortured and exploited him for about a year before New York. The monster, Thanos, found him when he fell from the Bifrost."

I sat back down next to Thor, processing all this new information. Everybody was taught that Loki was a bad guy and nothing more, but now... this changes everything. He was being used.

Before anyone could respond, Thor muttered, "I've seen the scars.... He tells the truth."

Scars. I could only imagine what kind of physical and mental pain Loki must have been through to have been convinced to invade Earth. Especially when Loki was no mortal man, but a god who had been raised to endure massive amounts of pain.

"It's decided then," Steve said, getting a supportive nod from Tony. "He may come here."

"But!" Tony interrupted. "He gets one chance, Big Guy. He does something, says something, even thinks of something that harms or jeopardizes others, he is gone."

I could see Thor let out a big sigh of relief. A big portion of his tension and stress rolled off his body now that he finally had help in supporting his brother. No one else looked very happy about it, but we could all see it was what needed to be done. And that was that.

Loki was coming.

[charmingturkeysandwich]

“Christmas Surprise”: A CS Secret Santa Gift

Hey there, @colinoeyebrows, it’s me, your secret Santa! I’m sorry we didn’t get more time to get to know each other before I wrote your story, but I think I managed to create something that fits what you’ll enjoy. I kept it short - but not too short! And I suppose it would be filed under enemies/friends to lovers, if it required a label. I truly hope you enjoy it and that you have a Merry Christmas! I think in your time zone it’s officially Christmas Eve, so I’m not too terribly early, but here in the states it’s still Christmas Eve Eve... and I’m terribly sick and requiring a few days of not moving a finger, so here you are! I hope you enjoy. I tried to pack it full of as much Christmas joy as possible :)

Killian and Emma are neighbors in an apartment building full of Emma’s makeshift family. He’s been insufferable most times, but also oddly kind, so Emma tolerates him. But his weird over-the-top dedication to their Christmas decorating this year is really starting to grate on her. Until she understands.

@cssecretsanta2k19

---

“Killian! Stop stealing my damn ladder!”

“Of course, princess,” the jerk snarked back at her. What had she ever done to deserve him as a next door neighbor? So full of himself, intensely competitive over things that did not require competition, and always, always making sure he had the last word. He’d probably raise up from his damn casket just to say one last thing when the eulogies were finished.

Not that Emma would be there. Ugh. She’d love to be rid of him.

Except that on some days he was literally the only thing she actually looked forward to. When work was stressful and she hadn’t caught a skip in weeks and she’d fallen and sprained an ankle and a wrist, he was there, mocking her crutches and laughing at her drug-addled ramblings, but still always, always helping her up the stairs, fetching her mail, tipping her pizza delivery man extra for delivering hers first despite being the farthest away from the parlor.

How could one person be so infuriating and yet so caring at the same time?

Halloween this year had been canceled as the town was practically falling down (thundersnow or ice-nado or something of the like), so this year, Storybrooke had decided to simply transfer the door-to-door candy begging from Halloween to Christmas. Because of this, landlords all over town were asking that tenants decorate and prepare to delight the children who had been robbed of their November sugar hangover by Mother Nature, instead giving them a lovely sugar hangover for Christmas morning.

(Sounded like a conspiracy by parents to get kids to sleep in, but whatever.)

Emma made fudge every year and always had tons left over, so this year she’d decided she’d throw herself into this Halloween-Christmas mashup with everything she had. Her other neighbors were always very festive, specifically the ice skater Elsa who every year had more Christmas lights in her one-bedroom apartment than all of the foster homes Emma ever lived in. Combined. Ruby loved to dress her dog up as a reindeer, and even David and Mary Margaret went all out, despite being the owners of the building and not just lowly tenants.

Killian usually kept his decorations minimal. Mistletoe over his doorway just to taunt his neighbors (female and male alike, to Graham’s amusement and horror), and maybe one string of lights or tinsel around the doorway.

But no. This year he’s decided there’s a door-decorating contest that he’s absolutely going to win.

Emma, on the other hand, is absolutely going to kill him.

He stole her ladder. He stole her tacks. He stole her snowflakes with sticky backs.

This man was driving her so insane that she was starting to rhyme like a cartoon train.

Ugh.

Elsa (infuriatingly) found it endearing. And Ruby, ever the flirt, was mostly trying to distract their neighbors into standing under Killian’s mistletoe with her. No one seemed to be as furious as Emma that the bartender across the hall who usually didn’t give a crap about Christmas was suddenly “dedicated to his craft” so much that he just had to take her scalloped scissors at exactly the time that she needed them.

She was going to scallop his other hand off if he didn’t watch it.

Thoroughly frustrated with decoration, she took a nice, long break late that morning to go check on her fudge and start bagging it for the kids that would be coming around No-Trick-Just-Treating tonight.

Living in this apartment had been surprisingly life-altering for Emma. The lifelong lost girl had finally found some people she called family, even though none of them were related. The family you choose is the real one, Ruby had told her one drunken evening when Emma finally spilled her secrets, her sadness at being abandoned as a child, her fear that it would all be taken from her again. So it was only recently that she’d even decided Christmas was worth celebrating. Christmas Eves of her childhood had mostly been like every other day – if they weren’t even more miserable because of all the joy she was missing out on by being unwanted. It had taken her years of reflection, therapy, and bad decision making for her to realize that she wasn’t the problem. That hope was always there. That she had things worth celebrating now, even though she suffered in the past.

