#au; GAL OF THE GOLDEN AGE { pirate } | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

squidproquoclarice · 4 years

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For the @rdr-secret-santa exchange this year, I got to write for @tiredcowpoke. The request I wrote was “Molly/Mary-Beth, possibly a post-game au thing related to their writing?” Happy Holidays, Cowpoke, and I hope you enjoy!

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December 1919

St. Denis, Lemoyne

It had been a solemn few years for a poetess, for the world looked upon things with a grim eye, and who could blame them? Between the war and the Spanish flu, that was bad enough. Even a bloody flood of molasses of all things taking lives in a strange and even absurd way. She needed a change from Boston, feeling that urge come over her.

Just as she’d needed a change so long ago and left Dublin for Cousin Brian’s horse farm in California. Back in another life, back when she’d then left Cousin Brian’s horse farm after a few months based on the dark good looks and smooth charms of Mister Aiden O’Malley, or so he’d called himself. Back when she’d been such a fool and become an outlaw’s woman--outlaw’s whore--, something within her liked to hiss still. That part was the one that had been raised to love and fear her father, God the Father, and Father O’Connell alike, a paternal trinity that seemed to have no room for any woman once she wasn’t a virgin.

Some parts of Molly O’Shea clung beneath the skin of Margaret McCarthy nonetheless, and she’d long since had to accept that. Though she listened to them less and less as the years rolled on in their relentless pace. Early on had been difficult. She couldn’t go back to Cousin Brian, couldn’t go back to her father by any means, couldn’t bear to face their condemnation of her shame. So she had gone to Boston, after leaving Dutch and his band of grubby fools behind, a place she had never belonged with a man who used and discarded women. For a woman raised to be an ornament to a man, a true lady, it had been a struggle. But she found eventually that her pen was enough to keep her, rather than the need of a man for it. Forged on into a strange new world where she alone was mistress of her fate, and found it to her liking.

Now here she was in St. Denis for the first time in twenty years, and certainly she was older and wiser and a trifle stouter than the lass of twenty-six who’d never genuinely seen these streets, drinking as much as she had for the heartbreak of it all. It pleased her in some ways to truly experience the city for the first time, finding the old, cultured, European feel of it much to her liking, as opposed to the brashness of Boston that had never quite fit her, no matter how many Irish lived there.

No sooner had she arrived, not even fully unpacking her trunks at the opulent Castille House hotel, built seven years before, than an invitation came from the Krewe of Minerva, whom she was given to understand, had something to do with the Carnival season of Mardi Gras here in St. Denis, and the misspelling of “crew” was quite deliberate, but mostly that it consisted of some of the most prominent women in St. Denis, the wives and daughters and sisters of the powerful, and a handful of independent women as well.

The invitation, printed on heavy card stock, gilt decoration and with neat, flowing copperplate script, asked her to attend an evening celebrating St. Denis’ most prominent female literary luminaries. Oh, the glory of it, to be among people who appreciated such little social niceties as a proper invitation. She thought she understood what they were about--another woman writer had arrived in their midst, and they wished to draw her into their circle. Something in her was giddy about it, even at her age, so delighted to be included, welcomed, in such a way. It hadn’t always been the case.

It was no hardship to attend either given that the reception was in the ballroom of the Castille. So here she was, dressed in a flattering green gown that highlighted her eyes, here to meet the best and brightest lights of St. Denis’ women. Hearing snippets of their chatter as she passed, introducing herself or being introduced one by one, recognizing a few of them from their prominence in the papers.

Henrietta Wicklow, the journalist and ardent suffragette who’d marched for the vote right alongside her deceased mother Dorothy, “Next year we ladies shall all be voting for president--”

A loud voice from a group of ladies clearly enjoying their champagne, a young woman declaring with a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other, “Enjoy it now, gals, we’ve only a month until this government foolishness of abolishing liquor begins--”

Philomena Castille, wife of Claude Castille, owner of the very hotel they were now in, “--think that the Mardi Gras ball should reflect the theme of a new dawn for a new decade after the frightful few years we’ve had”, and Mrs. Castille then took charge of her to make further introductions with the brisk efficiency of a talented hostess.

Mary Barrett, wife of one of the men involved in St. Denis’ most prominent bookstore, and apparently also the local literary critic Martin Gillis, hiding behind a man’s name. Something about the woman, small, dark, and neat, with a striking small beauty spot on her right cheek, looked oddly familiar. But Margaret couldn’t quite place her. Perhaps they’d met at some literary event before? “Very pleased to meet you, Miss McCarthy, your book of poems is quite memorable.” From her, it somehow didn’t sound like a platitude.

Now another person approached, and Mrs. Castile said, “Oh, and here’s another of our ladies with a talented pen. We call her by her real name in the bosom of friends here, so here’s Miss Mary-Beth Landry. Though,” she winked one sapphire-blue eye, “you would know her better by her nom de plume, Leslie Dupont. Miss Landry, this is Margaret McCarthy, the poetess. She’s moving down from Boston to grace our city.”

She’d heard of Leslie Dupont, a semi-scandalous writer of semi-scandalous books. She had read several and rather enjoyed them, though some part of her blushed to admit it. But there was the part of her that would always adore romance and adventure. Though she hadn’t touched a great deal of Leslie Dupont’s books, including her most popular novel, “Sunset Over The Red Sage”, because those ones were about outlaws, highwaymen, bandits, and pirates. If there was one thing she had no wish to read in this life, it was a romance involving that sort of man. She’d been hurt enough by her own fantasies of that life without needing to read another woman’s ignorant rose-tinted version of it.

Oh, but she wasn’t so ignorant at all, because as Mary-Beth Landry turned, it had been twenty years, but Margaret still recognized her. Not Landry at all, oh no, but Gaskill. Those tumbledown golden brown curls, the soft blue-grey eyes, the liberal sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose that all still gave her something of an appealing girlishness even though she must have passed forty herself, and the lines beside her eyes and mouth said it as much as the ones Margaret saw in the mirror.

Her first instinct was the desire to turn and run before Mary-Beth could say her name, her old name, and expose Margaret in front of all these people as every bit as much an imposter as her. The second was a flare of anger because even all these years later, she could remember being forced to endure watching Dutch sniffing around her, flirting with her shamelessly, and thinking to herself with raging despairing humiliation, That cheap little tramp, what does she have that I don’t, aside from a few more years of youth? The third was to calm herself, because that was all old history and Dutch Van Der Linde wasn’t worth her concern, and frankly, she had drunk a glass of very fine whiskey eight years ago in pleasure at hearing the government’s Bureau of Investigation had finally caught up with him. Bastard. I hope the Devil himself has you as you deserve.

Mary-Beth’s eyes went wide and startled, and she blurted, “Molly!”

Margaret might have slapped her, but she held herself together. “My, it’s been so long since anybody called me that.”

“You two know each other?” Mrs. Castille said, looking at the two of them with surprise, but at least no suspicion.

“Oh, it was so very long ago,” Mary-Beth said, recovering rapidly. “I’m ashamed to say that I...I broke her cousin’s heart.”

“You’ve broken quite a few hearts, my dear,” Mrs. Castille said cheerfully. Yes, Margaret had heard about Leslie Dupont’s fast ways and string of romances never quite come to fruition. Was there such a thing as a rakess?

Mary-Beth’s gaze stayed on hers, and she gave Margaret a shy, apologetic smile. Surprisingly, she felt her pulse suddenly jump at the gesture, and it didn’t feel like alarm or anger. “I do hope you can forgive me, M--Margaret.”

“Oh, long since forgotten,” Margaret assured her, glad she’d jumped quickly to cover her gaffe, and happy to follow her lead with that story. “The fellow wasn’t worth the bother in the end, now was he? We both said good riddance to him.”

“I’ll let you two catch up,” Mrs. Castille said, gesturing towards the balcony. “The night air is quite fine.”

Given two weeks before she’d been in a miserable Boston winter, the weather here made for a pleasant change, she had to admit. Knowing there was no escaping it, she followed Mary-Beth onto the balcony, some part of her very reluctant to have this conversation, but another part strangely intrigued by what the woman had become. Curse her eternal romantic streak, but of course moving from dreamy guttersnipe and pickpocket to a successful authoress made for quite the tale.

