#it begs the question: whose haircut is better

[atorionsbelt]

phil dunster + puppy

[dixie12]

kink confession #3

i really love puppy play. i see it as a progression of d/s play, where the sub partner gets to really get out of their head, and just get totally spoiled and taken care of by their dom. and if anyone deserves to be petted and loved on and called a good boy, it's jonny.

i meant this to be a quick, smutty thing, but the boys wouldn't cooperate and get down to the porn, so it's almost 4k words, but i had fun writing it!

“You can’t even keep a houseplant alive, Kaner. There is absolutely no way anyone would ever entrust you with a dog,” Jonny said, for what felt like the twentieth time that night. Sharpy never should have let Pat dog-sit Shooter a few weeks ago, because ever since then, Pat seemed to bring up getting a dog at least once a day. “Plus, we’re on the road, like, all the time. It would be cruel to the dog,” Jonny continued. He had no idea why Pat was so insistent on this.

“I’d be awesome at it, though!” Pat exclaimed, sulking just a little. “I practically raised all three of my sisters, and they turned out great.”

“Raised them in between playing on five different peewee teams, Peeks?” Sharpy interjected into the conversation. “And you’re barely a year older than Erica, come on!”

“Whatever,” Pat grumbled. “I’d be the best dog dad ever. Shooter’s probably begging to come back and live with me. I’d give him steak, and belly rubs, and we’d go on long walks, and-”

“Are you describing a dog or your dating profile, man?” Sharpy interrupted, laughing, and Patrick’s cheeks turned a light pink, almost unnoticeable in the dim light of the bar, but Jonny was watching him pretty closely, like he always did.

“Fuck off, Sharpy. Jesus, don’t make it weird,” Patrick replied, rolling his eyes. Thankfully, the conversation moved on after that, when the rookies came back with a round of shots for the table. Jonny lost track of the number of rounds after that, but the rest of the night passed in a blur, and he and Pat were leaning on each other for balance by the time they were waiting for a cab to get back to their hotel.

When they were finally back in their room, clothes thrown haphazardly on the floor (Jonny) or folded neatly on the desk chair (Patrick), Patrick brought it up again. “Seriously, Jonny, I’d be so good at it,” he said plaintively. Jonny could imagine the puppy dog eyes he was making, so appropriate for this situation, and forced himself to stay quiet. Patrick sounded almost forlorn, and Jonny really hated when he sounded like that, all of his instincts telling him to make Pat feel better, but it was still a bad idea.

“Maybe I could, like, prove how good I’d be!” Pat said into the silence. “Come over next weekend, man, and I’ll show you. You’ll change your mind, I swear.” At that point, Jonny was drunk and tired enough that he said yes, mostly just to get Pat to go to sleep. Looking back, he really should have asked some important questions, mainly, what the fuck did Patrick mean by “showing him,” but his eyes were dragging closed, and he passed out as soon as he mumbled his agreement.

*

Jonny walked into Pat’s apartment, unsure what to expect. Pat hadn’t been very forthcoming on the phone. He’d actually sounded a little nervous, voice higher than usual, words coming out quickly, telling Jonny to just get over to his apartment already. Jonny walked in slowly, peering around the corner, ready to be ambushed by an entire pack of dogs, or maybe a powerpoint presentation entitled ‘Why Patrick Kane Deserves a Dog” complete with ClipArt pictures and comic sans font. He certainly wouldn’t put it past Pat to try something that ridiculous.

Pat was just sitting on the couch in his living room, though, TV on but not really watching it. His head jerked in Jonny’s direction as he entered, and Pat sat up straighter.

“Hey, man,” he said, still with that undercurrent of nerves that Jonny heard over the phone.

“Ok, I’m here,” Jonny replied, skipping over a normal greeting entirely. “Let’s get this over with so we can watch some tape tonight.”

“Yea, yea,” Pat said, rolling his eyes. He leaned forward and picked up a small package that Jonny hadn’t noticed, sitting on the coffee table. “Here,” he said, offering the box to Jonny. “This is for you. For today.”

“Ok…” Jon answered, taking the box in his hands. It was light, but it rattled a little when he shook it. He opened it gingerly, lifting the top off. There was tissue paper inside, and when he pulled it out, he saw a red and black leather dog collar. There was a tag on it, a simple circle that was cool to the touch as he fingered it gently, turning it over. The back just read “88” with no other markings.

“Uhhh, what is this, Pat?” Jonny asked, stroking his fingers over the leather. It was buttery soft in his hand, silver buckle polished to a high shine.

“It’s for you!” Patrick repeated, voice somewhat manic. “You’re going to wear it, and pretend to be a dog, so I can take care of you and show you how good I am at it!” Jonny just stared at him, dumfounded. He could feel his jaw hanging open, but didn’t have the mental energy to close it, too busy repeating Pat’s words in his head. He seriously expected Jonny to…

“You seriously expect me to put on a fucking dog collar and what, crawl around on the ground? So you can show me that you should get a real dog? That will be left alone half the season and then dragged back and forth to Buffalo? Are you insane?” Jonny half-yelled the last sentence, feeling hysterical.

“I mean, when you put it that way…” Pat’s eyes dropped guiltily, and he was blushing now. “I wasn’t really thinking of it like that. I just… I think I’d be good at this, and it sucks that everyone thinks I can’t be trusted.” He looked up at Jonny through his lashes, and with his curls in desperate need of a haircut, he looked heartbreakingly young and sad. Jonny could feel his resolve breaking.

He guessed they had kind of been jerks to Pat in the bar, making fun of him. Pat had gotten a lot more responsible in the last year, and he’d probably do fine with a dog, and maybe they shouldn’t have teased him so much. Pat was still looking at him imploringly, eyes wide and hopeful. Fine, he’d do this for a few minutes, assuage his guilt, and then they’d never speak of it again.

“Jesus, fine,” he huffed out. “But you mention a single word of this to anyone and I’m going to stab you with a skate blade, Happy Gilmore style,” Jonny threatened, narrowing his eyes at Pat, whose blinding grin made the upcoming embarrassment worthwhile.

“Yea, of course, Jonny. It’ll be our thing, I promise,” he said, taking the collar from Jonny’s hands. “Go put on some sweats, I think that will be more comfortable, ok?” and Jonny didn’t even bother fighting that one. The sooner they got this started, the sooner it would be over.

He came out of Pat’s guest room dressed in a pair of his own sweatpants that he’d left there at some point. They were well-worn, soft, and smelled like Pat’s detergent.

“Ok, come here so I can put this on you,” Pat said, gesturing Jonny towards him with the hand that still held the collar. Jonny walked towards him slowly, prior nerves that he’d fought down returning with a vengeance as he watched Pat unbuckle the collar in preparation. He took a deep breath, stopping just in front of Patrick, who tugged his shoulder until he turned around. “Crouch down a little so I can reach, dick,” Pat said, pushing on his shoulder.

“Pretty sure you shouldn’t call your, uh, I mean, a dog a dick, Pat. That’s kinda mean,” Jonny complained.

“Hey as soon as it’s all the way on, I’m going to treat you like gold, Jonny,” Pat said. Jon felt the collar tightening against the tensed muscles in his neck. “Relax,” Pat said, voice dropping low, one hand running from Jon’s neck to his shoulder, soothing. Jonny shivered, but some of the stiffness in him relaxed, and Pat slid the buckle into place. “How’s that feel?” he asked, slipping a finger underneath to test for any give.

Jonny had to clear his throat, which was suddenly dry. “Uhh, it’s good,” he got out. “I mean, it’s fine. Not too tight,” he mumbled.

“Perfect,” Pat said, and the word warmed something inside him.

“So what do we do now?” Jon asked, wondering just what Pat had planned for their play date.

“Uh-uh, Jonny. Dogs don’t talk,” Pat answered with a smile. “You just do what I say and let me spoil you.” And oh. Jonny had never had someone say anything like that to him before. He could feel the blossom of heat in his cheeks and knew it was spreading down his neck and chest, as well. He desperately hoped that Pat just thought he was embarrassed. That’s all it was, he told himself firmly, willing himself to get it together. He just wasn’t used to hearing things like that directed at himself. Hell, he’d never talked to any girls like that either, like they were something precious to take care of.

Jon nodded jerkily, determined to play along and not make it weird. Or, weirder than it already was, he guessed.

“Ok, first things first- every dog deserves some time snuggling on the couch, come on,” Pat said, starting to walk into the living room. Jonny hesitated, unsure for a moment if Pat expected him to like, crawl on all fours behind him. That wouldn’t be very good for his knees, he thought. Or his dignity.

Patrick seemed to get what he was thinking and laughed as he answered “nah, man, you can walk like normal. Unless you like, really want to get method on me, then you can go ahead and crawl.” Jon shook his head hard, following behind Pat into the living room.

Pat sat down on the couch, then gestured next to him. Jon sat, somewhat stiffly, but Pat immediately pushed him down. “No, come on, that’s not snuggling. Lie down,” he directed, and Jon allowed himself to be pushed over. His head ended up in Pat’s lap, which he didn’t think he’d done since he was drunk with TJ at UND. He’d definitely never cuddled with his head in a guy’s lap while sober, he knew that much. Maybe he should have pregamed with some shots before he came over today.

Too late now, though. “Yea, that’s good,” Pat was saying, as he stroked his hand through Jonny’s hair. “Good boy.” Jonny suppressed another shiver. He’d always been a sucker for having his hair played with, and it figured that Pat had discovered the weakness right away. “I know you don’t like my reality TV, so I’m putting on a nature show for you. They’re supposed to be very soothing for dogs, ok?” Pat said, and Jonny could get used to that, to Pat catering to what he wanted. Jon was pretty sure Pat didn’t actually want a response, what with the whole “dogs don’t talk” thing he had insisted on, so instead, he let himself relax a little bit more into Pat’s lap.

The show actually was soothing. Jonny was only half-listening to the English-accented narrator talk about different kinds of jellyfish, letting his mind wander as Pat continued to stroke his hair. Sometimes he’d grasp at it and tug, and every time, Jonny had to bite back a moan. Soon, Pat’s hand had wandered down from his hair and was stroking long, firm pats (there was no better word for it) down his neck and shoulder. Jonny shuddered into one of them, and he could hear the smile in Pat’s voice as he said “yea, feels good, doesn’t it?” hand never stopping.

Jonny was glad that he wasn’t expected to answer, not sure he’d have been able to get any words out anyway. He let out a deep sigh, instead, and Pat crooned at him “good boy. Good, good boy.”

Jonny lost track of time after that, mind and body both relaxed. He jerked in surprise when Pat moved to get up. “Shh, it’s ok. Good boy,” Pat soothed. “I’m just going to get dinner going. I promised you a steak, didn’t I?”

Jon nodded, letting himself sink back into the cushions of the couch. It wasn’t nearly as comfortable without Pat there underneath him, but it gave him a chance to get himself back under control. It was hitting him harder than he expected, Patrick touching him gently and saying soft, sweet things to him. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear his mind from the fog it had fallen into.

He could hear Pat puttering in the kitchen, and for once didn’t feel any guilt about not helping. He listened as Pat heated the stovetop, then heard the sizzle of steak hitting the frying pan. Usually, he’d be bugging Pat about not cooking with oil, and preparing healthy side dishes, keeping up his side of the banter that was expected of him. Tonight, though, Pat didn’t expect that from him. Didn’t want it from him, either. Just wanted him to lie still on the couch and wait, and Jon could do that.

He was almost dozing when Patrick walked back in. Jon perked up at the smell of food, and Pat sounded fond when he said “dinner’s here, pup.” Jon started at that, but before he could get himself good and worked up, Pat was sitting next to him, two large steaks on a plate on the coffee table. Jonny sat up, looking at the food expectantly, but Pat shook his head.

“Pups don’t eat on the couch,” he said, and he placed a cushion that Jon had never seen before on the floor. Pat pushed at his shoulder once, and, fine, the steak looked and smelled delicious, so Jon could suffer the indignity of eating on the floor. He settled down on the cushion, which was soft and velvety beneath him, and reached towards the plate. It was only then that he realized there was only one set of utensils.

Pat leaned forward, cutting a piece of steak from one of the filets. He blew on it for a moment, then gently took it off the fork and offered it to Jonny between his fingers. Jonny took just a moment to consider the pink center and perfect sear, smell even more tantalizing as Patrick brought it to his mouth. He swallowed hard, then leaned forward, taking the bite from Pat’s fingers. Pat smiled at that, broad and bright, as he cut the next piece off for himself.

Pat had turned the TV down, now just a quiet white noise in the background as they made their way through dinner. Usually, as two guys in their twenties with a physically demanding job, they inhaled their food, finishing in a matter of minutes. Pat was taking his time tonight, though, cutting off pieces of steak that were the perfect size for Jon, letting Jon take them delicately from his fingers.

Without the ability to talk, or even use his hands, Jon’s other senses felt heightened, even as his mind felt more relaxed. He could feel himself settling deeper onto the cushion, shifting his weight more comfortably on the velvet, which was soft on the tops of his exposed feet. His arms were heavy as they hung by his side, hands folded in his lap, unnecessary now, because Pat was taking care of him. The smell of the steak hung in the air, enticing and reminiscent of dozens of other nights he’d spent with Pat.

He closed his eyes as Pat fed him another bite, and fuck if this wasn’t the best steak he could remember having, seasoning sharp and tangy, steak melting in his mouth. He could feel some of the juice running down Pat’s hand, and he lapped it at without thinking, not wanting to miss out on any of the taste. He heard Pat’s quiet gasp as he licked over his fingers, tongue curling in between them, but Pat didn’t pull back, didn’t say anything else, just took his clean hand and stroked Jonny’s cheek.