And god forbid if any single child who walked through her hallway tonight was in need of a glimmer of hope, she’d be the one to provide it. Even if only through a bag of fudge and a warm smile.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Emma’s door sounded like it might break off the hinges, so she went running, assuming that something deeply horrifying was happening outside it.

But no, it was just Killian. On her ladder. Affixing mistletoe to her doorway.

“You know this thing is supposed to be about kids right? Not you trying to suck face with all thirty of your neighbors.”

“Well you’re the last one I’ve managed to not kiss. Ball’s in your court, love.”

“Can you go bother someone else? Emma’s a common name. Find a different one.”

“But my darling, all I want for Christmas is you,” he began singing, putting on quite the distracting performance in their shared hallway.

She couldn’t help but smile. She’d never met someone so… carefree? It was like the only thing Killian was capable of doing was making people smile (even when it was accompanied by another person’s heavy eye roll). But she was envious of him, because she’d give anything to not be burdened by the ghosts of Christmas past.

“Can you please go bother someone else, Jones?”

“Oh, fine. But I’ll be back for fudge.”

He turned on his heel and started back toward Ruby’s and Graham’s side of the building, ignoring Emma as she shouted back to him, “the candy is for the children, not for grown adult asses!”

Later that night, Christmas Eve in full-swing, Emma received another knock on her door. She grabbed her tub of fudge and skipped to the doorway, only to be met with those infuriatingly beautiful blue eyes that could only belong to one Killian Jones… alongside a small human who looked strikingly like him.

“Holiday Treats!” the two of them yelled together, nearly giggling, and Emma would have laughed too if she weren’t so damn confused.

“Jones, are you plucking children off the street to guilt me into giving you peanut butter fudge?”

“Killian said your fudge is the best ever in the whole world! And my brother doesn’t lie.”

“I’m sorry… brother?” Emma gaped, suddenly feeling as if there’s quite a lot she didn’t know about Killian Jones.

“Liam, please don’t scare the nice fudge lady or she won’t give us any,” Killian teasingly chastised to his shorter counterpart before turning back to Emma to explain. “So, long story short, my father is a garbage human being and after leaving me and my older brother in an orphanage, he started a new family and abandoned them, too. Just found out about little Liam here about a week ago, but I’m now an approved foster parent, and, well, he’s soon to be your neighbor, too!”

“Aye, aye!” Liam yelled, absolutely delighted by at least some part of that odd tale.

“Oh my god, that’s why you wanted to decorate so badly.”

“Yep, just trying to make things festive for junior here. Now…. Fudge, please?” he asked, pouting his lip and extending his open hand. Liam, of course, followed suit, and Emma nearly burst into a fit of laughter at the sight.

“Of course, Joneses,” she chuckled, handing them twice as much fudge as she’d given out to any of the other children.

“Now why don’t you stop on by later on so I can get to know my new neighbor a little bit better?”

“Of course, love!” Killian replied, about to bolt for the next candy-giving door when Emma stopped him abruptly, her hand gripping his elbow tightly, keeping him in place.

Before he had time to question her, she leaned in and gave him a sweet peck on the corner of the mouth, muttering “mistletoe” into his ear before she leaned back against the doorframe.

A little dazed, Killian did nothing but smile somewhat confusedly, until Liam tugged on his leather jacket. “Kiss your girlfriend later – it’s candy time!”

When the Joneses came back later that night, Emma made them her signature hot chocolate and they watched a marathon of Love, Actually, Elf, and Rudolph, each of them passing out on their respective couches long before Emma had a chance to turn off her Christmas lights. When they awoke the next morning, she made them breakfast and they invited her over to open presents with them (not that Killian could afford many, but he was trying, he’d whispered to her as Liam begged her to join).

They never spent a Christmas apart again.

[breakdownsbuttlights]

EoS Human AU: Guest Author!

Still on the subject of Ratchet’s (now infamous) box of condoms, and more specifically what might have happened if he hadn’t hid them as cleverly as he might have, @pumapardus sent me this treasure of a ficlet, which takes place in the EoS human AU shortly after Ratchet finds Drift. She didn’t want to post it on her blog (which isn’t TF-related), which is why I’m putting it here: it was too funny and sweet and pitch-perfect not to share somewhere. So, without further ado....

Drift sat propped up in the cot, pillows and spare blankets rolled and tucked behind him to lever him nearly upright. He held up his head and looked around, alert, a reassuring change from seeing him reclined back listlessly, too weak to even sit up. Ratchet surreptitiously checked his color, reactions, alertness, all with a practiced eye from his spot on the floor while repacking his medical kit bag.

Days ago, Drift’s body was crisscrossed with bandages, binding bruised ribs, burns on his hand and arms from the hot sand, a half-healed and infected head wound, and a particularly nasty laceration- to the bone- on his lower leg from a peccary with razor sharp tusks. Ratchet had found him out in the desert, far from his camp and sick from drinking stagnant water, still sluggishly bleeding and delirious from dehydration and malnutrition. After hurriedly slapping a pressure bandage on the tusk wound, he hefted a hallucinating and thrashing Drift over his shoulder, and made his way back to his converted campbulance- all the perks of an ambulance, most of the comforts of home.