Mary-Beth spoke first, keeping her voice low. “We all wondered what had happened to you. You just--vanished.”

“There was nothing to stay for,” she said, managing to keep the bitterness from her tone. “I was never quite one of you, now was I?” So she had simply not followed them when they cleared out from Shady Belle in an almighty hurry, saying the bank robbery had gone terribly wrong. She’d gone to St. Denis and drunk herself silly for nearly a month, and then she’d sobered enough to tell herself she would take the first train in the station, wherever it was bound, which brought her back to Valentine. Of course she would never stay there. The first train into the Valentine station was bound for Omaha. And she kept doing that until chance brought her to Boston.

“Oh, Molly--”

“Margaret,” she corrected with all the fierce, frosty bite of those Boston winters she’d left behind her. “Molly” was only for her intimate friends, and Mary-Beth Landry née Gaskill was and had been nothing of the sort. She relented somewhat, and asked, “What happened to them, if you know?” She might not have belonged to them, they had made that quite clear, but that didn’t mean she wished them ill, let alone shot to pieces by Pinkertons. She’d read about the big gunslingers of the gang dying in the papers over the years, of course, but all the little people like her, like Mary-Beth, had escaped notice.

“We got lucky. Nobody else died that year after Lenny and Hosea,” Mary-Beth answered. “I left a couple of weeks before the end of it all, Pearson and me together, but I’ve run into enough of them in the years since here and there.”

“Arthur died, though?” Margaret said in confusion. He clearly had been killed. The papers had blared it everywhere in triumph, the Pinkertons bagging one more significant quarry even if Dutch himself slipped through their fingers.

If there had been anyone else in the gang she probably should have let herself like and consider halfway to a friend, it might well have been Arthur. There was an awkward gentlemanliness and kindness towards her and all the women beneath that drawling uncouthness, as if he tried to keep the best of himself well hidden. Fetching her that mirror only because she mentioned wanting one? That was the sort of man Arthur Morgan had been, even if she’d been too much of a snob to see it at the time, far more swayed by Dutch’s smooth manners and darkly seductive charisma, the veneer of the proper gentleman of the sort she prized. She couldn’t say she had mourned Arthur at the time, but she had thought about him now and again since. He seemed like a better man than Dutch had let him be, and that felt like a shame.

Mary-Beth leaned closer, and she gave a knowing cat’s smile. “The reports of his death may have been exaggerated. The Pinkertons left him for dead, but it seems that wasn’t quite the case.”

“No!” Delicious gossip, that, even if she could never tell another soul. “Then--what? Who?”

“Sadie’s the one who got him out alive. They stayed together, ended up married, and they’re up in Canada with their children. We don’t write much, just the occasional Christmas card, but it sounds as though they’re well last I heard.”

Margaret had to shake her head, trying to not laugh. Arthur Morgan had married Sadie Adler? That brash, angry half-feral woman strolling around in her pants and swearing a blue streak and toting a rifle, who had made it clear she’d as soon kill a man if he looked at her wrong? But that was old Molly O’Shea talking, a posh lady looking down her nose at Sadie as a coarse farm wife who prided herself on being unnaturally mannish besides. Well, well. Hidden depths to her, I suppose. Or perhaps she changed herself to something finer when it was all said and done. She had done so herself. It seemed Mary-Beth had, at least in some ways.

“Some of the rest are up there in Canada as well. Charles, Karen, Abigail, and such. Pearson’s out in Rhodes, and the Reverend in New York, last I heard.” Abigail, still chasing the feckless boy-man father of her child when the boy was growing old enough to read. Karen, a loudmouthed, chubby creature who fancied herself a hellraiser, had even punched Margaret in the face once. Though I suppose deserved it, mocking her as I did. Saying Sean MacGuire was a brainless, reckless fool and I knew hundreds more Irishmen just like him. Certainly we both turned too much to the drink for the love of men who could never love us as we needed. Abigail never did that at least, though John wasn’t nearly worthy of her that I saw, but the heart wants what it wants. I made quite a solid proof of that lunacy. “Susan, Miss Grimshaw, she stayed around here for a bit, but she always was restless. She’s out in San Francisco now, moved there a year after the earthquake.” Margaret absorbed that, remembering the older woman and her need to feel relevant by bossing people around. The two of them had quite the mutual disdain, Dutch’s young lover versus his older former flame. Whereas back then she’d rolled her eyes at the jealous old biddy who clearly had it in for Dutch choosing another woman, now she was about the age Susan Grimshaw had been then. She could look on it with some sympathy--how much it had hurt to see Dutch already abandoning her, and Susan’s loyalty and love for Dutch had been there even so many years later. How hard must that have been? How hard must it have been to be an unmarried woman approaching fifty, who most men now didn’t value at all? Margaret had escaped that snare, but Dutch had kept Susan dependent on him all that time. Perhaps that was the softening of years, and wisdom, that she could see such things now.

Mary-Beth continued, “Tilly was actually here until earlier this year. She and her husband Henri headed north to Chicago. Better opportunities there for them there, though. I do miss her dreadfully. We used to try and meet every other Thursday at least, sometimes with the children. I’d spoil them with candy and books and toys, and Tilly would always just smile at it. Five children under twelve, quite the handful, but oh, how wonderful they all are. I wonder if baby Amelie will even remember me. She’s only two and a half now.” She wore a wistful, faded, sad little smile at recounting those memories.

Hearing Mary-Beth talk about all the women that had been with Dutch’s people then, it eased something in her to hear they all seemed to have done well and lived happy lives. She’d long since had to face the idea that her youthful dismissal of all of them as a pack of cheap, coarse unmannered creatures not worthy of her time, as different from her bearing and breeding as chalk and cheese, had been wrong. Learned that the line between being one of those women in the gutter and safely embroidering samplers in a graceful parlor was painfully razor thin. Then Mary-Beth shrugged in a sharp, almost dismissive way, and there was something striving too hard for chipper casualness in her tone when she said, “So now it’s only little old me left here in St. Denis.” “And me now, I suppose.” She said it before she could think better of it, laying claim to something she hadn’t cared about in so long, and hadn’t even felt a part of when she was in the thick of it. And yet.

She’d heard that loneliness in Mary-Beth’s voice, and recognized with a startle that she’d felt that same seemingly indefinable loneliness all too often, for all she hadn’t been around anyone else who ran with Dutch’s gang, let alone thought she’d wanted them there.

There was a part of her she couldn’t ever truly talk about, both from the shame of a foolish romance that would have labeled her as firmly ruined, and from the fear of being known as someone who’d been involved with all that unsavory outlaw business. To be with one person she didn’t have to fearfully conceal that behind an ironbound mask, and recognizing the sheer bloody effort it had been these past twenty years to do it, felt like an agonizing relief that she had never known she wanted. Like taking her corset off at the end of the day, laced stern and tight now against the ever-encroaching flesh of middle age, and breathing.

Mary-Beth looked at her, a gentle smile curving her lips. “And you now.” She hesitated, and then said almost shyly, “I did read ‘Odes to a Far Country’, you know. Though my favorite poem in it is ‘The Butterfly and the Phoenix’.”

“Oh!” She felt herself blushing, pleased but surprised. “That’s unusual. Nobody ever likes that one best.” One of her earliest published poems, and she looked back on it now as a somewhat mawkish, clumsy rumination from a woman facing an uncertain future, writing about metamorphosis, slumber, and fire from the ashes. The symbolism in it felt treacly and heavy-handed to her now. “It’s...very untidy.”

“Well, I like it.” Mary-Beth spread her hands and shrugged. “It’s honest. It’s a very messy thing to remake yourself, isn’t it?”

She thought she understood now, with a flash of insight. Mary-Beth had always seemed dreamy, even a bit dull at her insistence on painting everything in a romantic light, as if she simply couldn’t see the awful reality they lived in. How much of that was true then and how much was an act, Margaret couldn’t say, given she wouldn’t give herself much credit for being terribly perceptive in those days. But she had the suspicion Leslie Dupont now saw things clearer, and still chose to write those silly romances only because they brought some joy to the world. Perhaps she wrote about outlaws and pirates only to purge her own demons in some way.

She felt that flicker in her chest again, confessing, “I liked ‘Ribbons of Scarlet’ best.” That one was about a French noblewoman bound for the guillotine, and her love for the humble gardener who’d been her childhood friend. Who then, of course, helped break her out of the Bastille itself, and they fled together, escaped to freedom in America.