“Yea, it’s good, huh, isn’t it, pup?” he asked, voice hushed. “Made it just for you,” and Jon licked harder at that, strangely comforted by having something in his mouth. He heard himself whine when Pat gently pulled his fingers out of Jonny’s mouth, but couldn’t spare the thought to be embarrassed before Pat’s hand was back with another piece. Instead of holding it out for Jonny between his fingers, though, he had it in the palm of his hand. Jonny bent his head closer, no hesitation in him as he picked up the piece with his teeth and tongue, and then Pat’s hand was still there, dripping with juice and salt and seasoning, and he set in to lick it clean.

He enjoyed the sensation of the rough calluses on Pat’s palm, built up from years of stickhandling, and kept dragging his tongue over them long after Pat’s hand was free from any traces of the steak. Pat kept a hand in his hair, smoothing through it, scratching at Jonny’s scalp in a way that felt blissful. He kept at it even after Jonny stopped licking, as Jonny knelt there on the cushion at his feet. They stayed like that until Jonny’s head grew heavy, neck wobbly with relaxation, and he rested it on Pat’s leg.

“Ok, pup,” Pat said eventually. “Let’s get you some water, yea?” Jonny didn’t attempt to answer, just picked his head up and watched as Pat rose from the couch. He realized Pat was walking out towards the kitchen, and suddenly didn’t want to be alone. Without thinking about it, he put his hands on the hardwood floor and started crawling out of the room after Pat.

Pat only took a few steps out of the room before he stopped, turning around and looking down at Jonny. Jonny couldn’t quite tell what expression was on Pat’s face, but he didn’t think he’d ever seen him smile so softly, not even when talking to his sisters.

“You’re being so good for me, aren’t you, pup?” he said gently, and Jonny shivered. “Yea, you just want to be with your person, huh,” Pat continued, bending down and working a finger under Jonny’s collar. He tugged it gently, making Jonny gasp at the reminder of what was around his neck, and then let go. He scrubbed his hand through Jonny’s hair once more before turning back around and continuing towards the kitchen. Jonny kept crawling behind him, then settled himself in the entryway while Pat poured two glasses of water.

“Come on, boy,” he said, walking back to the couch, and Jonny followed without pause.

When they got back to the living room, Pat grabbed the cushion that he’d laid out for Jonny for dinner, dragging it closer to the couch. “It’ll be easier for you to drink like this, pup,” he explained, tugging Jonny towards him and holding one of the glasses out to his lips. He tipped it up slowly, letting Jonny drink at his own pace, and Jon could feel himself blushing again. The intimacy of the moment, being at Pat’s feet, letting Pat help him drink, hit him hard, and he realized that he hadn’t even attempted to take the glass in his hands, even before Pat said anything. He’d just assumed that Pat would take care of that for him, just like Pat had been taking care of everything else tonight. He was overwhelmed, suddenly, with affection for Pat, and he dropped his head, nuzzling into Pat’s thigh.

He heard Pat’s short, sweet laugh above him, and he almost pulled back, but Pat brought one big hand down, laying it on the back of his neck, keeping his head there.

“Yea, I love you too, pup,” he murmured, and Jon could hear the warmth in his voice. Jon smiled to himself, groaning quietly as Pat’s hand started up with the long strokes through his hair again, and he let his head rest on Pat’s thigh, body melting into Pat’s strong legs at the feeling of the hand in his hair.

He let himself be lulled by the soothing strokes, mind drifting, eyes closed. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but when he opened his eyes again, the room was darker, and Pat had slouched down a little further on the couch. He still had his hand in Jonny’s hair, though, occasionally running it down his neck, rubbing in small circles. It felt amazing, and Jonny leaned forward, trying to get Pat’s attention to give him another drink of water.

When he leaned in, though, he rubbed up against Pat’s leg, and fuck that felt good. He hadn’t even realized he was hard until his cock made contact with Pat’s leg, but now that he was aware of it, he couldn’t stop himself from jerking his hips again. A whine slipped out of his lips as his hips thrust forward a third time, seeking out the hard planes of Pat’s leg, grinding his cock there. He could feel the precome slicking down his dick, easing the way for him to keep rubbing up against Pat, even through his soft sweatpants. He whined again at the feel of it, dirty, but so good.

He heard Pat gasp a sharp breath above him, heard him groan out a “fuuuck J-, I mean, pup.” Jonny could feel the blush blooming in his cheeks, but he didn’t care, not when the simple pressure of Pat’s leg against the hot length of him felt like this. “Yea thats good, pup,” Pat said, half a moan, and he dropped his hand lower, between Jonny’s shoulder blades, pushing gently on his back, encouraging him to ride Pat’s leg even harder. “Want you to feel good, baby. Make yourself feel good for me,” and the approval in Pat’s voice lit Jonny up from the inside, warm glow of it driving out the last of his embarrassment.

He buried his face in Pat’s thigh, not using his hands at all, just letting his hips work mindlessly, rutting up against Pat’s leg. This wasn’t going to take long, not with Pat’s strong hand firm on his back and Pat’s soft praise in his ear. He could feel himself losing the rhythm, could hear his breath coming in harsh pants, and he didn’t fight it, not like he usually did, struggling to last, to make it good for whatever girl he was with. Now, he just let the orgasm race through him, coming hard and groaning with it.

He shuddered, feeling utterly spent in the best way, body loose and limp. Pat dragged his hand up from Jonny’s back, tangling it in his hair for a moment before reaching down for Jonny’s collar. He snuck his fingers under it, and Jonny let himself drift again, pressed up against Pat, Pat’s fingers tight on his collar.

[itsclydebitches]

Enola Holmes: A Not So Elementary Adaptation

It's cliché and a bit unfair to say that the book was better than the film, but I'm afraid that's precisely where I need to start. Nancy Springer's Enola Holmes: The Case of the Missing Marquess is leagues better than Netflix's adaptation of it. They did her work dirty and to say that I'm shocked at the accolades other reviewers are heaping on the film is an understatement. Before I dive into any critiques though, it's worth acknowledging that not every minute of the two hour film was painful to get through. So what worked in Enola Holmes?

The film is carried by the talent of its cast, Millie Bobby Brown being the obvious heavy-hitter. She helps breathe life into a pretty terrible script and it's only a shame her talent is wasted on such a subpar character.

The idea to have Enola continually break the fourth wall, though edging into the realm of Dora the Explorer at times—"Do you have any ideas?"— was nevertheless a fun way to keep the audience looped into her thought process. Young viewers in particular might enjoy it as a way to make them feel like a part of the action and older viewers will note the Fleabag influence. 

The cinematography is, perhaps, where most of my praise lies. The rapid cuts between past and present, rewinding as Enola thinks back to some pertinent detail, visualizing the cyphers with close ups on the letter tiles—all of it gave the film an upbeat, entertaining flair that almost made up for how bloated and meandering the plot was.

We got an equally upbeat soundtrack that helped to sell the action. 

The overall experience was... fine. In the way a cobbled together, candy-coated, meant to be seen on a Friday night but we watched it Wednesday and then promptly forgot about it film is fine. I doubt Enola Holmes will be winning any awards, but it was a decently entertaining romp and really, does a Netflix film need to be anything more? If Enola was her own thing made entirely by Netflix's hands I wouldn't be writing this review. As it stands though, Enola is both an adaptation and the latest addition to one of the world’s most popular franchises. That's where the film fails: not as a fun diversion to take your mind off Covid-19, but as an adaptation of Springer's work and as a Sherlock Holmes story.

In short, Enola Holmes, though pretty to look at and entertaining in a predictable manner, still fails in five crucial areas: 

1. Mycroft is Now a Mustache-Twirling Villain and Sherlock is No Longer Sherlock Holmes

This aspect is the least egregious because admittedly the film didn't pull this version of Mycroft out of thin air. As the head of the household he is indeed Enola's primary antagonist (outside of some kidnappers) and though he insists that he's doing all this for Enola's own good, he does get downright cruel at times:

He rolled his eyes. “Just like her mother,” he declared to the ceiling, and then he fixed upon me a stare so martyred, so condescending, that I froze rigid. In tones of sweetest reason he told me, “Enola, legally I hold complete charge over both your mother and you. I can, if I wish, lock you in your room until you become sensible, or take whatever other measures are necessary in order to achieve that desired result... You will do as I say" (Springer 69).

Mycroft's part is clear. He's the white, rich, powerful, able-bodied man who benefits from society's structure and thus would never think to change it. He does legally have charge over both Enola and Eudoria. He can do whatever he pleases to make them "sensible"... and that right there is the horror of it. Mycroft is a law-abiding man whose antagonism stems from doing precisely what he's allowed to do in a broken world. There are certainly elements of this in the Netflix adaptation, but that antagonism becomes so exaggerated that it's nearly laughable. Enola's governess (appointed by Mycroft) slaps her across the face the moment she speaks up. Mycroft screams at her in a carriage until she's cowering against the window. He takes her and throws her into a boarding school where everything is bleak and all the women dutifully follow instructions like hypnotized dolls. Enola Holmes ensures that we've lost all of Springer's nuance, notably the criticism of otherwise decent people who fall into the trap of doing the "right" (read: expected) thing. Despite her desire for freedom, in the novel Enola quickly realizes that she is not immune to society's standards:

"I thought he was younger.” Much younger, in his curled tresses and storybook suit. Twelve! Why, the boy should be wearing a sturdy woollen jacket and knickers, an Eton collar with a tie, and a decent manly haircut—

Thoughts, I realised, all too similar to those of my brother Sherlock upon meeting me (113-14).

She is precisely like her brothers, judging a boy for not looking and acting enough like a man just as they judged her for not looking and acting enough like a lady. The difference is that Enola has chaffed enough against those expectations to realize when she's falling prey to them, but the sympathetic link to her brothers remains. In the film, however, the conflict is no longer driven by fallible people doing what they think is best. Rather, it's made clear (in no uncertain terms) that these are just objectively bad people. Only villains hit someone like that. Only villains will scream at the top of their lungs until a young girl cries. Only villains roll their eyes at women's rights (a subplot that never existed in the novel). Springer writes Mycroft as a person, Netflix writes him as a cartoon, and the result is the loss of a nuanced message about what it means to enact change in a complicated world.  

Which leaves us with Sherlock. Note that in the above passage he is the one who casts harsh judgement on Enola's outfit. Originally Mycroft took an interest in making Enola "sensible" and Sherlock— in true Holmes fashion—straddles a fine line between comfort and insult:

"Mycroft,” Sherlock intervened, “the girl's head, you'll observe, is rather small in proportion to her remarkably tall body. Let her alone. There is no use confusing and upsetting her when you'll find out for yourself soon enough'" (38).

***

"Could mean that she left impulsively and in haste, or it could reflect the innate untidiness of a woman's mind,” interrupted Sherlock. “Of what use is reason when it comes to the dealings of a woman, and very likely one in her dotage?" (43).

A large part of Enola's drive stems from proving to Sherlock, the world, and even herself that a small head does not mean lack of intelligence. His insults, couched in a misguided attempt to sooth, is what makes Sherlock a complex character and his broader sexism is what makes him a flawed character, not Superman in a tweed suit. Yet in the film Mycroft becomes the villain and Sherlock is his good brother foil. Rather than needing to acknowledge that Enola has a knack for deduction by reading the excellent questions she's asked about the case—because why give your characters any development?—he already adores and has complete faith in her, laughing that he too likes to draw caricatures to think. By the tree Sherlock remanences fondly about Enola's childhood where she demonstrated appropriately quirky preferences for a genius, things like not wearing trousers and keeping a pinecone for a pet. They have a clear connection that Mycroft could never understand, one based both in deduction and, it seems, being a halfway decent human being. We are told that Enola has Sherlock's wits, but poor Mycroft lucked out, despite the fact that up until this point the film has done nothing to demonstrate this supposed intelligence. (To say nothing of how canonically Mycroft's intellect rivals his brother's.) Enola falls to her knees and begs for Sherlock's help, saying that "For [Mycroft] I'm a nuisance, to you—" implying that they have a deep bond despite not having seen one another since Enola was a toddler. Indeed, at one point Enola challenges Lestrade to a Sherlock quiz filled with information presumably not found in the newspaper clippings she's saved of him, which begs the question of how she knows her brother so well when she hasn't seen him in a decade and he, in turn, walked right by her with no recognition. Truthfully, Lestrade should know Sherlock better. Through all this the sibling bond is used as a heavy-handed insistence that Enola is Sherlock's protégé, him leaving her with the advice that "Those kinds of mysteries are always the best to unpick” and straight up asking at one point if she’s solved the case. The plot has Enola gearing up to outwit her genius brother, which did not happen in the novel and is precisely why I loved it. Enola isn't out to be a master of deduction in her teens, she's a finder of lost people who uses a similar, but ultimately unique set of skills. She does things Sherlock can't because she is isn't Sherlock. They're not in competition, they're peers, yet the film fails to understand that, using Sherlock's good brother bonding to emphasize Enola's place as his protégé turned superior. He exists, peppered throughout the film, so that she can surpass him in the end. 

You know what happens in the novel? Sherlock walks away from her, dismissive, and that's that.

That's also Sherlock Holmes. I won't bore you with complaints about Cavill being too handsome and Claflin being too thin for their respective parts, but I will draw the line at complete character assassination. Part of Sherlock's charm is that he's far more compassionate than he first appears, but that doesn't mean he would, at the drop of a telegram, become a doting older brother to a sister of all things. Despite the absurdity of the Doyle Estate's lawsuit against Netflix for making Sherlock an emotional man who respects women... they're right that this isn't their character. Oh, Sherlock is emotive, but it's in the form of excited exclamations over clues, or the occasional warm word towards Watson—someone he has known and lived with for many years. Sherlock respects women, though it's through those societal expectations. He'll offer them a seat, an ear, a handkerchief if they need one, and always the promise of help, but he then dismisses them with, "The fairer sex is your department, Watson." Springer successfully wrote Sherlock Holmes with a little sister, a man who will bark out a laugh at her caricature but still leave her to Mycroft's whims because he has his own life to tend to. This is a man who insists that the mind of a woman is inscrutable and thus must grapple with his shock at Enola's ability to cover the "salient points" of the case (58). Cavill's Sherlock is no Sherlock at all and though there's nothing wrong with updating a character for a modern audience (see: Elementary), I do question why Netflix strayed so far from Springer's work. The novel is, after all, their blueprint. She already managed the difficult task of writing an in-character Sherlock Holmes who remains approachable to both a modern audience and Enola herself, yet for some reason Netflix tossed that work aside.  