Once inside, in the cool air conditioning, he hooked a sedated Drift up to a saline drip loaded with long-acting antibiotics, and set to work cleaning and suturing the gaping leg wound. 45 minutes and 26 stitches later, Drift had one less hole in him for Ratchet to worry about. The second degree burns on his hands and arms were treated next-- cold compresses, cooling ointment, and nonstick burn gauze, covered by more bandages. Those would heal quickly.

After hooking up another IV unit of saline, Ratchet focused his attention on Drift’s head wound. Dried blood matted Drift’s hair over his right temple, and Ratchet needed to rinse the hair clean to see the wound. Partially healed, and clearly infected, that shallow injury was deftly cleaned and closed. Drift’s hair was kept swept to the other side, and the white bandage had been stark contrast to his darker hair.

Now, days later and with fevers under control, with the exception of the narrow bandages on the still tender burns on his wrists, Drift looked in less serious condition. Better color in his face, and brighter, clear eyes, no longer glazed by fevers. The head wound was a healing line of pink, and his hastily washed hair was drying fluffy and shiny again. Ratchet had offered him the choice of what he wanted first: clean, or food? Clean, he’d chosen. Food second.

Pulling his mind out of his thoughts, Ratchet realized Drift was talking to him. He paused in his counting. “Hm?” he hummed absently, holding his number in his head while he sorted packs of gauzes. Finally pulling his eyes and attention from his project on the floor, Ratchet finally focused back on Drift.

“I said, ‘do you seriously have a box of condoms in your field medical kit’?” Drift was giving him a Look. He held a bowl in his hands, slowly working through his first solid food meal in days- a small serving of some kind of reconstituted vegan brothy soup Ratchet had packed with him in mind. It was hot, savory, and gentle on his stomach. Ratchet had warned him to eat it slowly, and the kid seemed to be following directions well enough this time.

“Condoms are a perfectly legitimate survival item to have in an emergency kit!” Ratchet gruffed, totally not babbling as he snatched up the item and hastily tucked the box away deep into the bag. Dammit, he’d all but forgotten those were in there while he pulled everything out… He reached for more bandage rolls, tucking them in a side pocket. Scattered about him on the floor are still more packs, bags, vials, and sealed packages- sterilized tools, cannulas, saline packs, suture kits, gauzes, tape, a variety of bandages, nitrile gloves, ointments and several kinds of medications. He counted several rattling bottles and stashed them.

Drift sipped at his soup and watched Ratchet. The spoon sat untouched beside him, though he slurped the noodles loudly, more to exasperate Ratchet than anything. “You forgot lube.” he snarked playfully, hiding his face with his bowl as he drank more.

“I didn’t “forget” anything,” Ratchet grumbled, airquotes included. That wasn’t a lie at all. He’d actually left the small bottle of lube tucked inside the kit bag, out of sight, in the same inside pocket the damned condoms should have been in, but Drift certainly didn’t need to know that. Had could have legit medical reasons for the former- he had less for the latter. “I’ve even got these in my kit.” He grabbed a small packet and tossed it up to Drift, hoping for a distraction, and kept on storing his supplies.

“Tampons? What do you need those for in a medical field kit to come find me?” Drift tossed them back down, and Ratchet caught them.

“They’re perfect for survival or medical kits!” Ratchet was positive he didn’t actually splutter the answer. “They come in their own little waterproof packages, and are sterile. They can slow the bleeding from a gunshot wound, or, in a pinch, be used a bandage, or tinder to start a fire. They can even be used to filter water in an emergency.” Ratchet shook the packet in Drift’s direction for emphasis before depositing it inside, not at all flustered, he kept trying to convince himself. He scooped up the rest of the supplies and closed his kit bag, lurching off the floor to stash it on the shelf above Drift’s cot.

Deeply engrossed in sipping more from his bowl, Drift muttered into it, “So, what are some legit medical reasons for the other box, Ratch?” He lifted his eyes to Ratchet’s, flashing with challenge, even as he swallowed.

A fierce blush crept up Ratchet’s face, and he pretended it didn’t. “...Keeping matches dry...?” he offered, lamely.

“Useful... if you want to get someone hot...” came the smartass reply. Drift grinned and quirked an eyebrow.

Ratchet thought fast, embarrassment beginning to derail his thought process. “Emergency tourniquet.”

“In case someone has a situation with blood flow?” Drift’s grin widened. Ratchet scrubbed a hand helplessly down his increasingly reddening face.

“You... you could have made that joke for the tampons- try again!” he barked back. He thought of another potential survival or medical use. “...Carrying water!”

Drift snorted into the dregs of his broth mid-sip, and set the bowl aside. “In case... I get thirsty?” His grin was brilliant, salacious as he ran Ratchet in circles, outwitting him at every turn with the Sexual Innuendo Game.

Absolutely not losing his composure, Ratchet raked his hand over his head, through his hair in resigned frustration. He knew when he was beat.

Still...

“Fishing bobber...?”