“Nobody ever likes that one best,” Mary-Beth said, imitating Margaret’s Dublin accent dreadfully, turning it into some God-forsaken stage Irish and a poor one at that, and Margaret found herself smiling helplessly at it. “People prefer their French Revolution stories with tragic and doomed endings, I’ve found.”

She sighed, looking out into the electric lamp-lit city at night, like a thousand fireflies glowing, fighting back the darkness. “I think we’ve had rather enough of tragic and doomed endings.”

They’d been young enough then, and foolish, and unable to see things clearly, let alone each other. She’d been twenty-six, and Mary-Beth, what, twenty-one perhaps? Now here they were, two middle-aged women brought together again in St. Denis by fate and literature both, and looking at the other woman, Margaret thought she felt something about Mary-Beth that just fit in some peculiar, easy way. “I think we have,” Mary-Beth answered softly. “I only wrote one. My first book. And I only implied it that way, and then, well, I undid it in the sequel anyhow when I thought better of it.” She turned to look at Margaret. “But here we are talking away and you’ve just gotten here to the gathering, and I’m keeping you all to myself.”

“I don’t mind, not at all,” she blurted, before she could help herself, and found herself blushing hotly again, and was surprised to see an answering blush in Mary-Beth’s cheeks. At their age, no less, blushing like two schoolgirls in braids! “But I probably should make the rounds, of course. See and be seen.”

“Of course.” Mary-Beth smiled at her. “Do you have plans for Christmas? I certainly don’t, not aside from the usual round of parties, but you know what I mean. Real plans for Christmas Day, not social ones. If not, you’d be welcome to come to my home, if you’d like.” She reached out to touch Margaret’s arm gently, and oh, how glad she was the fashion was no longer for elbow-length gloves along with an evening gown, because the touch of those fingers on her bare arm sent a frisson of longing through her like she hadn’t felt in years. She’d taken some to her bed discreetly when the mood struck, pleasant enough interludes, but there had never been anything of her heart in it. This, oh, this? This had destroyed her once and it could destroy her again, but how she suddenly wanted, something that wasn’t the overwhelming possession she had craved from Dutch, but something finer, brighter, something like kindred souls finding each other after so long.

She didn’t have a mean bone in her body then, and I very much doubt she does now. She’s not Dutch. Telling herself that, feeling her heart hesitantly peek open only a crack, it was enough for now. She looked up into Mary-Beth’s eyes, and smiled back. “I’d like that very much.”

A/N: Since it was a “Molly lives!” AU already, I decided to just go full “The gang members who died in Chapters 5 and 6 actually live!” AU, since neither Molly nor Susan are tough to spare their sad Beaver Hollow fates, Karen’s is ambiguous, and I’ve definitely explored the idea that there was a clear chance for Arthur if Sadie came back for him. Especially the chance for Molly to reflect a bit on Susan and Karen with greater age and wisdom and see the similarities felt too good to pass up.

#molly o'shea #mary beth gaskill #rdr2 #rdr secret santa 2020 #mollybeth #tiredcowpoke #getting to write two 40something bi literary women for the holidays was lovely #writing #holiday exchange

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turnupswritessometimes · 5 years

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Worth Running To - SoRiku - Ch1

Title: Worth Running To

Chapter: 1

Word Count:

Summary: Pirate AU - Sora is looking for a crew, Riku is looking to be as far away from England as possible. They find kinship in one another.

Sora had spotted the boy as soon as he came in. It wasn’t the silver hair or the piercing blue-green eyes that sparkled like the sea. And it wasn’t the sheer size of his arms. It was the way he had wrinkled his nose at the smell of alcohol that sat over the whole tavern like a fog. The way he stood – upright and stiff, moving out of everyone’s way without being shoved. Both showed that he didn’t belong here – he didn’t even look old enough to be let into a pub. Not that Sora was either, but Sora had earnt his right to sit here at the tavern with men three times his weight with a bottle of rum and a sign that read ‘crew wanted.’ He’d watched the boy lurk around the edges of the pub, never making eye contact with anyone for more than a moment. His hands were tight on the neck of his cloak in an almost comic way of hiding his face from everyone. On the run, Sora thought. He’d seen that expression before and it always made his stomach twinge. To have something to run from – that was the dream.

THIS FIC IS ALSO OF A03 UNDER THE SAME NAME - I WOULD PUT A LINK BUT THEN TUMBLR WOULD NOT INCLUDE IT IN SEARCH RESULTS.

The Highwind

Sora had spotted the boy as soon as he came in. It wasn’t the hair – it looked almost white in the lamplight, but it was silver – what boy his age had silver hair? Or the piercing blue-green eyes that sparkled like the sea. And it wasn’t the sheer size of his arms, though they were comparable to an oarsman.

It was the way he had wrinkled his nose at the heady smell of alcohol that sat over the whole tavern like a fog. The way he stood – upright and stiff, moving out of everyone’s way without being shoved. Both showed that he didn’t belong here – he didn’t even look old enough to be let into a pub.

Not that Sora was either, but Sora had hardly had what most folks would call a proper upbringing. He’d earnt his right to sit here at the tavern with men three times his weight with a bottle of rum and a sign that read ‘crew wanted.’ In fact, it was spelt ‘krew wanted,’ and he suspected he’d written the ‘d’ backwards, but he figured enough people would get the point.

This boy was clearly a posh one. He’d watched the boy lurk around the edges of the pub, never making eye contact with anyone for more than a moment. His hands were tight on the neck of his cloak in an almost comic way of hiding his face from everyone. On the run, Sora thought. He’d seen that expression before and it always made his stomach twinge. To have something to run from – that was the dream.

So, he’d watched the boy, because he was more entertaining than watching men arm wrestle, or try to flirt with the maid behind the bar. (Though more often than not she gave them a right hook, and that was always worth seeing.)

And then the boy’s eyes skimmed over him. Skimmed back. He looked – actually looked at Sora for more than a second, where most of the other men would curl their lip or raise their eyebrow. Sora could feel his lips curved upwards in a smile.

The boy didn’t smile back, but he did fight his way through the crowd and over to Sora’s table in the corner. His eyes dropped down to the wax paper sign propped up between two empty tankards.

“You’re looking for a crew?” he asked, in the breathless tone of someone needing a quick getaway. Sora stopped himself from grinning – he hadn’t even made an effort to disguise his posh voice.

“That’s what the sign says.” Sora replied. He couldn’t resist making his grin just a little more lopsided – couldn’t resist a wink, because now that the boy had come over, he could see his face was just as pretty as his hair.

The boy wet his lips. Glanced away. Glanced back with a determined face – like he was determined to ignore that wink. “How soon do you set sail?”

“If you join up, we can get going straight away.”

The boy nodded and slid into the booth next to him. That made Sora pause. The kid may have been asking for it – he practically screamed ‘I’m rich and desperate, scam me,’ but he wasn’t about to take advantage of him.

“Understand, I can’t pay you nothing. Not until we find treasure,” he said. The boy should have been asking more questions before he signed up for a voyage to who knew where. Running – desperation – Sora wondered what that felt like. To have something worth running away from.

“That’s fine.” The boy nodded out at the rest of the pub. “Which one is yours?”

“Eh?”

“Which one is your crew?” the boy repeated.

“Here,” Sora gestured at the booth, still smiling, like it was completely normal. He was wondering how long it would be before they got to this.

The boy blinked at him. He looked from him, to Donald, to Goofy, and back at Sora. His features twisted into something between anger and disgust.

“Are you drunk?” he asked.

“Not at all,” Sora said. “This is my crew, and you’d never hope to sail with finer men.”

“Men?” the boy repeated, incredulously. “They’re not men!”

Some of the burlier guys and gals frowned over at them for the noise, but once they saw Sora, they rolled their eyes and turned back to their conversation.

Sora frowned, but he knew it was more of a pout. “And how many sea voyages have you been on?”

The boy blinked. “Well, none.”

“Exactly. These two have been on more adventures than you, and that makes them men of the sea in my book.”

“You should learn to read that book,” the boy said scathingly. “You can’t bring a duck and a – a –“

“Goofy’s a dog,” Sora said. He scratched Goofy behind a scruffy ear and Goofy panted appreciatively.