2. Enola is "Special,” Not At All Like Other Girls 

Allow me to paint you a picture. Enola Holmes is an empathetic, fourteen-year-old girl who, while bright, does not possess an intelligence worthy of note. No one is gasping as she deduces seemingly impossible things from the age of four, or admiring her knowledge of some obscure, appropriately impressive topic. Rather, Enola is a fairly normal girl with an abnormal upbringing, characterized by her patience and willingness to work. Deciphering the many hiding places where her mother stashed cash takes her weeks, requiring that Enola work through the night in secrecy while maintaining appearances during the day. She manages to hatch a plan of escape that demonstrates the thought she's put into it without testing the reader's suspension of disbelief. More than that, she uses the feminine tools at her disposal to give herself an edge: hiding her face behind a widow's veil and storing luggage in the bustle of her dress. Upon achieving freedom, her understanding of another lonely boy leads her to try and help him, resulting in a dangerous kidnapping wherein Enola acts as most fourteen-year-olds would, scared out of her mind with a few moments of bravery born of pure survival instinct. She and Tewksbury escape together, as friends, before Enola sets out on becoming the first scientific perditorian, a finder of lost people.

Sadly, this new Enola shares little resemblance with her novel counterpart. What Netflix seemingly fails to understand is that giving a character flaws makes them relatable and that someone who looks more like us is someone we can connect with. This Enola, simply put, is extraordinary. She's read all the books in the library, knows science, tennis, painting, archery, and a deadly form of Jujitsu (more on that below). In the novel Enola bemoans that she was never particularly good at cyphers and now must improve if she has any hope of reading what her mother left her. In the film she simply knows the answers, near instantaneously. Enola masters her travels, her disguises, and her deductions, all with barely a hitch. Though Enola doesn't have impressive detective skills yet, her memory is apparently photographic, allowing her to look back on a single glance into a room, years ago, and untangle precisely what her mother was planning. It's a BBC Sherlock-esque form of 'deduction' wherein there's no real thought involved, just an innate ability to recall a newspaper across the room with perfect clarity. The one thing Enola can't do well is ride a bike which, considering that in the novel she quite enjoys the activity, feels like a tacked on "flaw" that the film never has to have her grapple with.

More than simply expanding upon her skillset—because let’s be real, it’s not like Sherlock himself doesn’t have an impressive list of accomplishments. Even if Enola’s feelings of inadequacy are part of the point Springer was working to make—the film changes the core of her personality. I cannot stress enough that Enola is a sheltered fourteen-year-old who is devastated by the disappearance of her mother and terrified by the new world she's entered. That fear, uncertainty, and the numerous mistakes that come out of it is what allowed me to connect with Enola and go, "Yeah. I can see myself in her." Meanwhile, this new Enola is overwhelmingly confident, to the point where I felt like I was watching a child's fantasy of a strong woman rather than one who actually demonstrates strength by overcoming challenges. For example, contrast her meeting with Sherlock and Mycroft on the train platform with what we got in the film:

"And to my annoyance, I found myself trembling as I hopped off my bicycle. A strip of lace from my pantalets, confounded flimsy things, caught on the chain, tore loose, and dangled over my left boot.

Trying to tuck it up, I dropped my shawl.

This would not do. Taking a deep breath, leaving my shawl on my bicycle and my bicycle leaning against the station wall, I straightened and approached the two Londoners, not quite succeeding in holding my head high" (31-32).

***

"Well, if they did not desire the pleasure of my conversation, it was a good thing, as I stood mute and stupid... 'I don't know where she's gone,' I said, and to my own surprise—for I had not wept until that moment—I burst into tears" (34).

I'd ask where this frightened, fumbling Enola has gone, but it's clear that she never existed in the script to begin with. The film is chock-full of her being, to be frank, a badass. She gleefully beats up the bad guys in perfect form, no, "I froze, cowering, like a rabbit in a thicket" (164). This Enola always gets the last word in and never falters in her confident demeanor, no, "I wish I could say I swept with cold dignity out of the room, but the truth is, I tripped over my skirt and stumbled up the stairs" (70). Enola is the one, special girl in an entire school who can see how rigid and horrible these social expectations are, straining against them while all her lesser peers roll their eyes. That's how she's characterized: as "special," right from the get-go, and that eliminates any growth she might have experienced over the course of the film. More than that, it feels like a slap in the face to Springer's otherwise likeable, well-rounded character.

3. A Focus on Hollywood Action and Those Strong Female Characters

It never fails to amaze me how often Sherlock Holmes adaptations fail to remember that he is, at his core, an intellectual. Sure, there's the occasional story where Sherlock puts his boxing or singlestick skills to good use, and he did survive his encounter with Moriarty thanks to his own martial arts, but these moments are rarities across the canon. Pick up any Sherlock Holmes story, open to a random page, and you will find him sitting fireside to mule over a case, donning a disguise to observe the suspects, or combing through his many papers to find that one, necessary scrap of information. Sherlock Holmes is about deduction, a series of observations and conclusions based on logic. He's not an action hero. Nor is Enola, yet Netflix seems to be under the impression that no audience can survive a two hour film without something exploding.

I'd like to present a concise list of things that happened in the film that were, in my opinion, unnecessary:

Enola and Tewksbury throw themselves out of a moving train to miraculously land unharmed on the grass below.

Enola uses the science knowledge her mother gave her to ignite a whole room of gunpowder and explosives, resulting in a spectacle that somehow doesn't kill her pursuer.

Enola engages in a long shootout with her attacker, Tewksbury takes a shot straight to the chest, but survives because of a breastplate he only had a few seconds to put on and hide beneath his shirt. Then Enola succeeds in killing Burn Gorman's slimy character.

Enola beats up her attackers many, many times.

This right here is the worst change to her character. Enola is, plainly put, a "strong woman." Literally. She was trained from a young age to kick ass and now that's precisely what she'll do. Gone is the unprepared but brave girl who heads out onto the dangerous London streets in the hope of helping her mother and a young boy. What does this Enola have to fear? There's only one martial arts move she hasn't mastered yet and, don't worry, she gets it by the end of the film. Enola suffers from the Hollywood belief that strong women are defined solely as physically capable women and though there's nothing wrong with that on the surface, the archetype has become so prevalent that any deviation is seen as too weak—too princess-y—to be considered feminist. If you're not kicking ass and taking names then you can only be passive, right? Stuck in a tower somewhere and awaiting your prince. But what about me? I have no ability to flip someone over my shoulder and throw them into a wall. What about pacifists? What about the disabled? By continually claiming that this is what a "strong" woman looks like you eliminate a huge number of women from this pool. The women we are meant to uphold in this film—Enola, her Mother, and her Mother's friend from the teahouse—are all fighters of the physical variety, whereas the bad women like Mrs. Harris and her pupils are too cultured for self-defense. They're too feminine to be feminist. But feminism isn't about your ability to throw a punch.  Enola's success now derives from being the most talented and the most violent in the room, rather than the most determined, smart, and empathetic. She threatens people and lunges at them, reminding others that she's perfectly capable of tying up a guy is she so chooses because "I know Jujitsu." Enola possesses a power that is just as fantastical as kissing a frog into a prince. In sixteen short years she has achieved what no real life woman ever will: the ability to go wherever she pleases and do whatever she wants without the threat of violence. Because Enola is the violence. While her attacker is attempting to drown her with somewhat horrific realism, Enola takes the time to wink at the audience before rearing back and bloodying his nose. After all, why would you think she was in any danger? Masters of Jujitsu with an uncanny ability to dodge bullets don't have anything to fear... unlike every woman watching this film.

It's certainly some kind of wish fulfillment, a fantasy to indulge in, but I personally preferred the original Enola who never had any Hollywood skills at her disposal yet still managed to come out on top. That's a character I can see myself in and want to see myself in given that the concept of non-violent strength is continually pushed to the wayside. Not to mention... that's a Sherlock Holmes story. Coming out on top through intellect and bravery alone is the entire point of the genre, so why Netflix felt the need to turn Enola into an action hero is beyond me.  

4. Aging Up the Protagonists (and Giving Them an Eye-Rolling Romance)

The choice to age up our heroes is, arguably, the worst decision here. In the original novel Enola has just turned fourteen and Tewksbury is a child, twelve-years-old, though he looks even younger. It's a story for a younger audience staring appropriately young heroes, with the protagonists' status as children crucial to one of the overarching themes of the story: what does it really mean to strike out on your own and when are you ready for it? Adding two years to Enola's age is something I'm perfectly fine with. After all, the difference between fourteen and sixteen isn't that great and Brown herself is sixteen until February of 2021, so why not aim for realism and make her character the same? That's all reasonable and this is, indeed, an adaptation. No need to adhere to every detail of the text. What puzzles me though is why in the world they would take a terrified, sassy, compassionate twelve-year-old and turn him into a bumbling seventeen-year-old instead?

Ah yes. The romance.

In the same way that I fail to understand the assumption that a film needs over-the-top action to be entertaining, I likewise fail to understand the assumption that it needs a romance—and a heterosexual one to boot. There's something incredibly discomforting in watching a film that so loudly proclaim itself as feminist, yet it takes the strong friendship between two children and turns it into an incredibly awkward, hetero True Love story. Remember when Enola loudly proclaims that she doesn't want a husband? The film didn't, because an hour later she's stroking her hand over Tewksbury's while twirling her hair. Which isn't to say that women can't fall in love, or change their minds, just that it's disheartening to see a supposedly feminist film so completely fall into one of the biggest expectations for women, even today. Forget Enola running up to men and paying them for their clothes as an expression of freedom, is anyone going to acknowledge that narratively she’s still stuck living the life the men around her want? Find yourself a husband, Enola. The heavy implication is she did, just with Jujitsu rather than embroidery. Different method, same message, and that’s incredibly frustrating when this didn’t exist in the original story. “It's about freedom!” the film insists. So why didn't you give Enola the freedom to have a platonic adventure? 

It's not even a good romance. Rather painful, really. When Tewksbury, after meeting her just once before, passionately says "I don't want to leave you, Enola" because her company is apparently more important than him staying alive, I literally laughed out loud. It's ridiculous and it's ridiculously precisely because it was shoe-horned into a story that didn't need it. More than simply saddling Enola with a bland love interest though, this leads to a number of unfortunate changes in the story's plot, both unnecessary additions and disappointing exclusions. Enola no longer meets Tewksbury after they've both been kidnapped (him for ransom and her for snooping into his case), but rather watches him cut himself out of a carpetbag on the train. I hope I don't have to explain which of these scenarios is more likely and, thus, more satisfying. Meeting Tewksbury on the train means that Enola gets to have a nighttime chat with him about precisely why he ran away. Thus, when she goes to his estate she no longer needs to deduce his hiding spot based on her own desires to have a place of her own, she just needs to recall that a very big branch nearly fell on him and behold, there that branch is. (The fact that the branch is a would-be murder weapon makes its convenient placement all the more eye-rolling.) Rather than involving herself in the case out of empathy for the family, Enola loudly proclaims that she wants nothing to do with Tewksbury and only reluctantly gets involved when it's clear his life is on the line. And that right there is another issue. In the novel there is no murderous plot in an attempt to keep reform bills from passing. Tewksbury is a child who, like Enola, ran away and quickly discovers that life with an overbearing mother isn't so bad when you've experienced London's dangerous streets. That's the emotional blow: Enola has no mother to go home to anymore and must press out onto those streets whether she's ready for it or not.

Perhaps the only redeeming change is giving Tewksbury an interest in flowers instead of ships. Regardless of how overly simplistic the feminist message is, it is a nice touch to give the guy a traditionally feminine hobby while Enola sharpens her knife. The fact that Enola learned that from her mother and Tewksbury learned botany from his father feels like a nudge at a far better film than Enola Holmes managed to be. For every shining moment of insight—the constraints of gendered hobbies, a black working class woman informing Sherlock that he can never understand what it means to lack power—the film gives us twenty minutes worth of frustrating stupidity. Such as how Enola doesn't seem to conceive of escaping from boarding school until Tewksbury appears to rescue her. She then proceeds to get carried around in a basket for a few minutes before going out the window... which she could have done on her own at any point, locked doors or no. But it seems that narrative consistency isn't worth more than Enola (somehow) leaving a caricature of Mrs. Harris and Mycroft behind. The film is clearly trying to promote a "Rah, rah, go, women, go!" message, but fails to understand that having Enola find a way out of the school herself would be more emotionally fulfilling than having her send a generic 'You're mean' message after the two men in her life—Sherlock and Tewksbury—remind her that she can, in fact, take action.

Which brings me to my biggest criticism and what I would argue is the film's greatest flaw. Reviewers and fans alike are hailing Enola Holmes as a feminist masterpiece and yes, to a certain extent it is. Feminist, that is, not a masterpiece. (5) But it's a hollow feminism. A fantasy feminism. A simple, exaggerated feminism that came out of a Feminism 101 PowerPoint. To quote Sherlock, let's review the salient points:

A woman cannot be the star of her own film without having a male love interest, even if this goes against everything the original novel stood for.

A feminist woman cannot also be selfish. Instead she must have a selfless drive to change the world with bombs. 

The best kind of women are those who reject femininity as much as they can. They will wear boy's clothes whenever possible and snub their nose at something as useless as embroidery. Any woman who enjoys such skills or desires to become lady-like just hasn't realized the sort of prison she's in yet.

The best women also embody other masculine traits, like being able to take down men twice their size. Passive women will titter behind their hands. Active women will kick you in the balls. If you really want to be a strong woman, learn how to throw a decent punch.