Drift didn’t even break eye contact. “And what exactly did you hope to ‘reel in’ in the middle of the desert?” he deadpanned, but his entire face showed that he was losing the battle to keep from laughing.

“NOW this conversation is over!” Ratchet growled, whirling towards the closed bay doors. He knew Drift had him caught, and Drift knew it too, and he should just give it up with whatever shreds of his dignity were left. Yet, in the swirl of humiliation, his common sense got lost in the chaos. He spun back to face Drift, mouth open for another attempt at a hopefully scathing comeback.

Instead he paused, dropped his arms to his sides and, with a helpless shrug, asked, “Should I even mention ‘slingshot’?”

At that, Drift collapsed with laughter, tears streaming from his eyes, flopping back and letting the pillows catch him. He held his still sore ribs as he laughed, smiling brightly. He was still laughing and wiping his eyes as Ratchet, blazing red with embarrassment, turned silently and walked out the back of the campbulance, taking care to only halfheartedly slam the door behind him.

[snowycrocus]

Frozen Fanfiction Ice Bros! 

“To Be Brave”

For those of you that thought I couldn’t write fluff- hah! I’ll show you! 

Inspired by a quote by Robb Stark (see notes at end) I’m just at season 3 of GoT so TAG YOUR SPOILERY SH*T PEOPLE! 😁

----------------------

He shouldn’t say anything.

Just keep your mouth shut, Kristoff, he tells himself.

But it’s no use. He’s just too damn curious.

He tries to push the thought away to the back of his mind. He can ask Elsa later – a story for another time, perhaps.

This, he knows, is their quiet time. Their alone time. No questions, little talking.

Of course, Anna says ‘no one likes to be alone,’ and despite the fact that he and Elsa sometimes do, in fact, ‘like to be alone,’ they both love her too much to argue when she demands that they spend some ‘alone’ time with another person.

Ugh, what he does for love!

But he does love Elsa, in his own way – like the sister he never had.

She’s confusing, and obstinate, and goddamn frustrating sometimes. She’s this weird mix of self-loathing in combination with a surprising amount of arrogance and cockiness that he can’t quite figure out. He never knows if what he says will make her laugh or make her withdraw; if she’ll shove a fistful of snow down the back of his neck in jest or simply stalk off, flurries following her.

But she’s surprisingly warm-hearted; tender and loving and caring. Her smile brightens her face like nothing else can, and for someone who hadn’t touched another for thirteen years she certainly knows how to give a good hug. (Hey, he’s had some rough days, okay?) Anna may be his lover, yet Elsa still completes him in a way that he never even knew he needed. A friend.

They’re sitting silently by the meadow just outside the castle grounds – their own, secret spot. Elsa always brings a blanket and a book. And snacks. (She may nibble on some cheese occasionally but they both know the food is for Kristoff). He sits with his back up against the rough bark of a thick tree trunk. Sometimes he’ll fish, sometimes he plays his lute if it won’t be too distracting for Elsa. Sometimes he naps. (And he caught her doing so one time, too).

This is their monthly alone time. It’s peaceful. They don’t have to say anything.

But he can’t resist, not this time.

“Did you want to be Queen?”

He doesn’t think she even hears him at first. She’s deeply into her book, the only sign of her hearing him the firm press of her lips together. She’s lying on her stomach, feet raised into the air. It’s so odd to see her like this, in contrast to her stiff posture and controlled expressions, movements – controlled everything – while inside the castle. Here, it appears to him, she is like a fish walking on land. Something he would never expect to see.

But, he supposes, he never expected to see ice magic either.

She calmly slides a bookmark in place before sitting up cross-legged to face him. She squints. “Why do you ask?”

He sighs internally. Such diplomacy. She always has to find out the reason before giving an answer.

He was in a new room this morning with Anna, he explains. The room with their old family portrait – all four of them, with the late King and Queen. “You both looked so little,” he explains fondly. He barely remembers seeing them at that age in the forest so long ago. “And you looked…different.”

Elsa’s mouth splits into her lopsided smirk. “I should hope so,” she says. “I quite hope I don’t look as I did when I was seven.”

Kristoff rolls his eyes. Such snark. “Yeah, funny. But I wondered if you knew then, what you would be. And if you wanted to be Queen, or knew what it really meant.”

Elsa carefully sets her book down next to her, mulling over his question. If it were anyone else who asked her that, she would lie. “Of course I knew,” she would answer. “I had been trained my entire life for the role and all that it entails.”

But Kristoff wasn’t just anyone – this was someone that could be discreet, someone that deserved her honesty.

“I don’t know,” she answers him truthfully. Her eyes meet his and her gaze is piercing. He notes her hands leave the book and play with the fabric of her skirts in her lap – they always have to be doing something, never idle.

She doesn’t continue, but Kristoff knows by now to wait. Elsa, as intelligent and sharp as she is, isn’t one to think things through quickly. She acts and speaks rationally, logically, after much deliberation and thought. Anna’s opposite. Kristoff waits for more words to spill from her lips.

Her eyes drop down to her fingers still playing with her skirts. “It’s not something I ever gave thought to; whether I’d like to be Queen or not. I never had a choice, so why think otherwise?” She gives a wry smile. “My thoughts were more regarding how I could manage being Queen if I couldn’t leave my bedroom.” She huffs in remembrance.  “I couldn’t have fathomed what being Queen actually meant. My entire childhood was devoted to learning to be Queen, and yet it’s not something one can truly learn and understand until the crown is placed on your head and people are looking for you to lead.”