“I’ve never seen a dog like that.”

“That’s because he’s an old sea dog.” It was simple logic, really. He couldn’t understand everyone’s confusion at Goofy.

“And you think you can sail a boat between the two of us, a dog and a duck?” The boy frowned at him, and put his hands on the table, pushing himself upwards.

Sora turned to Goofy so that the boy couldn’t see Sora’s scowl. He had known the boy would react that way – everyone always did, but he had really been hoping that this time would be different. He had liked this one – had liked that he was young and on the run. That he wanted to be anywhere but here, because Sora was like that too. He needed to be anywhere but here – to find something worth running from or worth running too. And this kid might have been posh, but he was pretty and easily flustered and Sora was already imagining getting to know him more. Could he be heartbroken over a five-minute encounter?

Goofy seemed to sense his annoyance. The huge wolfhound – well wolfhound cross, but Sora didn’t know crossed with what – gave his cheek a snuffle. He sneezed against him and Sora couldn’t help it – he laughed, hooking an arm around Goofy’s neck and scratching his huge head with both hands. Donald shuffled his feathers, looking as reproachful as a duck could, before sticking his beak in the air and pretending that he hadn’t seen this display of affection. It only made Sora’s grin widen.

The boy was still standing at the table.

Sora looked up and saw him staring at him, slightly open mouthed. His green eyes glinted in the dim light of the pub. There were only a few hanging lanterns, casting a golden, flickering light over them and casting dark shadows over the boy’s pale skin. When their eyes met, he shut his mouth and stared at the alcohol puddled floor, his cheeks tinged pink. It gave Sora an inkling of what the boy was running from – if he hadn’t been able to guess anyway.

“My ship isn’t very big. Yet,” Sora said. He wanted this one to come with them. “We could manage it easy. And I’m the only one here setting sail tomorrow morning. Everyone else here knows there’ll be a storm this week – they want to wait it out.”

Slowly, the boy eased himself back into the booth. He stared at the grubby floor for a long time, before he looked up at Sora. His eyes caught the lamplight again, in just the right way, and Sora could see it then. Those eyes held the sparkle of the sea in them and persuaded his breath to stay stuck in his throat.

“You’re going tomorrow?” he asked, quietly.

Sora nodded. He put his other arm around Goofy, leaning on the dog.

“Even though there’s going to be a storm?”

He couldn’t trust this boy with the whole truth. Not yet. So he simply omitted some parts. “A huge one. It sounds like a good adventure.”

The boy shook his head. “You’re crazy.”

“Maybe,” Sora said, feeling his smile return. “But you’re coming with me.”

“I never said that.” The boy looked around the pub a final time. Looking for other options and met only with scowls from men twice the size of him.

Sora grinned. “But you are.”

The boy sighed. He gave a final, final glance around the pub only to see a collection of thugs drinking themselves sick, then nodded. Sora beamed at him. He was positively glowing. Yes, he liked this one – this one he could have a real adventure with.

“Sora,” he said, finally untangling himself from Goofy, and sticking his hand out across the table. “Captain Sora.”

“Captain of a small boat, a dog and a duck.”

“And you.”

The boy’s hand lingered just a second longer than it should have. He had a firm grip, though his skin was smooth. Not used to a day’s work.

“I’m Riku.” He was smiling – a small, gentle smile that was a good fit on his face.

There was a loud and indignant quack. Goofy had the habit of sniffing Donald’s tail feathers, and hadn’t quite got the message that it was unwanted attention. Donald had turned and was snapping at the huge dog with a bright orange beak.

“Hey – hey, you two –“ Sora pulled Goofy away, trying to calm Donald down with an outstretched hand. It was a mistake – that duck had an unstoppable temper, and he bit at Sora’s fingers too.

He cursed and put his attacked appendages into his mouth.

But then he heard laughter.

He looked up to see Riku, a hand clasped over his mouth to muffle the noise, laughing.

It brought the grin back to his face. He was laughing too, and yes –

Sora knew this was going to be an adventure.

Riku stared at the boy sat across from him. The boy who had definitely made a conscious effort to make his fingertips feel as much of Riku’s palm as possible before he pulled away. His hands were rough and firm – they didn’t match the softness that was the rest of him. This boy with skin that just glowed brown – like he had absorbed the sun and was just beaming it out of him. This boy with hair that stuck up in a thousand different directions and a crooked smile and the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Eyes like a cloudless sky. Maybe bluer than that.

Sora. Captain Sora.

He was wrestling his beast of a dog further into the booth so that he could plant himself between it and the duck. Riku had never seen a dog like that – lanky and black and shaggy, with a long, almost crooked snout. Its eyes were so blank – Riku could almost believe that it was once intelligent but had given up all of its wisdom to save humanity. Almost.

The duck was a lot more normal looking – a plain white mallard, with beady eyes. It was an angry little thing.

How was this trio even allowed in here?

Sora was watching him, one hand still buried in Goofy’s fur. His head was tilted to the side and his mouth was slightly open – Riku could see a gleam of white teeth.

“So, Riku,” Sora said. He let the name drip from his tongue like it was made of honey. “Why are you in such a hurry to get away?”

His gut clenched and his heart jerked in his chest like it was trying to jump overboard. But he had always had a knack for cards – hopefully he had a half-decent poker face to match.

“I’m not,” he lied. He had to be out of here, tomorrow. That was all that mattered.

Sora’s head tilted further, like he was trying to copy Goofy. His crooked smile lifted up again. Was it a requirement of being a pirate to have a crooked grin?

“I know the look of a boy on the run.”

“And - are you?” Riku asked.

And Sora laughed. Laughter seemed to come as easily as breathing to him. It was a careless sound.

“Me? Never?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be?” Riku leant across the table, let his long hair fall forward like a curtain. He had lost the ribbon tying it back before he had even step foot in here, but there were men with longer hair milling around. “Isn’t piracy supposed to be illegal?”

Sora leant forward too, blue eyes glittering. “Only if you get caught.”

That made Riku’s mouth twitch. He leant back to hide it – to hide his clothes.

“Most people don’t want to sail right into a storm,” Sora continued. “Not unless they’re in a hurry to escape something.”

He’d been too obvious. He knew he had, and now he’d been caught. He sat there, staring at Sora and trying to think of an excuse. Tried to think of anything but the truth, but this boy wouldn’t believe any of them. He stuck out like a sore thumb amongst this people – none of them would believe Riku if he said he was a thief or a murderer.

“You don’t have to give me all the details. Not if you don’t want to.” Sora said. He had the tone of someone trying to sooth a startled horse. Donald ruffled his feathers next to him, squatting down, and Sora’s fingers skimmed over his folded feathers. The duck gave an appreciative quack and half closed its eyes. “But I need to know if you can’t stick around England.”

“No. I can’t.”

Sora nodded.

Goofy was taking an interest in Riku now, leaning his long neck around the table and snorting through his huge black nose at him. He hadn’t much experience with dogs, so he awkwardly patted Goofy’s head in the hopes it would appease him and make him turn away.

It only encouraged him. He sniffed Riku’s palm and then pressed his cold nose against it. Riku let him stay there, turning back to the boy.

“Why are you sailing into a storm?”

Sora glanced around at the noisy tavern. Everyone seemed caught up in their own tiny bubbles – not even looking at them. Then he leant his head forward and lowered his voice.

“They say there’s treasure in the eye of a storm.” And at Riku’s blank look, he continued. “Blessed treasure – with heavenly power – that can perform miracles.”

It sounded like a load of old rubbish to Riku. The kind of things young boys tell each other about a lump at the end of the garden that turns out to be the stump of a rose bush. But Sora’s eyes were shining. Well – he certainly didn’t act his age. There was no way he was old enough to be in here either, and he looked too baby faced to be on his own. Maybe he was just a boy playing at being a Captain. Maybe his parents would come along and Riku would be out of a ship.

“I don’t suppose anyone knows what this treasure is?”

Sora shrugged. He was still bright and eager. “Some say a staff, some say a box – all of the stories differ. But the miracles part is true.”

“And, of course, there’s the glory that comes along with finding it.” It was obvious to Riku that the main reward was reputation. Reputation and honour, the two most important things to a man, according to his mother. His mother was always right.