Women are, above all, superior to men.

Yes, yes, I joke about it just as much as the next woman, but seeing it played fairly straight was a bit of an uncomfortable experience, even more-so during a gender revolution where stories like this leave trans, nonbinary, and genderqueer viewers out of the ideological loop. Enola goes on and on about what a "useless boy" Tewksbury is (though of course she must still be attracted to him) and her mother's teachings are filled with lessons about not listening to men. As established, Mycroft—and Lestrade—are the simplistically evil men Enola must circumvent, whereas Sherlock exists for her to gain victory over: "How did your sister get there first?" Enola supposedly has a strength that Tewksbury lacks— he's just "foolish"—and she shouts out such cringe-worthy lines as, "You're a man when I tell you you're a man!"

I get the message, I really do. As a teenager I probably would have loved it, but now I have to ask: aren't we past the image of men-hating feminists? Granted, the film never goes quite that far, but it gets close. We’ve got one woman who is ready to start blowing things up to achieve equality and another who revels in looking down on the men in her life. That’s been the framing for years, that feminists are cruel, dangerous people and Tewksbury making heart-eyes at Enola doesn’t instantly fix the echoes of that. There's a certain amount of justification for both characterizations—we have reached points in history where peaceful protests are no longer enough and Tewksbury is indeed a fool at times—but that nuance is entirely lost among the film's overall message of "Women rule, men drool." It feels like there’s a smart film hidden somewhere between the grandmother murdering to keep the status quo and Enola’s mother bombing for change, that balance existing in Enola herself who does the most for women by protecting Tewkesbury... but Enola Holmes is too busy juggling all the different films it wants to be to really hit on that message. It certainly doesn’t have time to say anything worthwhile about the fight it’s using as a backdrop. Enola gasps that "Mycroft is right. You are dangerous" when she finds her mother's bombs, but does she ever grapple with whether she supports violence on a large scale in the name of creating a better world? Does she work through this sudden revelation that she agrees with Mycroft about something crucial? Of course not. Enola just hugs her mom, asks Sherlock not to go after her, and the film leaves it at that. 

The takeaway is less one of empowerment and more, ironically, of restriction. You can fight, but only via bombs and punches. It's okay to be a woman, provided you don't like too many feminine things. You can save the day, so long as there's a man at your side poised to marry you in the future. I felt like I was watching a pre-2000s script where "equality" means embracing the idea that you're "not like other girls" so that men will finally take you seriously. Because then you don't really feel like a woman to them anymore, do you? You're a martial arts loving, trouser-wearing, loud and brilliant individual who just happens to have long hair. You’re unique and, therefore, worthy of attention, unlike all those other girls.

That's some women's experiences, but far from all, and crucially I don't think this is the woman that Springer wrote in her novel. 

The Case of the Missing Marquess is a feminist book. It gives us a flawed, brave, intelligent woman who sets out to help people and achieves just that, mostly through her own strength, but also with some help from the young boy she befriends. Her brothers are privileged, misguided men who she nevertheless cares for deeply and her mother finally puts herself first, leaving Enola to go and live with the Romani people. Everyone in Springer's book feels human, the women especially. Enola gets to tremble her way through scary decisions while still remaining brave. Her mother gets to be selfish while still remaining loving. They're far more than just women blessed with extraordinary talents who will take what they want by force. Springer's women? They don't have that Hollywood glamour. They're pretty ordinary, actually, despite the surface quirks. They’re like us and thus they must make use of what tools they have in order to change their own situations as well as the world. The fact that they still succeed feels very feminist to me, far more-so than granting your character the ability to flip a man into the ground and calling it a day.  

Know that I watched Enola Holmes with a friend over Netflix Party and the repeated comment from us both was, "I'd rather be watching The Great Mouse Detective." Enola Holmes is by no means a horrible film. It has beauty, comedy, and a whole lot of heart, but it could have been leagues better given its source material and the talent of its cast. It’s a film that tries to do too much without having a firm grasp of its own message and, as a result, becomes a film mostly about missed potential. Which leads me right back to where I began: The book is better. Go read the book.

Images

Enola Holmes

Mycroft Holmes

Sherlock Holmes

Enola and her Mother Doing Archery

Enola and her Mother Fighting

Tewkesbury and Enola

[xiolaperry]

Four Ways Gaston Could Have Died (and the One Way He Actually Did)

After much delay, here is the the story I promised months ago at the end of “The Piano”. It won’t make much sense if you didn’t read that one. A special thank you to everyone in my NaNoWriMo Rumbelle Writers group!!!

Summary:  We all agreed at the end of 'The Piano' that Gaston deserved to die. But how? I opened it up to prompts, and here they are...

Notes: Prompt from Brokensoul, “a haircut from Barney.”

Read “The Piano” on AO3.

Read “Four Ways” on AO3.

--

Gaston looked at himself in the mirror with a critical eye. He smiled a big toothy grin, then assumed a look of nonchalant superiority. His “intimidating” look was next and he finished with the charming, flirtatious smile he used with the ladies.

The reflection in the mirror confirmed he was as handsome as ever, but life hadn't gone back to normal since Belle left with Gold. Whispers followed him wherever he went. Instead of looking at him with admiration, people looked at him like they expected to see shame on his face. Shame? He may have overreacted a bit with Belle, but leaving a challenge to his superiority as a man unanswered was not an option.

He stroked his face in contemplation as he paced, the sound of his heavy boots filling the sparsely furnished bedroom. Perhaps he needed a haircut and a shave. Freshen up his look and maybe turn things around. His aunt Cora told him yesterday that a barber set up shop in the village. Before the incident, he'd have heard about it himself, but his friends no longer dropped by to share the local gossip.

“Not a very confident man,” Cora had said about the barber. “A bit nervous. But I can work with that.” Gaston had no doubt his aunt would find something about the fellow to exploit.

He passed Reverend Hopper and Ruby out on a stroll as he entered the town. Hopper said a polite hello and stopped to exchange pleasantries. The Reverend was one of the few that still spoke to him. His companion glared and said nothing. The charming smile on his face had no effect on her. If anything, it only made her frown harder.

How did such a mild-mannered man catch the eye of a firecracker like Ruby Lucas? Not that he wanted her for himself. Hopper could have her. No, he was done with women. They were more trouble than they were worth.

Ruby had a pretty face and a nice, lean body, he thought as he turned to watch them for a moment as the couple continued on their way. He was sure most men would find her attractive, but she'd set her mind on the mousy Reverend and pursued him with determination, ever since the day she arrived on the same ship that took them away.

His aunt was very unhappy with the match between Hopper and Granny's granddaughter. The sermons now were full of love and acceptance, instead of the grimmer messages Cora favored. Hopper was no longer her dutiful companion, and she was furious. Ruby had better watch out.

Gaston made his way down the main street with his head held high. He kept his smile on his face as he seethed at the snubs he received from most people he encountered.

The barbershop, with its new red and white striped pole, was easy to spot. He stomped up the steps and pushed the door open with a bang, making an entrance to attract attention. A slight man wearing a maroon jacket was sweeping the floor and he jumped at the noise. His hair, combed and slicked back from his face, shone in the light pouring in the large windows.

“Hello?” the man said. His voice, uncertain, made his greeting a question.

“You the barber?” asked Gaston.

“Yes, I am. Barney Thomson.” He stepped forward and extended his hand.

Gaston shook it, gripping with more force than necessary. It was important to establish dominance in all situations. After a final squeeze, the smaller man extracted his hand, wincing.

“Gaston Legume,” He introduced himself, satisfied with his superiority. “I need a shave and a haircut. Can that be done now?”

“Yes, sir. It will be a few minutes. I just need to heat some water.”

Barney scurried to one of the chairs, brushing non-existent dust from it with a handkerchief. “Please, have a seat.”

The man's meek demeanor made Gaston want to punch him in the face. And he looked familiar too. Something about the eyes, the sharpness of his nose... he shook his head. Aunt Cora told him he needed to lay low for a bit to let everything blow over. Now would not be a good time to lose his temper. He took a deep breath and sat in the chair Barney had gestured at.

---

Barney returned a few minutes later carrying a steaming basin. “If you could please lie back, Mr. Legume?” he asked, and with deft, practiced movements draped a damp, hot towel across Gaston's face.

Barney was nervous, which was not good. Bad things happened when Barney was nervous. And those bad things were how he ended up here in New Zealand, far from his home in Scotland. However, something about this man, with his massive arms and handsome sneering face, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Calm down, he told himself. Just be happy to have a customer. But his anxiety ratcheted higher as he tried to place the name. Legume. He knew he'd heard it since he moved to town, but could not remember where. Barney removed the towel and applied a soapy lather to Gaston's face. He attempted to make friendly conversation, reminding himself not to ramble.

“Have any advice for someone new in town? I haven't been here very long, just arrived from Scotland.”

“Make friends with my aunt, Cora Mills. She's the most important person around here, so stay on her good side.”

Barney almost dropped his razor. Wasn't this just his luck. Women flustered him as a general rule. But aggressive women? They reminded him too much of his mother and rendered him a cowering mess. After meeting Cora, he had planned to stay as far away from her as possible. And now here he was with her nephew in his chair.

“Cora Mills is your aunt?” Barney's hands began to sweat as he fumbled with the razor. He sent up a prayer not to cut the man sitting here, who would not be the type to forgive an accidental slice.

“Yes. That's what I said.” Irritation was creeping into Gaston's voice.

Barney spoke to fill the uncomfortable quiet as his blade glided across Gaston's cheek, its sharp edge making quick work of the stubble. “You have beautiful skin, Mr. Legume. I'm sure your wife will appreciate seeing you with this smooth, close shave. Very handsome.” He attempted, in vain, to keep a high pitched nervous tone out of his voice.

It was the wrong thing to say, judging by Gaston's response. His jaw tensed and his hands tightened into fists, the veins in his forearms standing out. “I'm not married,” he said through clenched teeth.

Barney laughed nervously. “I'm sure someday you'll meet a special lady.” Shut up, shut up!

Gaston's face darkened further.

“I have no luck with women, myself.” He knew he was babbling, but could not keep the words from pouring out of his mouth. “Maybe your aunt could set you up with someone. Not that you couldn't find someone yourself if you wanted to. Because you could. I mean, look at you. I bet you have to beat the women off with a stick. Who wouldn't want a strapping young man such as yourself?” He stopped to take a breath, his mind spinning, begging him to stop talking.

“I. Don't. Want. A. Wife. Women are nothing but trouble.” He paused, then muttered under his breath, “Especially if they're interested in books or music.”

Barney's hand froze where it hovered over Gaston's neck. Now he remembered where he'd heard the name Gaston Legume before.

“You're the one who–—!” The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“'The one who' what?” Gaston's handsome face contorted with rage.

“The one... the one..” Barney drew a blank. There was no way to fix this. He was unable to move, prey immobilized by the predator. The razor hung just above Gaston's neck.

Gaston knew exactly what “one” he was. The one who cut off his wife's finger. The one whose wife left him for a crippled old man. The one who looked like a fool. He'd been on his best behavior for weeks and still, no one would let him forget what happened.

He sat up and whipped around, ready to give the barber a beating he wouldn't soon forget. Warmth startled him as it spread down from his neck to his chest. When he tried to speak the only sound he made was a strange, wet gurgle. His hands fumbled, slippery at the slit in his throat. He looked at them and they were crimson.

“I'm sorry!” shrieked Barney, dropping the razor. He grabbed a towel and tried to stem the flood of blood gushing from Gaston's jugular. It was a futile effort, the white towel turned red and sopping in an instant. The anger and confusion in Gaston's eyes soon faded to a dull, lifeless gaze as his life drained away, and he slumped over.

“Oh, not again,” whispered Barney with panicked tears in his eyes. He hung his head and wrung his hands. No one would believe that Gaston had inadvertently slit his own throat. Another accident, and another body to dispose of. At least he had experience.

End Notes: I hope to post a chapter a week until this is finished-- and if you have a prompt, feel free to send it! I can always change the title to “Five” or “Six”...

[weishenbwi]

Title: Oh, the People You'll Own Chapter: Oneshot Group: NCT Dream Pairing: dom!Jeno, sub!Jaemin Words: 1429 Other formats: AO3 Tags/Warnings: dom jeno, sub jaemin, Dom/sub, orgasm denial, orgasm control, orgasm delay, deepthroatig, choking, cum

Summary: "I take a little more of you until I've taken it all, piece by piece. And I will take it all Jaemin. I'll have all of you. Do you understand?" He reaches forward as he rides his hardest, hands cradling Jaemin's face. "How much of you do you have left?"

Jaemin was a good boy for Jeno. He always started texts or ended replies with "Sir". He asked permission to get a haircut, a facial, cleaned the house without being asked and always arrived early before curfew. But there were days when when he didn't text Jeno at all or seemed distant in conversations. He was the perfect submissive on most days, always bringing a smile to Jeno's face. So Friday night when Jaemin got home from practice and went to cuddle next to Renjun, Jeno didn't say anything. Not until it was close to bedtime and Jaemin still hadn't budged from Renjun's side.

"Don't you think it's time for your shower Jaemin? It's close to bedtime and we have to get up early." Jeno was testing the waters. How would his baby react to an indirect order?

"Not really. I'll go later. Injun, wanna shower with me when this part finishes?" Jaemin didn't take the hint unlike Renjun who was already getting up to leave the room.

"No," Jeno said. "Shower. Now."

This is when it clicked for Jaemin. He looked at Jeno and his eyes widened in the knowledge that he might have been a little bratty just now. Thank goodness Jaemin has a quick mind. He decides to act cute and smile big, kissing Jeno on the cheek with a "Yes sir" following the order right away.

As he exited the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, he was met with Jeno sitting on the bed. "No clothes tonight baby. Put up your towel and come to bed." Jaemin wasn't sure what the change in demeanor was for but he did as he was told. Jeno laid down next to Jaemin and began to caress his body. He asked about Jaemin's day and Jaemin answered in half-breaths between squeezing, slapping, and claiming. Claiming as he crawled on top of Jaemin, kissing and biting his neck.