Kristoff nods in understanding. It’s one thing to learn something in theory, another to actually act on it.

Elsa closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them she holds out her palms in front of her, gazing at them as if they contain some secret.

Kristoff knows they do.

Elsa’s next words are faint, nearly a whisper. “I couldn’t even control myself. I couldn’t keep my sister safe. I couldn’t join my mother at tea.” She bites her lip. “I couldn’t learn how to rule from my father at an actual council meeting.”

A life measured in cant’s. Kristoff has felt useless; like a failure at times throughout his life, but he had enough accomplishments as he aged that he felt adept at at least some things.

The woman sitting in front of him was the most responsible, capable being in the entire kingdom. And yet, he realizes, she’s never felt like anything more than a failure.

“Hey.” Kristoff reaches out to place his hand in hers before thinking better of it. He rests it on her shoulder instead, and she looks up to meet his gaze. “Sorry I asked. Why don’t we go back to doing our own thing?” He hates to upset her. Should have known to keep quiet.

Surprisingly, Elsa smiles – it’s weak, faint, but it’s there. “No, I – let me explain.”

She continues, her words stronger than before. “I didn’t understand. How was I supposed to lead an entire kingdom – thousands of people – when I couldn’t even leave my bedroom? I was – I was so scared.”

Kristoff’s desperate to turn the conversation around. “But you did it! You were brave. You overcame a lifelong challenge, figured out the answer. And you got your sister back.”

Elsa chuckles. “Kristoff, I was never brave. I never have been. I ran away from my problems.” She pauses. “Well, I always tried to, anyway.”

“My life, up until – well, you know – was ruled by fear. When Anna and I were first separated, I thought I’d be in control within a year. Then when I was ten I told myself that thirteen was the age by which I’d have everything figured out. Thirteen passed, and I knew that as an adult at sixteen, that was when the answers would come.” She shakes her head, rolling her eyes at her foolishness. “At sixteen, I realized maybe I would never control it.” Her voice breaks on the word control.

“At eighteen,” she continues, “I knew it was…hopeless. I begged my father to make Anna heir. I told him I was too scared of what I would do as Queen to my people, too scared of how I could possibly rule an entire kingdom behind closed doors.”

“But my father-” she smiles fondly, “my father insisted that it was fear that makes a good leader. He once told me that being a King or Queen is like having children- you fear for if they’re safe, if they’re fed, if they’re healthy. You’re afraid of them being attacked, afraid of them struggling. He told me that being a Queen would always mean being afraid, and that’s how I would know if I was doing my job well.”

Kristoff nods, thinking. “That…makes sense.” He had heard about Anna and Elsa’s secluded childhood, of course, but hadn’t known such details that Elsa just shared with him. “I guess you can’t be brave if you don’t have fear.”

Elsa nods. “It didn’t quite help me back then,” she says, “but now, looking back – I see that without fear, this is no growth, no reason to push the boundaries.”

Her words bring back memories. Kristoff remembers watching Anna attempt to climb a cliff face, seeing her take charge and fight off wolves. He remembers watching her hair turn white and seeing her shiver and pass out while her skin turned to ice. He remembers the fear – pure, sharp and cold – that shot through him.

“I always thought I was better off on my own.” Kristoff adds. “I was brave, and independent - I had my life figured out with no one to burden me.” He smiles. “I thought I was so tough – that I could overcome anything, just me on my own. I always had before.” Elsa tilts her head slightly as she listens.

“Growing up, just me and Sven – we could do anything. I found and cooked my own food. I found my own way into ice harvesting, made enough to finally buy my own tools, developed a reputation. I scaled mountains and learned how to survive out on the ice. I thought that’s what made me a man.”

He shakes his head, his hair flopping over into his eyes. Elsa nearly brushes it away before she thinks otherwise. “Courage, power, strength – I thought that’s what made me strong. But then – then I met Anna.”

Elsa grins. She knows how Anna changes people.

“And I learned I wasn’t strong or brave, after all.” Kristoff continues, blushing. “I never had anything to be strong or brave for, until I met her. I had something to lose.”

“She taught you what true bravery is.” Elsa concludes.

Kristoff nods. “I think she taught both of us.”

“That she did,” Elsa agrees. “I didn’t understand, back then, how one can be brave if he’s afraid. But things have changed.”

Elsa settles back into a more relaxed sit, her legs still crossed but her arms supporting her weight behind her. She smiles softly. “It’s not a matter then, of whether or not I wanted to be Queen. It’s about what it meant to me, about what I thought I couldn’t do and could do. Anna’s been the one to show me that it’s okay to have fear, but that you have to live despite it.”

“Right,” Kristoff agrees, snatching up the last bits of bread and cheese laid out on the plate. He contemplates, chewing. “To be brave, you have to have something to fear for.”

Elsa smiles softly. “I suppose we’re lucky to have so much to fear – to have someone to fear for.”

“Just for the record,” Kristoff says, “I think you’re pretty brave – you’ve gone through a lot but you don’t let your past stop you.”