Sora’s gaze drew distant then. Seemed to fix on something behind Riku.

Then he took a breath. “Something like that.”

He had a habit of dropping his ‘t’s and making Riku painfully aware of every one he pronounced. Painfully aware of just how much he didn’t fit in here.

Then Sora was back – the same bubbly grinning boy that he had been thirty seconds ago. No, not boy. Pirate. This boy was a pirate, even if he didn’t look like one.

"We’ll sleep on my ship tonight, aye?"

Riku raised an eyebrow. "Is it just a canoe with a flagpole sticking out of it?"

It was easy to tease him, actually. It was easy to talk to this boy. He had never felt like that. There had never been anyone he felt this at ease with. And this was a boy he had known for five minutes. A pirate he had known for five minutes.

A pirate who was pouting at him – blowing his cheeks out and pursing his lips. It was utterly childish, and yet Riku could feel his breath hitching at the sight.

"My ship is a beauty,” Sora said. “A lady of the sea."

"I'll believe it when I see it."

"What are you going to give me when you're wrong, Riii-kuuu?" Sora drew out the name, leaning forwards again and resting his cheek in his hand. Impossibly blue eyes studied Riku’s face, and smiled at what they saw there.

"I - I don't have any money on me." It was true. If he didn’t have any money, he couldn’t be robbed of it.

The pout deepened. "What about a favour, then?"

Riku's heart dropped. "A favour?"

That was the one thing Sora seemed oblivious to. He pointed at Riku, still grinning from ear to ear. "If you lose, you have to swab the deck for a week!"

The duck quacked loudly, and Sora turned to it.

"I am not just saying that because I don't want to!"

The duck quacked indignantly again, giving another snap at Sora’s fingers.

Riku raised an eyebrow. "You...can talk to them?"

"Well, no.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leant back against the booth. “But it makes things more interesting that way.”

It was Riku’s turn to lean forward, examining the boy for red-rimmed eyes and slurred speech. “And you’re sure you’re not drunk.”

“Can’t afford it.” At Sora’s words, Goofy sneezed, abandoning Riku’s limp hand to poke at Sora’s side. “Well, apart from this one. But that’s the only one I had, I swear.” Goofy’s nose poked him again. “And, we have a bottle of brandy eft, but that’s for a special occasion.”

“Like finding treasure?” Riku guessed.

“Oh, aye.” It seemed like Sora, the duck and the dog were looking him up and down as one. “Aye, you’ll fit in just fine.”

Heat crawled up his neck and cheeks and he looked away. There was a moment of silence, and then he couldn’t resist it – he looked back at Sora. The pirate was staring at him again – seeming to take in every detail as if they would never see each other again.

The moment dragged on and Riku’s heart began racing. He needed to break this – think of something to say – one of them had to say something – they couldn’t just stare like this. In public.

Sora’s hands slammed down on the table. The duck squawked indignantly, ruffling its feathers, and Goofy’s ears went back.

“Right – let’s head off. Big day tomorrow!” Sora scooped a still protesting Donald up in one hand and tugged Goofy down from the booth by his collar with the other.

Riku followed, worming his way around people covered in grime, blood, and beer, until they were out in the night air.

Bristol looked beautiful at night. It was still Summer, and the night sky was dark blue, speckled with stars. The streetlamps had been lit casting bright yellow against blue so that the wet flagstones glowed. The air was warm, but not humid, and the seagulls cawed to each other from the tops of the buildings.

The river lapped at the hulls of the ships as they passed; they were all lined up like children waiting to go into assembly. Huge things with spidery masts and vast hulls watched them as they walked by, their boots tapping loudly against the stones.

Sora stopped in front of a ship, tugging a piece of wood he’d kept on the side of the dock and flopping it across to it. It wobbled alarmingly and creaked in protest when he stood on it.

Riku looked up, and realised that he would be swabbing the deck for a good week. It was a fine ship – with two tall masts and a sizeable deck. It was painted a bright red, rimmed with gold, which made it very handsome indeed. This was a Brig – and he couldn’t believe that the two of them would be able to sail it on their own.

“Are you coming?” Sora called. He was hopping down onto the deck, letting Donald go as he did. Goofy was plodding up the makeshift gangplank as though this was all normal.

Riku paused. Was he? He didn’t know this boy. This was a stupid decision. It was a really, really stupid thing to do. To go sailing into the eye of a storm on a huge ship with a mad boy, a duck and a dog.

But he’d have to wait a week otherwise. And he was no fool – he knew that not a lot of crews would want a sixteen-year-old who’d never worked a day in his life. He was useless to anyone else. This might be his only chance to get away.

And he had to get away. Now. No matter what. No matter if this was the stupidest thing he’d ever done. Maybe he needed to be a bit stupid. His mother wouldn’t have approved – which only confirmed that he was doing the right thing.

“I’ll hold it for you if you’re scared.” Sora’s teeth glinted in the moonlight.

“I’m not scared.” It was as much for himself as it was for Sora.

Riku stepped onto the gangplank. It creaked and groaned at every move he made, and he took large, leaping steps to get it over with as quickly as possible.

Then he was standing on the deck. The deck of a swaying ship, with water lapping at the sides. There was the sudden urge to laugh. This was happening. He was doing this. Riku was running away.

Sora grunted as he pulled the gangplank up behind them, cutting them off securely from the rest of the dock.

“Is there something you’d like to say about my Highwind?” He wiped dirt from his hands onto tight breeches. Riku tore his gaze away, back at the stars.

"I've seen bigger," Riku shrugged.

Sora scoffed. "Like you've ever been on another - your legs are wobbling like a jellyfish."

Riku put a hand on the railing to steady himself, concentrating on making his legs stop shaking.

"Don't worry, you'll get your sea legs as you're cleaning my deck for me." Sora was already treading across the boards as though it was simple to the back of the ship.

This was a very bad idea, Riku decided. Why had be ever thought that it was a good idea to be on a ship? He'd never been on one before and he couldn't even stand on one when it was safely docked.

Goofy nudged past him, and Donald was fluttering after Sora, so he followed the two animals. It took him twice as long to get over to the cabin door. An empty lantern hung by the door. The wick in the candle inside had been swallowed by the wax.

"There's enough room for us both in here," Sora's voice called from inside, echoing like he was already deep in the belly of the ship.

Riku stepped in just as a match fizzed to life. There was a collection of tall candles sat on a scrubbed wooden table, surrounded by torn maps and a broken compass. Two sorry-looking chairs flanked it, trembling in the middle of the room. There was a wide window at one end, letting the starlight drift through the glass. Clothes fell out of a large trunk sat under the window, and were scattered around the floor with books and maps. There were two hammocks - one hung either side of the room. The one on the left had two large lumps of hay underneath it - which Donald and Goofy settled themselves into without question.

Two hammocks. If Sora hadn't been expecting company - he had wanted it.

"There's not much point in you sleeping down in the hold all by yourself," Sora said, sitting on the left hammock and making it swing alarmingly. He was already kicking his boots off by the heel, stretching his arms up and yawning. "You don't mind, do you?"

Riku did mind. He minded very much. He was used to sharing a room - but not with a pirate, a dog and a duck. The situation was bizarre, and this boy was pretty, and he should just leave. He should forget about all of this and just go home.

But then he thought of returning to his mother. He thought of returning for the Summer break. July and August.

It was unthinkable.

Riku sat down on the hammock and started untying his own boot laces.

He looked up again to see Sora staring at him, from over the candle. It made his hair and eyelashes look inky black, and his skin glow gold like an apparition.

"You sure about this?"

Riku took a breath. There was no turning back now. "Yes."

"Aye." For just a moment, Sora paused. Then he grinned, and winked, and said, "goodnight."

The candle was blown out, leaving them in silvery darkness.

Riku lay back in the hammock, his heart racing out of his chest as he heard Sora pad back to his own hammock and get in. The smell of smoke was drifting in the air, like a blown-out birthday candle. That wink. That crooked smile. Riku was playing with fire. He should have chosen a large crew, with people who wouldn’t look twice at him, who were beaten and bloodied, so they looked more like oddly shaped vegetables than people. Not the pretty boy who talked to his pets and winked at Riku. It was just asking for trouble.