"You've been good this week. Very good." He put his hand between Jaemin's legs and began to palm him. Panting, Jaemin opened his legs more.

"I like when you call me Sir. Do you know that, boy?" Jeno whispered and began stroking Jaemin whose arousal could be seen through the amount of precum leaking. "You're so wet baby. Can you feel it?" Jeno's question was answered only with moans. "You like being my good submissive boy, don't you?"

Another moan.

"Don't you, boy?" Jeno repeated. It wasn't a whisper.

"Yes... sir."

"That's better."

Jeno pinned Jaemin's wrists above his head, putting a hand around his throat. "Does my boy want Sir's cock? Thrust for it."

Jaemin began thrusting, body held down by Jeno's hands. He could only moan under Jeno's hand over his mouth. He wanted Jeno to loosen him up and take him violently. He hoped Jeno could see the desperation in his eyes.

"You want me to fuck you hard, huh?" Jeno says as he readies Jaemin, who continued bucking against Jeno.

"Please, sir. I want it."

"I'm going to restrain you boy. Will you like it?"

More bucking, more moaning. "Yes sir. I'll like it so much."

Jeno whispers against Jaemin's ear "Then ask me to restrain you."

Jaemin's desperation grew, the thought of his Sir restraining him, playing with him, pleasing him. He needed it. "P-Please sir. Restrain me."

Jeno dangles handcuffs and Jaemin's breath hitches, hips thrusting upward begging to be touched. "My needy boy wants my cock, doesn't he?" Jeno fastens the handcuffs above Jaemin's head, arms bound. Restrained. He's sitting on Jaemin's chest, erection pressing against Jaemin's cheek. "Please your master then."

"Yes sir." He strains forward, reaches for Jeno's cock hungrily, taking it deep into his mouth. He chokes himself on it, eyes tearing up as he gags himself to take in all of Jeno. Jeno is suspended over Jaemin, looking down on and into Jaemin's eyes as he continues choking himself, deepthroating as much of Jeno as he can.

"So obedient." Jeno pulls away and Jaemin whines for more. He begins kissing down Jaemin's body until he reaches his center. "Orgasms are for good boys, boys who obey the rules. Are you a good boy, Jaemin?" This illicits another moan from Jaemin who pulls against his restraints. "Yes sir." Jeno smiles before placing himself above Jaemin, their erections barely touching for a brief second before Jeno slides down onto Jaemin's length. "You're my best boy Jaemin, always asking for permission, always early ahead of your curfew, obeying every rule."

Jaemin nodded, managing a "yes sir" as he tried desperately to hold in his orgasm. Jeno hadn't told him he could cum yet.

"Do you know in all this time, you have never once orgasmed without my permission?" He rides Jaemin harder, hands on Jaemin's chest to speed up his efforts. "Not once. You've always been good and waited for my direction. You've always waited until I told you to cum."

"Y-yes s-sir!" He's desperately trying to hold in his orgasm. He can't cum, not now. Not when Jeno has been giving him praises for being such a good submissive for never orgasming without permission.

"I bet this feels soo good, doesn't it baby? I bet you don't cum because you belong to me, don't you, boy?" Jeno stops for a brief moment, fingers scratching into Jaemin's chest down to his hips. "You're a good boy who doesn't cum without permission because you don't belong to yourself, do you? You belong to me."

"Y-yes! I belong to you!" Jaemin can neither see, hear, or think straight. Jeno's overstimulating him so much he hears a ringing in his ears that isn't really there and white spots in front of his vision. He's trying so hard to make out what Jeno is saying, trying to pay attention and answer everything correctly but he's not sure how much longer he can hold back. He swears he's going to cum any minute now whether he wants to or not.

"That's right baby." He positions himself back on Jaemin, sprinkling kisses against Jaemin's abdomen. "Now, I'm going to let you cum" He rode faster, harder. Jaemin was getting close. His breath was ragged, pulse increasing. He's flailing against the restraints, the metal bruising his skin. He feels like it will drive him mad, to the point of tears when Jeno slows down and leans in closer, "But you need to understand that every time I let you cum, you become more mine. Do you understand that?"

"I-I'm.. yo-urs.. S-sir."

"That's right. You're mine.. and every time you cum, I take a little more of you."

Jaemin is sweating now, tears flowing, biting and drawing blood on his lip. This poor baby is desperate, but he's such a good baby. It only makes sense for Jeno to play with him like this. In a situation like this, he's Jeno's good boy even if he cums. Yet to see Jaemin try with everything he has to obey Jeno... it's just another one of those things that reinforces Jeno's belief that Jaemin is truly his soulmate. Jaemin loves this and Jeno loves that he has given himself over with so much devotion.

"I take a little more of you until I've taken it all, piece by piece. And I will take it all Jaemin. I'll have all of you. Do you understand?" He reaches forward as he rides his hardest, hands cradling Jaemin's face. "How much of you do you have left?"

Jaemin doesn't respond. He can't form words anymore. That's a part of him Jeno has taken, a part he doesn't have left.

Jeno presses their foreheads together, looking into Jaemin's fucked-out eyes "I said, How much do you think is left?"

He lets Jaemin's head fall back against the bed. "Cum for me."

Jaemin bucked up as Jeno rode their orgasms to completion, hand wrapped around Jaemin's cock pumping along to their thrusts. Jaemin came deepy in his own hand, body shaking as Jeno pulled out and knelt above him. "I'm going to cum on you. On your face and chest and into your mouth because you belong to me."

"Y-yes sir," Jaemin managed, lifting his head back and opening his mouth. He could have this everyday, being filled with Jeno's lust, drinking it all up. It's a part of Jeno that Jaemin has taken.

One hand gripping Jaemin's jaw for no reason other than to control him, "Ask for it."

"Cum on me" Jaemin begged, "please, Sir."

Jeno held Jaemin down by the throat as he pumped himself against Jaemin's lips, cumming over all the places he owned.

[exobyharu]

PCY - Ch7

I just googled this gif and dug real deep. I’m sorry idk who the owner is :(

Chapter 7 - How many kittens?

(Part 1)(Part 2)(Part 3)(Part 4)(Part 5)(Part 6)

Summary: PCY obsesses, Junmyeon is suspicious, Jongdae is loud, and you’re not answering your phone. PCY’s sister discovers that you’re her cousin as of today.

⏰ 8:14 PM 🌏 SM Entertainment headquarters 🌝12 It’s a full moon and maybe that’s why 👥 YN, Park Chanyeol, Byun Baekhyun, Kim Junmyeon, Kim Jongin, Kim Jongdae, Park Yoora

Notes: The series is not dead! I’m sorry to those waiting. Update soon! Happy Holidays! 

Words: ~1,500

💙💙💙

“Biscotti Girl in the pictures…  @real__pcy’s dear cousin is so popular! #chanyeol #biscotti #celebritti #confetti #spaghetti”

There were a hundred thousand retweets in eight hours. Where did Baekyun say he was going again? Because Chanyeol was thinking of tossing that jackhole’s damned phone into the trash, right after pushing its owner down the stairs first.

He was no longer summoned to the main office and that was something to be thankful for. But here he was, stuck in a random conference room, all by himself, and analyzing every possible way to get you out of the highly inconvenient picture that he’d put together to save his ass. He could not reach you – you were not picking up – and frankly, it was not your obligation to do so. This had you, leaving him staring out into a picture window that overlooked the busy boulevard outside.

There was only one word he could think of whenever he thought of you, and that was intensity. With you, he would always find himself in an intense argument or stuck in an intensely problematic situation, and without you, he would be just like he was right now – bothered by such intensities, all the while, intensely worried about what to do with himself and his thoughts.

Not cool, YN. Not cool.

He just wanted to fix things, but the last look he got from you made it painfully obvious that he achieved the exact opposite. You were avoiding him, and maybe it was for the better. Besides, there seemed to be nothing else he could do but pray for everyone to let the incident go. He hoped that you at least liked the free haircut from his stylist, as much as he hoped that it did the job in keeping your identity further from discovery.

He could not get it out of his mind. One problem that still bothered him was how you would keep yourself from being discovered, especially since the photographs had almost half of your face displayed to the public. What if your friends saw the photographs? And co-workers? Would you lie about being his cousin, too? How would you lie to your family about that?

And then there was the question about the flowers. He sent you, his alleged cousin, ten dozens of pink roses. What kind of distant cousin does that? Chanyeol’s lack of an alibi frustrated him, the only silver lining being: at least the roses weren’t red.

He was abruptly reminded of the way Junmyeon’s eye kept twitching as he told him about you. Their leader was suspicious and that was an understatement. He also knew that even Yixing’s brief DM asking how are you? was him, lowkey asking what the hell is going on? The odds were certainly against him. Even Sehun was giving him the stink eye.

Along with his own self-doubt, he decided to head out. Maybe a short walk and some fresh city air would make his worries lessen.

It did not.

A couple of hours later, the sight of the rest of EXO’s members gathered for a company-catered dinner was not comforting to see. Standing by the door, he looked around and caught a few staff members sharing a small table in the far corner of the conference room. This was in celebration of what again? The thought passed him by as soon as he saw, gathered at the center table, were all of the questioning faces that he least wanted to entertain.

Seven handsome faces, one whose perfect teeth Chanyeol wanted to punch in. His pal, Baekhyun, always finding creative ways to fuck things up for fun. When he met his eyes, the singer even had this insufferable are you proud of me look, written all over his face. He thought that it was time for this little shit to say his prayers because he was going to dig a–

“CHANYEOL-AH! COME BY TO FINALLY TELL US ABOUT YOUR COUSIN?”

In slow motion, Chanyeol’s head turned to face the owner of the voice that came from the opposite side of the table. The thing about Jongdae is that he is, ninety percent of the time, blamelessly loud. But the fact that he had to be among the most sincere people that he knew made it impossible to hate the guy. Consequently, it made it even more painfully annoying for Chanyeol. How thoughtful of Jongdae to put it out there just like that. Certainly what he needed right now was to be greeted by an ever-cheerful face when all he wanted was to brood over dinner.

Fuck this.

He left the room immediately.

Universe, one point. Chanyeol, zero.

And still no answer from you. He deserved this, he supposed. It was funny how one little mistake led to consequences that were way out of proportion. He realized that it was only actually funny until he was in trouble.

He took the stairs back to the third floor and to the conference room where you waited for him earlier that day. It was the same venue that Junmyeon eventually chose to broadcast live. Chanyeol’s cameos finally proved useful. Who knew that acting would end up actually saving his life one day?

“Yah! Cut it out! She’s just my cousin!” He remembered how his insides churned with his twisted lie. It was Junmyeon’s idea to hold a live stream with Jongin, and fish for comments so they could appear to address the issue incidentally in front of thousands of online viewers. They did not have to wait long. Ninety percent of the comments were downright all about it.

“You heard it. So what is everyone going crazy about, hm?” their leader teased, while Jongin in the background was bouncing on his seat, trying to contain his bout of giggles because of a pun he could not wait to deliver.

“It’s called Obsession, Hyung! Right? They’re obsessed!!”

That, along with other horrible puns from Jongin, happened in this room. He found himself glaring at the huge wall clock and wondering what you were doing at eight in the evening. It had been eight hours since you left. It did not sit well with him to not know how you were. Neither was it clear to him why it mattered so much – why you mattered so much. You were too quick to drop him, and he ought to do the same.

And yet… He clenched his teeth – a form of self-reprimand – while reminding himself what he was made of.

Determination. He was made of determination.

And he was going to have a method to this insanity: He was going to give himself one night of being a slave to his foolishness. Tomorrow, he was going to stop thinking about you. And screw the song. He was going to write another one. So he did not have single output after being away for a couple of weeks. It was no big deal. At this point, what was the worst that could happen?

In the middle of counting today’s misfortunes, his phone finally rang. He nearly dropped it when he frantically fished it out from his pocket. His hopes declared that it had to be you. His heart dropped to his stomach when he saw that it was not.

It was not the call he had been waiting for. In fact, in that moment, he realized that it was the call he dreaded most to receive.

It was his older sister.

“A little bird told me something today,” she started in a singsong voice. As if they were still children, she used the same tone to this day whenever she had something that she could use as leverage against him.

Chanyeol pressed his face to his palms. Of course. He ought to worry about his own family first. He was no stranger to his sister’s ways. This was going to be a brief, but exhausting conversation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he answered, which made it plenty obvious that he knew exactly what she was talking about. She gave him the benefit of the doubt, though. This one’s just her classic style of interrogation.

“I’m talking about Biscotti Girl, of course. Or are you going to tell me that the guy in the photos isn’t you?”

How he wished he could tell her that and mean it. He told her anyway. “The guy in the photos isn’t me,” he copied sheepishly. She knew that he was begging her to let him be.

“It’s okay, little brother. You can talk to me anytime, okay? Trust me. I can understand girls better than you.” Again, this was her line whenever she thought he was having girl problems.

“It’s not what you think,” he reasoned. But she was not listening.

“I just wish that sometimes, you’d send me some flowers too.”

“Ya! I said it’s not even like that!”

“But don’t worry. I’m always on your side.”

“Would you listen to me?!”

She would not. “Consider it my apology for crashing your car. I love you!”

After finishing what seemed like a monologue, she ended the call without hearing him out at all. Younger brothers were supposed to annoy their older sisters. How many kittens did he leave in the rain in his past life to deserve the opposite?

💙💙💙 - to be continued - 

[siriuslyblack12]

As We Grow Older

chapter 1

Summer had come and gone. Days bled into nights and sun bled into stars as September rapidly approached. It had been warm and peaceful, quiet in the way that vibrant flowers grew over green fields, given shade by the confident trees and given life from the minimalistic designs of watering cans and the green-thumbs holding them; but thrilling in the way that rollercoasters flew through the sky, friends laughing loud and hard as they made memories they would never forget.