“Thank you,” Elsa responds. “You’re pretty brave too, you know. No one else could take Anna’s antics for quite as long as you have!” She covers her mouth to laugh demurely and Kristoff lets out a loud barking laugh at her words.

“That’s true.”

“Yes. Now, hush. I was just getting to the best part of my book.”

---------------------------

Inspired by Robb Stark - I was watching this episode and Robb was talking about something his Father had once told him: “I asked him, ‘How can a man be brave if he’s afraid?’ That was the only time a man can be brave, he told me.” 

I’ve been wanting to do another Ice Bros fic for a while, and always intended to have Kristoff ask Elsa the question from this fic, and upon hearing that quote I had to write it down because it was so perfect! 

Please please let me know what you think of this, readers! You know how much I love hearing from you all. ♥️♥️

[awinetintedmuse]

@southern-belle-outcast  Yeah no, I liked season one for certain aspects, but season 2, what little I watched of the beginning sucked all around. The show as a whole is a cop out, although well shot for the first season. Second season has way too many clipping of shots.

@titanofthemoon  yeah, the first season was okay. I liked it less for what it did than what it did NOT do, if you know what I mean. I don't remember if they had 2 or 3 seasons or if I even watched them. I think I watched season 2 and part of 3 and just gave up? i don't even remember what happened after season 1. not a good sign

Apparently, my opinion is not that uncommon. However, I think my issue with the series, and with the netflix shows in general, is a bit more specific. 

I should note that the actors are all great in their roles. Every person is well cast, and unfortunately, entirely wasted, because the writing on this shows is absolutely awful. 

But there’s a bigger issue, and that’s that Jessica Jones as a series aims to be a kind of women’s empowerment show, which it manages in the first season. Killgrave, being a stand in for every controlling, misogynistic, ‘nice guy’ that women deal with every day works. 

But. It relies on a shorthand that so many series rely on that kills it. See, Hollywood in general likes to employ shorthand for women’s empowerment, because it’s a very conservative system. Despite all the claims that it’s super liberal, it should be remembered that what decides things in Hollywood is money and focus groups. And because of that, we get things like that scene with the women in Avengers: Endgame, where they have all the women in one scene, and at the same time try to ignore the fact that none of these women were ever empowered in the movies they were actually in. It’s pure filler, sugar given to mask the fact that the people making the media don’t actually care. Rather that, you know, actually empower women, it makes the decision to give people the image of empowerment while using the same tropes that people claimed were sexist in the past. It equates result with change. Thus, they claim they’re doing work because they had the image of something, without actually changing anything. 

So with that in mind, we need to talk about Jessica Jones, because it’s a complete failure as anything resembling empowerment. As stated, it works on the image without doing the work, but like with the movies, it uses a second shorthand to be lazy, and that’s to cast everything in relief. 

Basically, Hollywood learned that it’s easy to claim that a female character is ‘strong’ if you don’t define her at all and instead define her in contrast to everyone around her. This prevents actually having to write a character and instead allows the audience to place themselves into the role of the character. Romance movies do this all the time. But it’s sexist. It relies on making the female character a cardboard cutout and then having her react to things without having to define her. Captain Marvel had this problem in a lot of its scenes, but they mostly succeed in at least giving her a character. Wonder Woman, had it not had all the stuff at the beginning with her growing up, and instead just had the movie start with her interacting with the mortal world, would have had this problem. 

Jessica Jones, by contrast, defines her entire character by her relationship with Killgrave. Killgrave is everything in season 1. He is the driving force, and she is contrasted with his actions. Her character is defined entirely by her opposition to him. Understandable, but this doesn’t leave her with a lot of character on her own. And it’s exactly why the series falls apart in the next two seasons. 

Remove Killgrave from the equation. What exactly is Jessica’s character? Who is she? Why do we, the audience, want to be around her? 

The answer is we don’t. Because removed from Killgrave, the show characterizes Jessica as a crude, rude, callous, domineering, self-sabotaging, jealous addict. She’s the kind of person who is almost defined by those nihilistic 2000′s myspace posts that are like ‘the world isn’t fair, sweetie’ or ‘god is dead’ and that means that every interaction with another character is her bringing the entire mood down. 

And it’s made worse that she’s contrasted with characters who are entirely defined better than she is. Malcolm, the guy who starts in season 1 as a drug addict, slowly gets his life together as he realizes that yes, life is worth living and that he wants to take advantage of the time he has left. Trish, someone who was abused and had serious chemical dependence issues, is constantly seen as someone who is proactive and tries to handle herself and her life despite the challenges she faces.

Trish is empowered because she directly takes control of her life and how she interacts with it. Jessica meanwhile, is constantly self destructing, lashing out at everyone else, claiming that she knows everything better than they do and that they are the problem for not listening to her, because obviously the woman who drinks herself into a coma on a nightly basis and is always snarking at people is the voice of reason. Because how dare they think the world is anything other than a cold dead void.

And so without the ability to contrast Jessica with Killgrave, a much worse person, we are left with Jessica herself, who becomes basically the worst emotional abuser on the show, who on one hand claims that no one should care about her while using people’s care for her to get her way. 