Now that he lay down, covering himself over as best as he could with his cloak and the musty blanket left there, he couldn’t believe this was happening. He had really done it – he had ran. And he wasn’t going back. He actually dared to escape. And was playing with fire as soon as he did.

But this was better than a crew of mean, twisted people. Surely it would be. They would look for him on the big ships, not a small brig sailed by a boy no one seemed to look twice at. This was anonymity. He would just have to ignore Sora’s – everything.

The barely formed plan in his mind lulled him into a half-sleep. The hammock rocked gently with the lull of the river and it was absurdly comforting. Sora’s heavy breathing on the other side of the cabin was calming too, in a way.

Then he felt something small jump in the hammock with him.

He froze. Tiny feet were scurrying up him – catching him in the sensitive areas of his stomach. Something small, with a long tail.

“Sora,” he hissed. “Sora!”

“Mmm?” He heard Sora shuffle in his hammock, and yawn loudly.

“There’s a rat.”

“What?”

“A rat. There’s a rat in my hammock. Aren’t they only supposed to be in the bilge?”

“Only the lowliest rats. The peasant rats. And there are no rats in my bilge, thank you very much,” Sora grumbled, and then there was another fizz as he lit a match. He stepped closer to Riku and he gritted his teeth as he looked down at the small creature on his chest. “Oh, it’s just the King.”

Riku blinked at the mouse. It sat on him comfortably, tail curled around it like a tiny pink sausage. Its feet were the same pink. The rest of it was as black as soot – including its gleaming eyes.

“The King?” he repeated. He hoped his voice didn’t sound like a squeak – it wasn’t like he was a lady who had found a mouse in her teacup.

“King Mickey.” Sora scratched the mouse behind a large, papery ear and it squeaked appreciatively. “He must have taken a liking to you.”

The mouse was already curling up on Riku’s chest – just over his heart. It would have been easy to move – to sit up and push the tiny creature off of him, but he couldn’t bring himself to. Its heart was over his heart, thrumming away at one hundred times faster than his.

“He’s a mouse, not a rat,” Sora said, wiggling the match in the air to extinguish it.

“That’s okay then,” Riku muttered.

Sora yawned loudly again – Riku could see his silhouette stretching up. “Well, yeah.”

He was breathing heavily again within moments. Underneath him, Goofy was snoring loudly, and Donald was making strange, quivery sounds.

King Mickey was the only one who slept silently. A warm weight on Riku, that was actually comforting. For some reason, he felt like this tiny mouse understood everything, and was telling him to stay. It was telling him he had to do this. He had to run. And Sora was the best choice.

That was probably just wishful thinking.

(A/N): When researching this fic I found out that pirate ships just had a plank with a hole in for a toilet and I have to be burdened with that knowledge so does everyone else. (My notes for this literally say 'That horrifying moment when you find out that pirate toilets were just like wizard toilets, apparently.') WHAT'S MORE IMPORTANT TO SAY: is that I started this a few months ago and had the first half of this chapter sat around for a while. I've somehow clocked in 4,000 words a day for a week straight on this, so this feels...a little rough? It's more like, Sora and Riku really come into their own in terms of character in the next chapter. Bare with this and bare with me, please. I also use 'pirateglossary.com' for slang and ship parts in this fic, so if you're ever confused head on over there. I didn't want to put loads of pirate slang in, but I couldn't resist a little bit. But I have so many ideas to weave into this fic and I'm so so excited to share it and keep writing it and I hope you're all interested in reading more of it as well! It's very much growing on me and I cannot wait to see if other people are as enthusiastic for the niche of high-romance pirates of the caribbean/the 1999 mummy! Thank you so so much for reading and I'll be updating (hopefully) weekly! <3 xx

(I'm also on instagram/twitter @turntups Talk to me!)

#kh #kingdom hearts #soriku #soriku fanfiction #kingdom hearts fanfiction #pirates au #pirates of the caribbean #pirates of the caribbean au #poc #turnupswrites #worth running to #sora #riku #kingdom hearts remind #kingdom hearts 3

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forestwater87 · 6 years

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Underrated Characters Appreciation Weeks I’m too lazy to set up....

...but I’m proud of myself for having created. So if y’all wanna adopt any of these, you can go wild (please tag me though! I wanna see them!). Otherwise, shower me with praise.

(They’re very writing-heavy and often just a list of questions, so if you borrow anything feel free to tweak as suits your inspiration; the questions/suggestions are really just to get people thinking!)

I’m gonna put them below the cut so it doesn’t get too long, but you have to look forward to:

Jasper Appreciation Week

Cameron Campbell Appreciation Week

Gwen Appreciation Week

Bonquisha Appreciation Week

Dirty Kevin Appreciation Week

QM Appreciation Week

Other Secondary Characters Appreciation Week

Elevated Extras Appreciation Week

Nerris Appreciation Week

Space Kid Appreciation Week

Ered Appreciation Week

Harrison Appreciation Week

Dolph Appreciation Week

Nikki Appreciation Week

Preston Appreciation Week

Nurf Appreciation Week

Flower Scouts Appreciation Week

Woodscouts Appreciation Week

Jasper Appreciation Week

Who doesn’t love this good good ghost boy?

Day 1: 90s Kid -- Depict Jasper doing something radical.

Day 2: Jasper’s Camp -- Show off Jasper’s time as Camp Campbell’s golden boy.

Day 3: David -- It’s the only character he has a real canon relationship with . . .

Day 4: Life After Death -- What does he do with himself on that there island all day?

Day 5: All Grown Up -- We’ve all thought about it.

Day 6: Best Friend to Campers -- Pick a non-David character and develop his relationship with them.

Day 7: Spookily Ever After -- How does Jasper’s story end? On Spooky Island forever? Leaving this realm? Becoming the camp’s new mascot? Or was he somehow alive the whole time? Let your imagination go wild!

Cameron Campbell Appreciation Week

He’s sleazy. He’s morally bankrupt. He’s everyone’s favorite non-blonde-twink villain!

Day 1: Shady Business Dealings -- What’s Campbell up to when he’s not at camp? What does he want with Camp Campbell? Was that Nazi gold in his vault? Something’s fishy here, and I’m curious what everyone thinks is going on.

Day 2: Mysterious Past -- How on earth does someone like Campbell happen, anyway? This could be stuff about his childhood, how he got into . . . whatever illegal nonsense he’s up to, how he met QM, even how he got away with not getting in trouble for what happened to Jasper.

Day 3: Spooky Island -- Seriously, what on earth was going on in that house? Focus on the coolest/creepiest thing in there and go nuts.

Day 4: Fears & Other Random Headcanons -- Basically your Free Space day.

Day 5: Boss Man -- Focusing specifically on his relationships with the counselors.

Day 6: (Relation)Ships -- Yeah, yeah, gotta have it somewhere. This one is pretty open to interpretation, and should be considered platonic or not. Just depict the most interesting/fun relationship you think Campbell has. Is that cold black heart even capable of affection, anyway? (If you think he’s a foxy grandpa, go wild today.)

Day 7: What Happens Next? -- Is he gonna ever leave that cave? Team up with Daniel? Gone for good? What’s up ahead for the most notorious criminal who’s ever run a summer camp?

Gwen Appreciation Week

I mean, come on. You knew I was gonna do it.

Day 1: Background -- There are a lot of interesting headcanons about Gwen’s backstory, cultural heritage, etc. City girl or country bumpkin, Latina or African-American or rich or poor or college dropout or whatever, pick what you think is the most interesting headcanon for Gwen (something that’s related to her time before the show, that is) and go nuts.

Day 2: Favorite Camper -- Pick one of the kiddos and have them bond with their grumpiest caregiver.

Day 3: All Dolled Up -- She’s always in that counselor uniform. What does she look like outside of camp?

Day 4: Ships -- Obviously.

Day 5: That Tragic Plot Twist -- If you have an idea what makes Gwen such a grumpy disaster of panic and unemployment -- or just want to have fun making things unnecessarily dark for such a lighthearted cartoon which I know you do; I’ve read the fanfiction -- it’s time to unleash the angst.

Day 6: Anywhere Else -- AUs! AUs in all directions! Gwen doesn’t want to be at camp, so let’s plop her into another world where she might be happier . . . or might not be.

Day 7: A Campbell Camper? Whether you think Gwen was one of the kids who grew up at Camp Campbell or not, I think we’d all agree it’d be fun to imagine.