 Remus Lupin appreciated the first much more, as he sat in his garden, book in hand, trying to enjoy the last few hours of his summer holiday.

 This is, no doubt, in stark contrast to his friends. James Potter had bought a season pass to theme parks all around the country that his family had driven between for the entire month of July, stopping at Lily Evans’s holiday cabin any chance he got. Peter Pettigrew had enjoyed concert after concert, dragging his friends to a few and his presumably unrequited crush Mary MacDonald to most. He’d even heard of all about Marlene and Dorcas’ trip to Spain, a trip that they’d been practically begging their parents to pay towards and labelled as a ‘celebration’ of their grades the school year prior.

 Then there was Sirius Black. Leather jackets and muscle t-shits, dark hair falling past his shoulders or loosely tied up in a bun that would come tumbling down minutes later. Brown eyes and perfect lips, spread over his face in a perfect grin that was usually accompanied by a hand clutching at his toned chest. He’d spent his time quite evenly between the three boys, thrill-seeking with James and his family, third-wheeling Peter and Mary and annoying every one of Remus’s neighbours with his antics. There was never a quiet moment in his summer, which was to be expected by the school’s most beloved trouble maker. All four of them were regarded as such, but Remus had always thought that Sirius was the main reason for their popularity.

 He was also hopelessly in love with him.

 Of course, this isn’t at all surprising. Most, if not all of the girls at Hogwarts High fawned over Sirius’s impossible good looks, his charm and flirty remarks, his laid-back, cool stance. Love letters flooded his locker and every one of his selfies got hundreds, if not thousands of likes and comments. He was certainly no stranger to the shallow pining, but Remus Lupin was a boy. A bisexual boy that wasn’t out to anyone. And he didn’t just like Sirius for his looks. That was definitely a bonus, something to make him swoon pathetically, but Remus saw much deeper than that. He loved his sense of humour, his laugh that could light up an entire room. He loved his personality, outgoing and confident but caring and gentle in the right company. He loved the way that his face portrayed every single emotion with such depth, and that his heart was worn on his sleeves. He loved everything about Sirius, but he couldn’t possibly tell him.

 “Remus, honey, tea’s ready.” His mum called from the back doorstep. “Come in before it gets cold.”

 Essentially, he was fucked.

 ~~

 Sirius Black woke up to the piercing sound of his parent’s shouting at him and Regulus to “get the fuck out of bed” and “stop being so fucking lazy”. He could tell they were more aimed at him than his little brother, which filled him with both relief and dread. He was grateful that swim training didn’t start again until next week, considering how awful this was at 8, he definitely couldn’t handle the same at 5:30. A muffled groan escaped from his lips as he rolled over, feet twisted in his silk sheets and a hand carding through his hair. It was finally September, after 6 excruciating weeks of blinding sun, and school was starting again. Not that he didn’t appreciate the rest, its just the only thing he truly enjoyed about it was the thing he had the least of: his friends.

 He’d spent as much time as humanly possible out of his house and away from his dear parents, but nothing could ever be quite enough. They’d been shouting a lot more recently, at him and each other, occasionally even Regulus, and his ears ached with the shrill voice of his mother and booming sound of his father. They weren’t even his mother and father, not really, that title would go to the Potters, whose house he promptly arrived at after he’d spent a good 20 minutes under the hot spray of his shower. He hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye as he marched out of his door with as much pride as he could muster, practically none of which was genuine.

 “Pads! I was actually starting to think you weren’t gonna show,” James announced as he greeted his friend with a tight hug, as if he hadn’t seen him just the day before.

 “Couldn’t miss the first day of school, could I? I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

 “Sure you do, mate”

 He punched James lightly in the shoulder as the two of them laughed away any inhibitions they’d had about the first day of school. The two took their seats at the breakfast bar as Mrs Potter placed  plates of toast and fruit, always reminding her boys to stay healthy. She’d cut Sirius’s toast into 4 small triangles, exactly how he liked it, and they both ate as quickly as possible, excited for the year ahead.

 “You boys better get going if you want to make it before second bell, I’d rather not have to deal with that on your record” The kind voice of Mrs Potter sang through the room. A voice that made him feel safe, like this was his home.

 “Mum’s right, bet Moony’ll go mad if we’re late again” James added and finished with a kiss to Mrs Potter’s cheek. “Him and Peter are probably there already.”

 He couldn’t wait to see Remus again. And Peter. And the girls.

 “Well don’t just stand there Prongs, we have shit to start!”

 “Language.”

 “Sorry Mrs Potter.”

 ~~

 Remus’ stomach flipped and churned as he saw Sirius approach their table, James strutting by his side. He’s your best friend. Get a grip. He watched James’s eyes go right towards the head of red hair beside him, freckles dotted all over her face and arms and jeans cuffed above her ankles. Prongs had been not-so-subtly crushing on Lily for a few years now, and it was getting quite depressing to watch. Remus had suspected for a while that she did in fact have feelings for James, but it wasn’t really his place to comment. Besides, she’d most likely be too obstinate to admit it even if she did. Across from him, Mary, Marlene and Dorcas were excitedly discussing their holidays, the latter two occasionally pulling each other close and sharing a few kisses. They’d been dating for almost a year, and needless to say everyone in the school shipped them. Someone had even made them a fan account, which Marlene had admittedly found a little creepy, but Dorcas adored.

 “Moons! Is that a haircut I see? It suits you,” Sirius said matter-of-factly, taking the seat the other side of Remus, obviously growing bored of James’s childish pining.

 He’s your best friend. Best friends compliment each other. “Wouldn’t take you as one to notice, Pads.” What? What does that even mean?

 “Well, I did” he replied, before pulling out his phone and opening Instagram, mindlessly scrolling through and liking every other post. Sirius was one of those people who documented his entire life on social media, to the point where at any given moment the entire school knew where he was and what he was doing.

 A few moments passed, everyone exchanging fun stories, laughing at Peter’s animated retellings, smiling as Marlene laid her dead on her girlfriend’s shoulder when she recounted care-free nights. He’d missed this, and he could tell Sirius had too.

 They still had ten minutes until first bell, and they would all go to their first classes of the year. Remus had decided to take chemistry this year, a decision that he now deeply regretted after the amount of summer homework Professor Slughorn had given him, a decision that was definitely not made in the first place so that he’d be in more classes with Sirius. Definitely not.

 Usually on an occasion such as important as this, the 8 of them would pull a prank. He secretly lived for those moments, and had spent all summer planning some more intricate ideas. He was elated when Lily suddenly spoke, as confidently as ever.

 “Not that I don’t love hearing about all of your lovely holidays spent far away from your bitchy sisters and their loser boyfriends,” at that everyone nodded sympathetically, “but I’m in the mood to cause some trouble.”

 “And how exactly would we do that?” James questioned.

 Sirius chirped in, raising his eyebrows, “I think I might have an idea.”

 And that’s how Remus Lupin ended up counting down loudly with his friends, gaining strange looks from the rest of the canteen as James held five Mentos above a bottle of Diet Coke, both from Peter’s bag, that they would drop as they got to one. Sirius shook with laughter from his left, joining in with the countdown and leaning far too close to the bottle to ensure him safety from the explosion that was to come. Remus followed him as he leant further forward, silently vowing to follow Sirius wherever he went. The numbers they shouted got smaller and smaller, and the two boys got closer and closer. He looked over to his left and saw that Sirius had suddenly jumped far back, and before he could question it the bottle erupted right into his scarred face.

 The entire canteen erupted in laughter, including the boy behind him which quickly made Remus forget all about the state of his shirt and jeans. He would do anything to make Sirius happy.

 “Mr Lupin, I’m sure there’s you have an explanation for this,” They were quickly brought back to reality by the stern, Scottish drawl of Professor McGonagall. “And I’m sure it involves Mr Potter and Mr Black being their usual selves, yes?”

 “You’ve got it Minnie.” Sirius chuckled, earning himself and everyone else a lunch detention.

  James jumped on the opportunity to plead with her for a lighter punishment, only to be waved away non-commitedly. Lily sank into James’s side, defeated and slightly annoyed but amused nonetheless. Sirius bumped his shoulder to Remus’s, their faces only inches apart as a beautiful smirk settled itself on the first boy’s face. If Sirius noticed the deep blush that spread over the his friend’s face and neck, he didn’t say anything.

 Maybe detention wasn’t so bad if he could have that smirk directed at him.

 Stop fooling yourself, Remus. He’s straight. He doesn’t like you.

 Maybe not, he thought. But I might as well appreciate what I can while it lasts.

 ~~

 Detention went for the most part as expected: Sirius and James throwing paper planes at each other from opposite ends of the room, Lily doodling on a spare piece of paper on her desk, Marlene and Dorcas eye-fucking for the entire hour. But Remus’s mind replayed the same thought, over and over and over again as his fingers absentmindedly drummed on his desk.

 Sirius had given him his shirt.

 To anyone else, this information would mean absolutely nothing. He always kept a spare one in his bag for after swimming and had offered it to his friend to wear now that his was soaked through. It was fairly big on him, as Sirius was more built, and a few inches taller. It hung off of his shoulders nicely, and felt so comfortable. So natural. What wasn’t comfortable, nor natural, was Remus’s reaction. His eyes had widened comically as his heart imploded right there on the spot, and so Sirius had just placed the shirt simply into his shaking hands and stalked away to share a laugh with James and Peter, leaving a lovestruck Remus in his wake.

 Professor McGonagall left the detention room to run a few errands, and it was suspiciously tame considering the company. Why she would ever trust the marauders alone in a confined space would be a mystery to most. Remus and Lily had turned around in their seats to gossip with James and Sirius, mainly pointless topics to pass the time.

 “All I’m saying is, Dumbledore and McGonagall are definitely fucking.” James stated, arms in the air smugly.

 “Absolutely no way, I won’t accept it!” Lily laughed along with him.

 “You’re girlfriends right, Prongsie,” Sirius began, getting loud protests from both parties, “If anyone is fucking, it’s Dumbledore and Hagrid.”

 Remus’s breath hitched, but he was proud in how quickly he recovered and replied with, “Fair point, but McGonagall and Pomfrey must be considered, don’t you think?”

 The room erupted in laughter, Marlene and Dorcas vocalising their agreement with him and clasping him on the back.

 “Dumbledore and McGonagall are the most perfect example of solidarity my gay ass has ever witnessed.” One of them said, causing everyone to laugh harder.

 “Fucking Preach!” Sirius hollered, folding his paper aeroplane into a ball and throwing it into the air, which was then caught by James and hurled towards the bin with a soft ‘Lebron James’. The paper, unsurprisingly, missed it’s target which served as Lily’s cue to make fun of him even more than she was already.

 “I’d like to see you try, Evans”

 “You’re on Potter.” She sneered, folding her own piece of paper and throwing it towards the same bin that James had aimed for, the only difference being that hers landed perfectly. Remus held out his hand for Lily to high five, and Sirius praised her loudly. She bit her lip happily, eyes trained on James before she spoke.

 “Better not underestimate me again, Potter.”

 “Oh, I won’t.”

 With that, Remus settled back into his chair, and took another look at the brown-eyed boy that he couldn’t get out of his head, who had calmed down a little and was now, once again, scrolling through his phone. His hair fell into his face delightfully and Remus leaned back on his chair and he admired it quietly. He hadn’t even realised how dangerously far back he had leaned, before his back hit the floor with a thud and he groaned in pain. Once again the room was laughing and Sirius wore that smile that Remus loved so much.

 This was going to be a hard year.

 ~~

 “Oi, knobhead, pass the salt would you?”

 “Manners, James.” Sirius countered cheekily.

 “Oi, knobhead, pass the salt, please.”

 The next few days had passed uneventfully, if Sirius was any judge. He’d fallen into the comfortable routine of pissing about at school, pissing about at the park and then pissing about at the Potter’s, never going to his own house until it was absolutely necessary. At first, a few years ago, he’d felt insecure that he was mooching off of people too kind to know any better, but those thoughts had quickly dissolved.

 Mrs Potter smiled and looked between the two boys, elated that she could care for both of them. She’d never wanted to have an only child, but her and her husband had decided that it was for the best, which did nothing to stop the satisfaction that came with taking Sirius in as her own.

 “Are you excited to start training again, Sirius? Do you need me to drive you anywhere?” She questioned politely, silently hoping he says yes.

 “Of course I am,” He replied, mouth full of food. “And I’m afraid I have to decline your offer, as great as it is. My father insists being my personal taxi when it comes to swimming.”

 Mrs Potter nodded her head quietly, not realising the emotion in his voice that was masked by the potatoes he continued to stuff into his mouth. Sirius would be happy to be back with his team, in the water, racing again. It was his sense of normality, his clutch when his confusion got too much to handle. He was hoping that he could get his friends to see a few galas this year, especially the tawny haired boy that he couldn’t recall had ever seen him in the water.

 After they’d eaten, James and Sirius stood over the sink after promising that they’d wash the dishes, a promise that they now realised was perhaps not the best idea. James, sponge in hand, had been scrubbing at the same spot for what felt like hours.

 “How do you actually feel about swimming, Pads?”

 “I love it, of course I do,” Sirius began. “Why would you even have to ask that, mate?

 James gently put down his plate, still somehow dirty, and turned to face his friend. He gave him a look, that look that says ‘that’s absolute bullshit, but I’m gonna let you tell me in your own time.’ That look.

 “Well, my parents are a big part of it. My dad’s the only reason I started in the first place, but I do actually enjoy it. It’s more than them now.” Sirius admitted truthfully.

 “You would tell us if you didn’t want to go back, wouldn’t you?” James was always the mother hen of the group, taking care of everybody else. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

 Sirius sighed, muttered an agreement and picked up the plate that James was just working on, desperately scrubbing just as hard as the other boy was. It was almost visible how his walls had gone up, a blockade of ice that freezed over whenever his parents were brought into conversation. James wished he could press more, but he knew it wouldn’t work. He’d open up when he was ready.