And the writers, realizing that Jessica has gone from currently being abused empowerment symbol to person who abuses her friends by wielding her trauma as a weapon decide that they need someone new to contrast her with, because rather than have Jessica realize that she has some real issues that need to be addressed, and have her face them and grow as a person, they decide to vilify everyone else in Jessica’s life. 

Trish, inexplicably, becomes the real villain, the person who is trying to control her own life and not be manipulated by anyone, because she’s already been manipulated by her mother as a child star. She cares about Jessica, but Jessica treats her as the villain at every turn, because Trish demands that Jessica actually allow Trish to make her own decisions and live with their own consequences. Jessica instead always frames Trish as someone who is selfish because how dare she not think about how her actions affect Jessica?

The fact that they needed Killgrave to show up in season 2 pretty much revealed exactly the problem: that absent someone so obviously evil, Jessica is a manipulative, vindictive, emotionally abusive asshole. She’s the villain. And so the show tries to frame everyone around Jessica as the problem, while never addressing that Jessica is the exact model of someone who is entirely codependent on others. 

And this is bad, because they have a model of someone who is entirely a women’s empowerment symbol in Jessica Jones from the comics. A woman who knows she has a drinking problem, but works to deal with it. A woman who doesn’t allow Killgrave, or anyone else, to manipulate her, but understands that she shouldn’t do the same. A woman who handles her own demons and has a healthy relationship with Luke Cage, and who has a daughter who she cares deeply for. Jessica is widely seen as someone who has demons, but who never lets those demons control her or define her. 

She defines herself. She doesn’t let anyone else define her. 

Contrast that to the show, where Jessica is entirely defined in contrast to others. 

This works for the first season, because Killgrave is a stand in for every controlling, evil guy that women have to deal with every day. But it doesn’t work in the next two seasons, because Jessica is left to be contrasted with Trish and others who are, by and large, also people who have dealt with shit and aren’t nearly as self destructive or bitter and angry about it. 

And rather than, you know, give her a character, or have her work through her issues, the show instead decides to have everyone around Jessica become the villain, contrasting Jessica to them, and expecting the same results. Only, this doesn’t work, because they all come off as entirely sensible. 

The stories of seasons 2 and 3 come off like they’re being told by that one friend who always feels like the victim no matter what, who can’t interact with anyone without constant validation, and who responds to any and all critique by making it a ‘why are you against me’ arguement. It’s manipulative. It’s regressive. It’s awful. 

And it doesn’t make good television. 

I could go on about how the netflix shows aren’t comfortable just being their own thing, the way Iron Fist is terrified of being based on lots of chinese mythology, but I think the way Jessica Jones goes from a show about a woman’s liberation to a show that actively depicts Jessica in the most regressive way possible. Like, almost nothing about her character would seem out of place if she was a 1960′s female villain in any generic story. 

It’s so, so frustrating. And it’s such a damn shame that the writers are so utterly incapable of making Jessica into what she is in the comics, which is an actually empowered individual. 

[kianraidelcam]

Written for @earthboundjedi from the prompt: “We’ll see each other again. I promise,” featuring Space Mom and Space Dad, AKA Hera and Kanan!

Oh the sweet agony that is Kanera. Thank you for the wonderful prompt! The rest of the fic is below the cut for those who don’t want to go on AO3 for any reason.

“We’ll see each other again. I promise.”

It was ironic, Hera thought, his diction at the time. The pastel sunset of Atollon glimmered behind them, pulsing with Kanan’s words, as he drew her into his embrace. She fought against a rising desire to respond with some form of snark, her anxiety over his impending departure outweighing the need for levity, and simply leaned into his arms. Ignoring the sense of doom at his promise, Hera smiled and allowed the small wave of comfort to wash over her. The young Twi’lek woman responded with a thought, “I know.”

A promise was a promise, and she knew Kanan never broke his.

So, when her Jedi returned, leaning on their boy with the painfully white bandage around his eyes, it was more than the injury that shocked Hera. He promised, she thought to herself over and over again, night after night, as he drifted out of her orbit and away from their mismatched family. And then came the (rather expensive) medical droid loaned to them by Senator Organa when he heard what had occured on Malachor. No expense was spared, and only the best was sent from Alderaan. After all, Kanan was quite possibly the last rebel-sympathetic Force user after Ahsoka’s death, and Bail Organa was almost as determined to restore the Knight’s sight as the Ghost crew was. It was the most hopeful they had been all week.

Their hope, it seemed, was misplaced. 

Kanan was not a candidate for prosthetics nor would his vision return, was the droid’s final word. “That can’t be right, run the tests again,” she had nearly shouted in that small, bleached room aboard the Alderaanian frigate. She got up from her seat in a rare flash of anger and frustration, normally reserved for certain “servants” of the Empire (and a certain smuggler by the name of Lando), but a gentle hand on her arm stopped her in her mid-rise. “I promised, didn’t I?” His cocksure voice had returned, as did that Force forsaken grin of his, if only momentarily. For a moment, he seemed completely himself, with a hint of that fabled Jedi calm, and all felt right in the universe again. Kanan was her rock; he was always steadfast and always knew what to do, even when things seemed bleak. The least Hera could do was be strong for him. Hera took a breath to compose herself, and then smiled for more her own benefit than Kanan’s. “I know.”