Bonquisha Appreciation Week

Because she deserves it and will probably kill you if you don’t appreciate her enough.

Day 1: Those Wild Shirts -- Draw her in another fantastic outfit, or speculate where her amazing fashion sense (and vanity plates) came from. She has a filthy mouth and a whole lotta confidence, and the first day of this week is to celebrate that!

Day 2: Home Sweet Trailer -- Put her in her house on 69 Dirt Rd. and think about what kinds of things a girl like Bon would call home.

Day 3: Dog -- She has one. Tell us about it!

Day 4: Work/Hometown HCs -- What does someone even do in a town that small? Whether you think she’s a waitress alongside that cute pink-haired gal, or if she lives out of town and drove up to see David, ponder a little bit of what Bonquisha does in or around Sleepy Peak and show it to us.

Day 5: Bonvid -- How did that relationship with David crash and burn so hard, anyway? And what does it look like after that episode?

Day 6: Other Relationships -- Bonquisha vs. Tabii, or Gwenquisha, or bffs with Dirty Kevin, or any sort of connection you’d like to expand upon or forge between Bon-Bon and another character in the show. Hell, draw her and Jacob if you think that’s cute; it’s canon, after all.

Day 7: Muscles to Die For -- She’s big and beautiful and could absolutely murder everyone. Let’s just spend out last day appreciating how very much of a badass Bonquisha is.

Dirty Kevin Appreciation Week

The very goodest alternative Den Mother there ever was.

Day 1: Probably a Real Brat -- What was he like as a kid or teenager?

Day 2: Drugs & More Drugs -- Show us Kevin hard at work or tell us how he got into this crazy business.

Day 3: That Red Hoodie -- It’s kind of his trademark, and this is a day to appreciate it.

Day 4: From Sleepy Peak to Mexico -- Take your favorite part from Kevin’s debut appearance and do something fun with it.

Day 5: Den Mommy -- We’ve all thought about Dirty Kevin as a Flower Scout mother, and if you haven’t, you’re lying.

Day 6: Cleaned Up -- Get him a nice facial grooming and some good clothes, and you could have a handsome gentleman right there. What on earth would that look like?

Day 7: Not Such a Lone Wolf -- Whether you have an OTP or just love the idea of Kevin being friends with certain characters, show us who you think he has a soft spot for.

QM Appreciation Week

Listen, we’re all a little afraid of him, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve the spotlight for a bit. Even if we know he’ll probably do unspeakable things in and to that spotlight.

Day 1: God or Just Crazy? Whether it’s his apparent inability to age or how he can magically find little woodland paradises in the middle of the camp, there’s a lot of weird going on there. Celebrate the man who may or may not be a murderer and may or may not actually be a literal deity and all his strange, often supernatural weirdness.

Day 2: Hook -- Hey, how’d he lose that hand?

Day 3: Man vs. Squirrels -- He has a blood feud with many woodland creatures.

Day 4: QM Store -- There’s a lot of wacky stuff in there. What did you like best, or what do you think was hidden in the corners that we didn’t get to see?

Day 5: Bonding -- QM’s been there for a long (long long long) time, and he’s clearly known Campbell and David at least for years. Pick a character and explore what their relationship with the Quartermaster might be like.

Day 6: Tontine -- So what on earth was going on there?

Day 7: Camp Specter -- Regardless of how you approached Day 1, the fact remains that for whatever reason, the Quartermaster is at Camp Campbell for good. You can speculate why he’s there or just show us him hard at work doing . . . whatever he does, but today I just wanna see our beloved QM lurking around the camp!

Other Secondary Characters Appreciation Week

To all those characters who hang out in the background, making the campers’ shenanigans more fun.

Day 1: Daniel -- I don’t consider him in any way under-appreciated, but he’s a pretty spectacular way to kick off Season 2, and also this week.

Day 2: Platypus -- Mother of six five four three two one lunch and terror of the camp.

Day 3: Cute Waitress -- Y’all sure do love her. Show your love!

Day 4: Jermy Fartz -- Oh yeah. I went there.

Day 5: Darla & Gregg -- How can anyone who isn’t David be that excited about camping? Were they totally secretly dating? Where are they now, and how did they get there?

Day 6: The Denizens of Sleepy Peak -- Whether your heart belongs to Lester, Fred, the old geezers, or any of the others populating the nearby town, it’s time to show them some love.

Day 7: Parents -- How else would we end this week but with some family bonding?

Elevated Extras Appreciation Week

They’re not as memorable as the secondary characters. They don’t even have lines. But they’re ours and we love them.

Day 1: Former Campbell Campers -- we see in the picture on David’s bulletin board that there were a lot of kids who used to come to the camp. Show or tell us about your favorite!

Day 2: Camp Counselor of the Year Judges -- What was up with those guys? Were they even human?

Day 3: Other Camps -- Lake Lilac is home to Teen Church Camp, Pirate Camp, and who knows how many others? Let’s enjoy them!

Day 4: Larry -- Poor, poor undeserving Larry. RIP, my fuzzy man.

Day 5: Scotty -- Visual comedy camp? Seriously?

Day 6: Chucky -- What happened to him anyway?

Day 7: Your choice! Think I forgot the most important one? Time to correct that mistake! (Listen, if you’re mad I didn’t include Jen, consider this the Jen space.)

Nerris Appreciation Week

Devoted to the real(?) magic kid.

Day 1: The Cute -- Artists, draw how cute she is! Writers, maybe think about how the nickname came about! Or do something completely different! I don’t care!

Day 2: Magic War -- Explore her relationship with Harrison.

Day 3: Elf-kin -- What does that even look like? What does it mean?

Day 4: Bonding with Mere Mortals -- The camp is full of people and animals. Pick one and play with their relationship with Nerris.

Day 5: Dice -- What do they look like? How did she get them?

Day 6: Fandom -- A girl that excited about fantasy has to be quite the fan of a lot of things. Show us her interacting with her favorite stuff.

Day 7: Her Party -- Her relationship with her slightly-clueless mother and extremely-geeky dad.

Space Kid Appreciation Week

The most obvious appreciation week in the entire world.

Day 1: Astronaut -- Whether you want to show him all grown up or as a little kid, give us a glimpse of what Neil the real-life spaceman would be like.

Day 2: Aliens -- Another type of spaceman.

Day 3: Fishbowl -- A day to just appreciate his adorable, impractical costume.

Day 4: Punching Bag -- He’s been pushed around and disregarded by Max, Nurf, Max, the counselors, various animals, and Max. This is a day dedicated to his unfortunate luck and indomitable good spirit.

Day 5: Sick -- After that trip he took across the lake to the moon, and barely surviving the flu zombies, Space Kid could probably use some patching up.

Day 6: Science Guys -- The two Neils, bonding.

Day 7: SPACE!!! -- Give us Space Kid interacting with his favorite hobby ever.

Ered Appreciation Week

A very very cool week.

Day 1: Skater -- Even on the camp’s awful cardboard halfpipe, Ered’s still a budding Tony Hawk.

Day 2: Dye -- Dedicated to her awesome -- dare we say cool? -- hair.

Day 3: Camp Kool Kidz -- Celebrate her short-lived tenure as the head of Camp Campbell.

Day 4: Extreme -- What other extreme sports does she like to get up to?

Day 5: Queen Bee -- Her relationship with one or more of the other campers.

Day 6: Wipeout -- She gets injured a lot, doesn’t she?

Day 7: Cool Gay FBI Dads -- They’re the most wholesome family that regularly gets into gunfights.

Harrison Appreciation Week

Devoted to the . . . real(?) magic kid? (Didn’t we already do this?)

Day 1: Harry’s Son -- His outfit is pure Vegas showman, his VA and accent seem to suggest Israeli descent, and he may or may not be a literal wizard. His parents are terrified of him, but his mom says he’ll grow into his looks. Give some backstory to this lovable kid and his love of illusions.

Day 2: Actual, Real, Terrifying Magic -- This kid isn’t messing around. From summoning fireballs to making both objects and living things appear and disappear, he has some serious supernatural chops.

Day 3: Apprenticeship -- He and Nikki’s relationship consists of equal parts mutual admiration and mayhem. What do the two of them get up to behind the scenes?