 “Pass me that plate, I’m just gonna put it away and hope mum doesn’t notice.” James said.

 “Dick.”

 “Git.”

 “You love me,”

 “Keep telling yourself that.”

 They both smiled, the first genuine smile of the night.

[kaz3313]

The Demon in his Closet

@two-nipples-maybe-more this...has taken me too long

Shadely ahead so don't like don't read (though if you're mildly curious please stay)

(My read more is broke (stupid Tumblr) so I apolgize ahead of time)

Will be posted on Ao3; Private message me if you're interested in the link

(Please, please reblog ❤ Thank you all in advance)

[[MORE]]

The Bently was parked outside a bungalow down in the country, away from the busy streets of London. Usually the Bently would only momentarily stop to let an angel out and then speed off, Queen blasting. Aziraphale and Madam Tracy, rather just Tracy now but the Madam was still used more often than not, would meet every month to discuss various books. Most would call this a book club but the Principality said a club couldn't have only two members. 

Crowley decided to tag along but because he didn't know a thing about the book, and little interest in the discussion, he sat idly flipping the pages of the copy Azriphale had brought. He began to make the letters crawl around and soon enough he'd changed an entire paragraph. The sentences became short and choppy. Due to that change he wasn't sure where to put all the commas so he started to sprinkle them in even when they weren't needed. That and the question mark, which he finally reasoned to put at the end of his new incomplete sentence. 

   "Crowley! Return that paragraph right back to what it was! And if you're so bored you don't have to stay," Azriphale sized the book placing it on the other side of the table. The letters start to slink back into position but the commas got so lost in the mess they were more spread out than before.

   "You know, I'm sure Sergeant Shadwell wouldn't mind talking to you. I remember when you used to call and he'd get the closest thing I ever saw to a smile on his face," Madam Tracy stated.

   "That's only cause when I called he knew he was getting paid," It was barely audible but Crowley's voice raised a tad higher.

   "Well, maybe" She gave a smile one that Crowely had seen many times (thinking back the first face he ever saw it on was Eve's even if she didn't smile much). though he still couldn't decipher it fully. It said something and that something was what she knew but what she knew and what Crowley knew must be two different things. 

 Crowley decided it's best to ignored the out-of-place knowing smile. He gave half a nod and left the room. He could hear the two go back to chatting about their favorite characters (neither could pick just one) and the various scenes before he clicked the door shut.

Shadwell was at the kitchen table sipping at his mug. He watched Crowley waltz past the first time he passed the room. Then he passed again this time donning one of Tracy's hats. Then a third (this time the hat had been taken off)and then a-

    "Aye, the kitchen's in here," Shadwell finally announced after Crowley passed the room for a fifth time. It wasn't a large place; not too small either but it wasn't the kind of place where you could miss an entire room. 

   "Oh, condensed milk?" Crowley asked as he walked in the kitchen. He scanned the area, various pots and pans (all Madam Tracy's) were arranged in shelves, fresh cut cucumber slices lay on a cutting board begging for someone to take a bite, and knives are placed all in little black sheaths . The quality of the counters though were lacking. The wood was chipping off in little dry chunks. In a year it would need a replacement.

He sat down next to the man whose only answer had been a glare. 'Maybe he'd like to talk to you,' Crowley repeated what Tracy said in his head while looking at Shadwell. He had a soured withered look on his face but when didn’t he? Well, 1960's but that was a little over a half a century ago. People changed like the weather and Shadwell must’ve been an unforecasted storm. Save for pointed questions about witchcraft the younger man would’ve never recognized his older self.

      “Demons,” Shadwell turned in his chair and Crowley’s shoulders already sagged. Best case scenario he would be threatened with a finger pointed and bible verses would be yelled for a half an hour. Worst Case scenario the bungalow would catch fire and Crowely would be forced to do some demonic intervention to put it out (or carry all the occupants out). The scenario that follows is neither worst nor best and it wasn’t something previously thought up or considered (which was surprising as creativity was his specialty). “Demons don’t have fathers, do they, laddie ?”

 Crowley bit his lip and didn’t respond. 

     He remembered the first question Shadwell asked after the first time Crowely introduced himself as ‘Anothony J. Crowley Jr’.

     “How’s your father?” This question would be repeated during any time they’d meet in person, even if the time was short. Sometimes the Witchfinder would even add “ You look a lot like your old man. ‘Cept for the haircut. Good genes you got there, ”. Crowley would give a brief little ‘alright’ or ‘well’ but overall kept it brief when his “old man” was mentioned. No further questions were ever pressed but eyes gave away too many secrets, one of the reasons Crowley dons his shades, and Shadwell’s were no exception.

    The man wanted more (dare he say it was a hunger); When Crowley made an offhand comment that his father was feeling ‘under the weather’ Shadwell sucked in a sharp breath and his eyes widened. It was the most expressive he’d been since 67 and Crowley ended up, throughout the entire conversation, reassuring that his father was perfectly healthy now. ‘’Was just a small cold, nothing to worry about,” but worry never left him in that meeting. Only at the next, when he spoke about his father traveling somewhere, did he see Shadwell's shoulders relax.

 “Y’know, I thought you’d catch on sooner. I have the same tattoo and the glasses,” Crowley whispered, as if it was important to keep hidden. The only people within a five mile radius were busy discussing plot, themes, and the next book from the 1800’s to read and neither would know the connotations. At least the optimistic clung to that hope. He didn't want to deal with any more trouble than he had too. 

 “ Thought you was Mafia,” Shadwell put his cup down. 

    “Oh...good, I guess,” Just talking felt like robbing a museum and having to walk with tip toed feet to avoid an alarm sounding. Hushed voices and vagueness was supposed to end after the Not-Apocalypse and this entire discussion left a sour taste in Crowley’s mouth. Maybe he should've just stayed and tempted more paragraphs to change. A slightly huffy angel was better than what this conversation had in store.

    "Didn't give any notice," If you listened closely you could hear the change in his voice.It was vastly different than his usual coldness. Held something more; something Crowley tried again to ignore. "No warning".

     "About being a demon?" Crowely offered; maybe they could just sit in awkward silence for the rest of the half an hour.

     "Leaving" The voice audibly shook and Crowley adjusted his sunglasses just to make sure they were still there. He never left; at least it never felt like leaving? He just didn’t meet up with him again. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t his fault Shadwell became old and harsh.

 He felt an awful feeling building up so he insisted it to himself again. This time aloud.

    “Isn’t really leaving if I turned up again. Just gone momentarily,” Crowley, instead of looking at Shadwell, focused on the cucumbers he saw earlier. Why were there slices lying there anyway? They couldn’t have interrupted Madam Tracy’s cooking, for she knew today was book club day. It didn’t even seem like it went to anything either-like they were misplaced in the grand scheme of things (or rather in the small kitchen). 

     “Why’d you even come here?” Shadwell asked his voice returns to his usual cold bitter tone . Crowely wasn’t sure if that was better or worse him sounding like this. The demon waves his hand in the general direction of the "book club" in response. “You usually just drop the Southern Pansy off,” 

     “Don’t call him that,” Crowely snapped and turns to the other man glaring. He found the glare turned rather quickly to locking eyes with him (not that Shadwell could tell).

 “Now I got your attention! Figures,”

     Crowley continued to glare (stare) mouth pursed tightly. He didn’t have the heart to look away but couldn’t think of a proper response.He hated being tongue tied-he hated this entire situation. And like most things, the M25 or things he'd find glued to the street, this was entirely his doing. 

   

 “ And that’s all you have to say,” Shadwell shook his head but his eyes lingered and suddenly it feels like 1967.

     Club lights flashed in the background as Crowely explained the heist was cancelled (it would’ve been more of an issue but he gave everyone the pay they would’ve received). The two others involved took the money before leaving, no other reason to stay, but Shadwell stuck around stealing glances. The man was obviously trouble but Shadwell wasn’t scared of trouble; if he served more time, so be it. He was young and took more risks and thought he was invincible. 

 “Cigarette,” Crowley asked but it was more of a statement than anything. He already handed one to him and pulled out a lighter. He kept glancing back to his car and often had eyes on a thermos it; no one else would’ve noticed but it was rather hard not to pick up on if he’s the only one you're focused on.

 “Rough day?” Shadwell asked as the red haired man finally left his eyes long enough from his Bently to notice the gazing.

 “Could say that, there’s a reason I cancelled the..” Crowley, after lighting Shadwell’s, dropped the lighter. Before he could pick it up Shadwell leaned in lighting the cigarette with his own without taking it away from his lips. Crowely tried to find words, maybe a thank you, but found it easier just to leave his mouth slightly opened. Finally he found his voice “Since we’re not going to any church tonight, want to hit a bar? I could go for a good drink,”.

 That’s where it started for them. Coincidently it would be where it ended as well. 

 Just like the day they first met he remembers the ‘last’ day in detail (not in perfect detail but more details than any other day in the week). It was several months after their initial meeting and they’d just left a bar they frequented almost every other week.

 “Wouldn’t be wise to stay the rest of the night,” Crowely said getting into his car after Shadwell was going to follow suit. “Have to go meet with someone early at the park,” He mumbled the rest already starting the engine. The smile on his face was odd (little did he know at the time it wasn’t odd it was the just the first genuine one). Then the Bently sped away. 

It was sudden and several weeks afterward Shadwell would wait outside at their meeting place for hours. The day he gave up waiting  was when he’d fallen asleep on the bench and he woke with his wallet gone. To say it was a devastating realization would be an understatement. He’d have no luck finding him but when Crowley walked into a small rundown cafe (before introducing himself as junior) he swore his heart skipped a beat. 

 It was different now though and that thought brought him back to reality.   

 

 “Do you remember our nights at the clubs?” Shadwell asked; he was desperate to stay wrapped up in the past but he wanted the demon to join him. Maybe then time would return for just a few moments. Enough to say a proper goodbye and perhaps even heartache would be lifted.

 “I wouldn’t take you as one to want to reminisce,” Crowely said remembering every night all too well but in no mood to recount the events of old. He expected that eventually he’d be deterred by his coldness but instead the man presses.

 “You danced like a rabbit on steroids,” Shadwell stated and he saw Crowely suppress a smile ( and maybe a laugh as well).

 “I I don't think I've ever seen a drugged rabbit- though I can't say I'm not curious now. But on topic of dancing- At least I didn’t step on anybody's toes,” Crowley retorted back but light shifts into his voice.

 “N’ae, you did and quite a lot too. I just never said a word ‘bout it,”

 “No- I think your misremembering. Must’ve been somebody else that crushed your toes,” Crowley continued to deny.

  “Wish it could’ve been like that; after we…” ‘Break up’ wasn’t the right phrase but Shadwell felt it at the tip of his tongue “After we parted ways didn’t really get to dance,” or go out, or dress up, or even kiss, or-

 “...Nobody at all...” The air thickened again; Crowley's face fell. It could’ve been a question or a statement but it came out hushed and soft; that’s the part that mattered anyway.

 “Jezebel, uh, ex Jezebel, talked a little bit ‘bout it here an’ there but we don’t do anythin’ besides stay in the bungaloo. Well, we go out to the market but hardly call that a proper date. ” 

  Crowley stuttered something out in response but it being a mix of syllables that didn’t form any words of any known language, while slightly impressive, did not help get anything verbally across. He wanted to say many things an “I’m sorry,” the simplest of it yet no matter how he moved his mouth nothing came out. Then he thought “sorry” was a little bland anyway and wouldn’t serve any sort of justice. Another logical response would be to talk about what the other so desperately wanted to talk about. Clubs, lights, dances, and other happier times. But then the demon reasons that happier times were the worst to talk about when they were long gone and had no chance of repeating. The conversation would turn into choked poorly held back sobs and how was he going to explain that one to Madam Tracy or Aziraphale (a small inkling in the back of his mind said something along the lines of how he wouldn’t have to explain too much to Tracy but that still left a talk with his angel). So instead he continued to stare at Shadwell hoping the guilt that had taken over his features would be enough of an apology.

  Crowley didn't expect wrinkled hands to cup his face but he didn't protest the sudden touch either. The man had been longing to have contact with the one he fell in love with so long ago and Crowely, with everything he's been through, knows how it feels. He repeated that it's the least he can do and another part of him whispers that he wouldn't protest even if he wasn't obligated. Shadwell continued further, as he shuffles they’re chairs closer together, and pulled Crowley toward him; Locking lips. 

 “Mngk,” The glasses fall to the floor from the sudden movement and if not for a little demonic intervention they would've shattered. He reached to pick them up but found Shadwell had grabbed them first. They were held just out of reach. Instead of a curse, demand, or even an undignified whine he lets his hand fall limp and deepened the kiss.

  “The eyes are the windows to the soul” a bright man once said but he’d never looked into Crowley’s, not many were given that opportunity. He was soulless, the gift from God stripped away from him so long ago, but his eyes betray like any other’s. Sure, physically they were different yet, if you could look past the unusual yellow and ignore the shape of the pupils emotions were as obvious as a lost tourist.

     Passion was the first thing Shadwell could see; It was, to no avail, attempted to be pushed down but the more someone tries to hide it the more it shows in another place. A fiery thing passion was, it flared up in spurts but could burn out just as easy. He drops the shades he was previously holding hostage, it’s obvious now that Crowley will make no attempt to snatch them back, and digs his fingers in the red hair (a little harder now that it’d been cut but that didn’t deter him). Maybe if he held tight enough the flame wouldn’t burn out.

     Guilt was fast approaching in the other’s expression, he’d noticed it earlier even with those glasses, but he tried to dismiss the notion. It was inevitable, why with that southern pansy in the other room. Though, like anything, out of sight out of mind and Shadwell dares to enjoy this moment even if it meant sacrificing seeing those lovely exotic eyes.    