Kanan grinned and then donned a more serious expression, turning his body to face the droid while listening intently to its directions for wound care. Hera drowned out the droid’s ramblings, and instead studied the injury itself. The burn itself was still in the early stages of healing and the angry red stood out in stark contrast to his tanned skin. His once vibrant turquoise eyes were pale with hardly a hint of color while the whites of his eyes seemed bloodshot from both the burn and exhaustion. Hera knew that the exhaustion was more mental than it was physical, and as the droid went on, she saw the frustration return. Oh, he hid it well enough, to the point where Hera doubted the rest of the crew would see it, but she saw right through Kanan.

Kanan Jarrus was afraid.

Time passed on the harsh world that housed Chopper Base, but he slowly came back to her. Small treasured moments at first, until he returned from outside the base, his sensor protecting him from the spiders gone. She had been worried, of course, but it instantly left when she saw how he walked. His gait lacked the hesitant steps it had been after his blinding, and when he smiled, it was with a confidence he previously lacked. His hand held slightly in front of him, as if feeling the environment around him, she was suddenly reminded of what he truly was. A Jedi Knight whose trust and power was in the Force. It was Specter One that held the crew together, and with his return to them, their family fell back in place. It was funny, he later told her before she fell asleep in his arms while he traced the patterns on her lekku from memory, how his blindness made it possible for him to truly see.

Of course, that meant he could return to missions again.

“I need you to come back,” she had said.

The moment he smiled, Hera had to stop from groaning. While it was good (more than good, it was fantastic) that he was back out in the galaxy (had been for some time, actually), she still worried deeply for him. It didn’t help that he was so kriffing arrogant. “Oh, having trouble overthrowing the Empire without me?”

Hera might not have groaned, but she did roll her eyes. Luckily, he couldn’t see it, though she was sure he could sense it in some way. “Our team is an important asset to the Rebellion?” Hera’s tone implied a question, which he of course refused to answer.

“An asset? Is that what we are?” Kanan’s own tone implied he wasn’t talking about the Ghost crew.

“You know what I mean.”

“You know how I feel.”

Hera doesn’t skip a beat, unsure this should be discussed at this exact moment. “Are we still talking about the mission?”

Kanan leans forward, his hands on his hips, “That depends…”

Unconsciously leaning forward to the hologram as well, Hera replies. “On what?”

“You know.”

Chopper’s response sounds suspiciously like an obscene suggestion rather than actual advice. Hera glances down at her droid’s hologram with a sigh, and then back at Kanan, her arms crossed nervously across her chest, “Be careful…. See you soon.”

As she shuts off the comlink, she feels a sweet, tender brush against her mind. There are no words exchanged, although there was no need for them here. This reassurance needed no words, no playful, snide comments. The meaning rang clear, in both their minds, from both the Jedi and his Force.

“I promised.”

It is only when they return to Lothal that Kanan seemed unsure of his promise. He had been up late the night before their return to the planet, meditating on some dream or nightmare he refused to tell her about. He dreamed in color, she knew as much, but what he saw eluded her. When she asked him about it, after waking him from his fitful sleep, he simply waved her off, saying something about a vision and the Force working in mysterious ways. Force be damned, after all of this, she was going to “force�� some answers from him. She is tempted to do it in that dark alleyway, hiding from stormtroopers, until he lightens the mood with a soft quip. “Heh, I just realized. It’s been awhile since we've spent some time alone.”

Hera’s tone is almost resigned, “And when we do, it’s in situations like this.” Such is the plight of a rebel, she thinks. It was tragic almost, that their “moments” where few and far in between.

Kanan doesn’t instantly respond, which rings alarms in Hera’s mind. His face crestfallen, he admits with a sigh, “I wish..I could see you.”

Gently, emanating soft reassurances of her own, Hera reaches up to grab his dark visors, revealing watery, sorrowful eyes, maimed by a vengeful menace. Hera’s eyes are different. If Kanan could see them, he would be lost in their viridescent depths, as they conveyed the pride and admiration she felt for the Jedi less than half a foot away.

“You could always see me.”

It was true, Hera knew. From their meeting on Gorse to their current predicament, Kanan could always see her in a way no one else could. It was him who knew how to calm her in her angriest moments. It was him who knew how to quiet the nightmares. It was him who had always been able to read her every emotion. It was him, who knew her better than her own father did. It had always been him. Even now, it was still him who could see her. Both mentally, and physically. It was not the horrible, if beautiful, oranges, purples, and reds the exploding fuel produced that drew her horrified eyes, nor was it the golden cracks appearing in the metal beneath his feet that called her attention. She hardly even recognized she was a foot of the pod, reaching and straining against some invisible force at his command, and she barely noticed when she was thrown back into the ship, into Ezra’s shaking arms.

It was his turquoise eyes, shining against the dark scar across his face, full of determination and peace, that she saw.

They enveloped her, though they did not give her the peace that floated in their depths. The fire came closer to him, and yet, it seemed time had frozen over. She knew what the return of his eyesight meant, beyond the shadow of a doubt, even as they closed one final time while his hands pushed their ship out of the blast range.

“We’ll see each other again.”

‘I promise”

And Kanan never broke his promises