Day 4: Brother -- Time for theories (and angst, of course angst) about how and why he “made his brother disappear.”

Day 5: Any Resemblance to Bill Cipher is Pure Coincidence -- . . . probably. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t fun to imagine that crossover!

Day 6: Frenemies -- Harrison has a habit of getting on people’s nerves. Pick at least one character and develop their relationship with the magic kid.

Day 7: Hufflepuff Pride -- Jordan Cwierz confirmed it! This last day is about celebrating all things yellow and black and (mostly) well-intentioned.

Dolph Appreciation Week

I know, he’s controversial. But he’s a kid with a passion for art and no understanding of history, and he could use some love as well.

Day 1: Painting -- Exactly what it says on the tin. While he is clearly skilled at lots of different types of art, this is the one he seems to like the most.

Day 2: Where’s the Yellow? He is the only one who doesn’t wear anything camp-themed. Give us a glimpse of what might’ve happened to that signature yellow clothing.

Day 3: Stage Manager -- Multiple times throughout the series Dolph is shown as Preston’s right-hand man by helping him design sets and acting in his plays; Preston even returns the favor by posing for a painting. Today is dedicated to the strange relationship of the theatre and art kids.

Day 4: Camp Counselor of the Year! Incredibly, Dolph appears to be quite the competent leader for his age, and his one day of running the camp went smoothly for the most part. Maybe he has the makings of a great counselor after all.

Day 5: The Elephant in the Room -- We all knew it was coming. Whether you find the Hitler jokes hilarious or offensive, everyone has an opinion about this particular character choice. Now’s the time to speculate what happens when he gets older, or completely retcon this aspect of his personality, or do whatever you’d like to with his . . . peculiarities.

Day 6: Father Issues -- According to the show’s wiki, “his father is an American lieutenant, who raised him on a German army base where he supposedly gained a love of art and soccer like many Europeans, much to his father's dismay.” Oof, that’s a lot to unpack. Time for backstory!

Day 7: Not Such a Bad Kid -- Despite his . . . controversial elements, Dolph as a character seems fairly sweet and oblivious, and is loved by a significant portion of the fanbase for these qualities. A free day of sorts, this is about accentuating the positive and appreciating the awkward, artistic weirdo underneath the jokes.

Nikki Appreciation Week

I was really close to not including this, because I don’t consider her an underrated character exactly, but Neil has a week and, let’s be honest, it’d be fun.

Day 1: Rough n’ Tumble -- Nikki isn’t afraid of fighting, and she’s no stranger to getting dirty or even hurt. Show the wild child doing something fun, reckless, and probably not very smart.

Day 2: Raised by Wolves -- Imagine an AU where she actually was as much a literal daughter of the forest as she wants to be.

Day 3: Just a Tiny Bit Traditional -- Despite being such a tomboy, there’s a part of Nikki that is deeply romantic and even maternal. Whether through a version of her that’s a bit older or a quiet moment at the camp, show us a little bit more of her gentle side.

Day 4: BFFs, Potential Step Siblings, Sidekicks -- A day to appreciate Neil and Nikki’s relationship, whatever you see that as.

Day 5: Flower Scout Nikki -- What was her time across the lake like?

Day 6: Parent Troubles -- She and her mom have a difficult relationship, and her dad doesn’t seem to be around that much. Show us Nikki and one or more of her guardians, and what that relationship might be like.

Day 7: Holidays! Her first and greatest love is Christmas, but there’s probably not a holiday she wouldn’t throw herself into. Give her a chance to celebrate any holiday you want!

Preston Appreciation Week

Get ready for some high-octane theatrics!

Day 1: A Flair for the Dramatic -- I don’t care what you do with this one, just give it lots of DRAMA!

Day 2: Speak Up -- Preston and his grandmother are really close, but his parents seem to be AWOL. Every Appreciation Week needs a backstory- and/or family-centric day, and that’s what this is.

Day 3: Cosplay -- What’s Preston’s favorite play? Let’s have him dress up like a character in that show.

Day 4: Stage Presence -- Give the boy a spotlight and an audience!

Day 5: The Bard -- He seems to love writing and directing even more than performing. Show him creating the next Hamilton (or more likely, Hamilton’s weird sequel involving pirates and aliens).

Day 6: Theater Nerd -- Either as a high school AU or just some time in the future, image Preston fully engrossed in that drama club life.

Day 7: Tribe -- Every weirdo has their group of friends. Either through OCs or other characters in Camp Camp, give or describe the people that make up the group in which he belongs.

Nurf Appreciation Week

Gaylord Nurfington, much like Shrek, is like an onion: smelly, surprisingly layered, and will probably make you cry.

Day 1: Big N Tough -- He’s built like a brick shithouse and mean as a bear, and that’s part of why we love him. Celebrate the fact that this guy can (and probably will) kick anyone’s ass.

Day 2: Theater Kid? -- We’ve seen Nurf involved in Preston’s productions more than once. Have some fun with his apparent interest in the performing arts.

Day 3: His Mother’s Boy -- Mother and son time!

Day 4: Surprising Depths -- Show Nurf doing something no one would ever have thought he would enjoy and/or be good at.

Day 5: A Thoughtful Bully . . . -- As the self-proclaimed most self-actualized character in the show, Nurf has proven to be remarkably cognizant of his own issues and respectful of others’. Give him a positive-ish interaction with another character.

Day 6: . . . Is Still a Bully -- But let’s be real: Nurf can be a total jerk. Let the kid be mean today!

Day 7: Knives -- Where the hell is he getting all of those, anyway? Regardless, show Nurf with his favorite toys.

Flower Scouts Appreciation Week

They’ll kill you with a smile and fantastic hair, then they’ll use their drug contacts to bury the bodies.

Day 1: Grace & Class -- No one is prettier and daintier than these angels -- and nobody knows it better than them.

Day 2: Nicer than Disneyland -- Whether you’d like to focus on their shady cookie dealings, the washed-up Miss Priss, or even invent your own Scout, give yourself a chance to explore a part of the Flower Scouts that hasn’t been given much screentime yet.

Day 3: Sasha -- A day dedicated to the quintessential Queen Bee. Manipulative, clever, and pretty damn selfish, Sasha is undoubtedly the leader of the Scouts, and you better respect it.

Day 4: Erin -- If your heart hasn’t been captured by this heterochromatic science nerd, this day is not for you. But for the rest of us, grab your pumpkin spice and head off to Fraaaaance to celebrate her!

Day 5: Tabii -- What she lacks in common sense she makes up for with being absolutely terrifying. Tabii-with-two-eyes-with-one-eye is an emotional rollercoaster, and she deserves a little bit of love today.

Day 6: Not-So Delicate Girls -- From drug empires to vats of acid, the Flower Scouts have proven that they can kick a whole lot of ass. Show off how tough these girly-girls can really be!

Day 7: Garden Mother Kevin -- Come on. You knew it was coming.

Woodscouts Appreciation Week

They might be the cartoon answer to what would happen if Stormtroopers were body-swapped with Boy Scouts, but that’s part of their charm.

Day 1: A Shadowy Organization -- No girls are allowed, they don’t appear to have a troop leader, their camp is impenetrable, there seem to be maybe 5 Scouts at most . . . Pick something cool about this creepy camp and play around with it.

Day 2: Bitter Rivalries -- Between risky bets against Camp Campbell and popcorn/cookie sales against the Flower Scouts, it seems like the WS have a problem with basically everyone. Depict one or more interaction between them and their most bitter enemies.

Day 3: A New Recruit -- How on earth does Jermy fit into the Woodscouts’ routine? How has he not accidentally (or not-so accidentally) been incapacitated yet?

Day 4: Fearless Leader -- He’s slimy in more ways than one, but he keeps Troop #818 together and has even managed to snag a few recruits. That alone is worth a day of appreciation.

Day 5: Strong & Silent -- For someone who doesn’t talk much, Petrol has a lot of good advice and personality. Let’s celebrate his bromance with Snake, his willingness to be sacrificed for the WS, or even just his stubborn refusal to try leg day even once.

Day 6: Call him Snake -- Prince Zuko Billy might not be the most dignified character on the show, but he’s certainly the most honorable and is deadly with a candy cane.

Day 7: Like Family -- I just want to see some Woodscouts bonding, with each other or a character of your choice.

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