  It never crossed his mind that perhaps the guilt was from the standpoint of Crowley realizing how he had wronged him rather then the thought that his significant other was in the next room.

 Arms, that had first lay to the side in wary, wrapped around him. The two hadn't felt the others physical touch in a few decades yet they clung together with such familiarity that people sparing a glance would mistake them as an older couple. Those who bothered to look closer would see the desperation, that only those apart for too long have.

  For a moment Shadwell thought it was 1967 again (only this time it didn’t have to be discreet,or rather they didn’t have to worry about any law. The two were being very cautious all things considered). He could smell the exhaust embedded in the streets and hear the chattering of voices (that were, more often than not, hushed). People passing by not giving the Bentley a second glance (out of self preservation not disinterest) as two concealed shady men (well man and demon) tested their luck.  The cushions of the Bently were nicer than the hard wood he sat in now but he ignores. After all, the only thing that mattered, and that didn’t change, were soft lips.  

  

 “Crowley, dear! We’ve finished our meeting! ” An angelic voice called from the front of the house; unknowingly doing his job in disrupting sin. 

Crowley was the first to break away from the kiss but he continues the embrace. He leans down his mouth just above Shadwell’s ear.

  “Next month?” 

  “Aye…” 

  “Next month,” He affirmed his own question getting up to leave. Shadwell waved the sunglasses but Crowley produced some from his pocket already slipping them on. He left with not a word more.

   Despite his words Shadwell found himself surprised when Crowley showed up at the kitchen table the following month. And he felt the same the next month.. And the one after that.

  “ I’m not leaving, y’know that by now. I’ll come back again,” Crowley said as he stood at the kitchen doorway. He’d been in and out six times now.

  “And if you don’t? I’d rather be surprised than disappointed, again”.

Crowley never mentioned it in the following conversation; he found it easier to dance around then set himself up for having his feet stepped on. Even if, deep down, he knew he deserved every bit of it.

 No one deserved their heart broken for fifty two years, especially if it had been their lifetime. Crowley could only hope to dull the pain he caused. And with seeing hints of smiles and held back laughs- maybe he could count himself as successful.

 Even if it only lasted for ten more years. 

[mentallyinwalmart]

‘Ink Stains’

a stab at the “drawing on your skin” soulmate Au for Braime.

~

No one had ever written back to Brienne.

She believed it was because her soulmate was either dead, or, like the boys at her coming out ball had said: she was so hideous she didn’t have a soulmate.

But sometimes, even now, well into her twelfth winter, sometimes she’d still write a little something, or doodle on her upper arm, the palm of her sword hand, her ribs.

Somewhere that could be easily hidden by her armor or clothing.

So no one would see, and no one would ever know that despite all odds she still held onto the tiniest speck of hope that perhaps her soulmate was out there.

But where she used to draw, or write each and every night, now weeks would go by before she dared make a single stroke.

—

Jaime Lannister didn’t believe in soulmates. There was a myriad of reasons, but the main one was that his was decidedly not Cersei. And he didn’t believe there could be anyone else.

From his teenage years when she’d first begun their torrid affair, he had faked the marks Cersei would leave on herself, and each time a gentle mark or sweet word would appear on his skin that he could see, he’d have to doodle it on his sister while she slept.

For a long time he believed she didn’t have a soulmate, and he didn’t want to break her heart.

So each and every mark had to be perfect.

But no one can be perfect forever. He awoke with a question of ‘who are you?’ Stained across his ribs. Cersei lacked the same question to match, as well as the explanation for why he, her twin brother, would write such a stupid thing across the ribs of someone he clearly knew.

She cast him out. Blamed him for stealing her youth, and corrupting her chance at happiness with his own delusion.

Seven months went by without any notes on his body, and he began to wonder if his soulmate had died. If the woman he’d ignored all these years that could’ve been his happiness was really gone.

The siege of riverrun came, and Cersei sent him away. He begged her not to, but she swore him worthless in a fight and said he’d be better off far away.

“Maybe you can find your whore.”

Though he didn’t even know the woman whose dainty drawings and tender notes had graced his body for so many decades, he still felt a pang of anger.

He wondered why he’d always prioritized her happiness over his own. He wondered if the woman he’d lost would’ve done the same.

That night, for the first time in his thirty some odd years of life, Jaime Lannister returned the notes to the woman who had left. The ghost of she who could’ve been his love.

‘I’m sorry’

Written sloppily, barely legible with his left hand on the part of his wrist covered by the straps of his gold hand.

He prayed to gods he didn’t believe in that she might see it.

—

“M’Lady?”

“What is it Pod?”

“Somethings just come up on your arm.”

Brienne slapped her exposed skin, cursing the flies that frequented riverrun, even now when winter was closing in.

But her squire shook his head.

“No M’Lady. On your wrist. Looks like a child’s writing.”

Brienne looked down and her heart nearly exploded out of her chest.

The shaky handwriting fit perfectly across her wide wrist and it took her a moment to process it, that it was really happening.

“Is your soulmate a child?” Podrick chuckled and she smacked him on the arm.

“Better than you.” She teased and Pod sighed.

His soulmate was hesitant to reveal herself, Gods knew why. Podrick was more than wonderful.

And despite the ridiculous scrawling, and the fear that still panged inside her chest that perhaps this was some cruel trick, or some horrible jest by the gods, she let herself feel just a tiny bit happy.

She waited for Pod to fall asleep before she replied.

‘All is forgiven’

She fell asleep staring at the words on her wrist, wondering who they might possibly be from.

—

Jaime wore gloves the next day, but his heart had flood with a mix of joy and relief when the words had materialized on his wrist.

The script was beautiful, more beautiful than he remembered, and it came up all in dark blue ink.

He wondered who it could possibly be.

“Hey Kingslayer” Ser Bronn called and Jaime raised an annoyed eyebrow.

“What is it?” He asked, and Bronn pointed.

There, coming through the camp as though she owned the place was Brienne Of Tarth. The woman he’d said goodbye to, had offered Oathkeeper to.

A woman whose kindness and gentleness so went against all logical assumptions about her.

He headed into the tent and instructed Bronn to send the Lady in when she arrived.

—

The tiny, slanted heart that graced Brienne’s forearm gave her strength as she entered Ser Jaime’s tent.

She shook herself, drawing strength from her mysterious new visitor to face the only man besides Renly she had ever truly cared for.

He was as handsome as he’d been before. More so in fact, with his fresh haircut and fine Lannister armor.

“I have your sword, Ser Jaime.”

“It’s yours.” His voice was firm, and his eyes danced in the faint light, “it will always be yours.”

Brienne focused on the tiny heart from her love, and tried not to let her own flutter. Before he could leave the tent she spoke up again, determined not to be frightened by feelings which she no longer had reason to even bother with.

“Ser Jaime.”

“Lady Brienne.” He quipped back, a smile seeming to play at his lips. She bit her own and furrowed her brow.

“Should it come to a fight, I will have no choice but to fight with Sansa’s kin,” She paused and inhaled, “to fight against you.”

He had paused for a long moment and she feared he would lash out at her.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.” His words surprised her.

He was kinder somehow, with her. Not with the rest of them, but with her. She let out a sigh as she turned her attention back to her soulmate, back to love that was fated, not unrequited foolishness.

She left to go and speak to the Blackfish, leaving Pod to catch up with Ser Jaime. 

Before she left however, she let Pod convince her to add a tiny blue star beside the heart on her arm.

“Just in case something goes bad.” He’d said, “I’ve heard you keep the last mark forever. If I ever find them I could tell them how wonderful you were.”

She’d fought back tears as she insisted there would be no need for any of that.

But she gave Podrick a rare hug anyway, and warned him not to get himself killed while she was gone.

—

Jaime sat with Ser Bronn and Podrick in his tent as they waited for Brienne to return. She had until nightfall. With every inch the sun crept towards the horizon he became more and more worried she would not return.

He didn’t know why he cared. He focused on the beautiful star that had joined his pitiful heart on his forearm as Bronn and the squire chatted about nothing of importance.

—

Podrick noticed the way Ser Jaime ran the gold hand over his arm in the same place his lady had, the way he seemed to look down every now and then just to check it was still there.

When Podrick pretended to slip and Ser Jaime half caught half pushed him back to his feet, he managed to push his sleeve up enough.

Enough to see the little black heart and blue star.

—

Though she had failed, somehow Ser Jaime had managed to do what she could not, and Riverrun was secured with next to no bloodshed.

She watched Jaime wave from the highest balcony of the castle and, despite her fluttering heart, waved back.

“Seven hells!” Podrick cursed and she turned her attention back around to him.

“What, Pod?” She asked, shaking her head as though that might remove thoughts of Ser Jaime from it.

“I forgot Oathkeeper.”

Her heart sunk, and she had taken the oars from him and begun rowing back towards camp before he had even made it halfway through his explanation.

—

Jaime had no idea why Lady Brienne’s row boat turned back. But he was eager to find out.

He met them where they landed on the bank, and listened as she explained what had happened and apologized over and over for what had happened.

The two of them, with Pod tagging along behind, went back to the camp and searched his tent inside and out.

Jaime felt his heart pang as he watched her search diligently for the sword. There was something in her eyes, in the way she looked more distraught then he’d ever seen her.

He pressed on, even when she had all but given up, something urging him on, some primal need to make her happy.

—

She felt close to tears as each moment dragged on and she was no closer to finding the sword.

“I’m sorry, Ser Jaime.” She apologized, ignoring his reassurance for the hundredth time as she continued her frantic search.

“My lady can you help me for a minute?” She turned at Pod’s request and shuffled dejectedly across the room to help him with something at the table.

He moved a little too quickly and despite her cries for him to be careful, he splashed a bottle of ink all over her face.

Now she was crying from the ink in her eyes, though the embarrassment and shame was enough to have her close to tears even without the catalyst.

“Seven Hells Pod!” She protested as she rubbed her eyes, getting ink all over her hands in the process of trying to clear her vision.

“Found it!” Pod called, but Brienne was too busy wiping her face with a rag from the table to even look at where the Squire has located the blade.

But she was thankful none the less.

—

“You clumsy fool” Jaime chuckled, “Lady Brienne, might I say you’ve never—” but he stopped mid jest as he stared at the hand reaching towards the rag to offer her.

Black ink danced like a wave across his hand, and he gasped as he watched the woman across from him fumble with her rags.

“Brienne.”

She turned as he spoke her name, still blinking the ink from her eyes.

—

“Oh no, did he get you too?” She asked, starting towards the stunned, ink covered Ser Jaime. 

“I’m sorry.” She felt another pang of embarrassment as she wiped the last of the inky tears from her eyes. “I swear, normally he’s—”

But she also lost her words as she realized what she was doing, and stopped a moment before assaulting his face with the rag in an attempt to wipe him clean.

She gasped and stepped back, dropping the rag.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...” but Ser Jaime lifted the rag in his hand and placed it in hers.

“Try and wipe it off.” His voice was sharp and she wasn’t sure what sort of game he was playing at.

She stepped closer and gently brushed at the ink splattered across his cheeks and forehead, down his nose, across his lips.

Nothing.

“Seven hells, how permanent is this stuff?” She mused as she stood awkwardly before the knight.

“Not very.” He lifted his thumb before gently running it over her cheekbone.

She watched the ink run across his face.

“Impossible.” She whispered, her heart and her mind screaming in unison this had to be a trick.

—

“It would appear,” he breathed, leaning in closer to her as he traced the curves of her face, marveling at the way her expression changed with each change to his own ink covered face, “that you are my soulmate.”

Her kiss was gentler, and yet more passionate than Cersei’s had ever been. And when she pulled away, he laughed at the way the ink around her mouth, and he could only assume his as well, had been so moddled and marred.

“Ser Jaime, I—”

She started, but he silenced her with one touch of his thumb against her bottom lip.

“Jaime is fine.” He breathed.

“I can’t believe it’s you, Jaime.” He felt his stomach turn in that delightful way it hadn’t since he’d had a proper fight before he lost his hand.

“I’m sorry I never returned your notes.”

“I’m sorry I’ve spent the last few months writing them on my right hand.”

He couldn’t help but laugh as he saw she was serious, and soon they were both laughing. And then embracing again, and then more laughter.

He had never felt so free. She had never felt so happy.

—

Podrick Payne would be smug about the ink and the false pretense of the forgotten sword until they named one of their children after him.

Then he would just be cocky about his masterful matchmaking abilities.

~

Hope you enjoyed! Sorry it was long! Let me know if you’d life more soulmate AU’s or any AU’s :)—Bea

[honeybammie]

strawberry season › yang jeongin

↳ in which you spend every year looking forward to april sundays, and this spring, jeongin blooms ↳ fluffy fluff fluff 

The strawberries this year were especially sweet—like Jeongin every year. April was the best month for them, or so Jeongin liked to tell me, so every April since we were young teens we met at the nearby farmer’s market for a batch of strawberries and ate them together at the park, no more than a five minute journey out of the way. We’d sit on the edge of the fountain, or in dewy grass, or at one of the red picnic tables whose paint was chipping away little by little. Every Sunday afternoon in April. Neither of us had ever broken the tradition.

This year, the strawberries were consistently better than they had ever been, or maybe we missed our tradition more than before. Not that I didn’t see him otherwise. We had classes together and half a dozen mutual friends. I seldom went two days in the week without running into him, but strawberry season was exclusive to us. We never felt closer or talked as much as we did in April, and this year, Jeongin bloomed.

Eighteen was good to him. With the absence of his braces and graduation coming in less than a year, he was more himself than ever, buzzing with anticipation and sugar-high. He grew out his hair more than usual, too, and started to dress better than most boys his age.

“Time to cut your hair soon, don’t you think?” I ask, ruffling a hand through his curls, but he swats my hand away with a scoff. 

“You sound like my mom. I think I look cool.” He hardly carries an ounce of self-consciousness in him now, after years of attempting to fit in with his class. Wear the same haircut. Wear the same clothes. Sit in the back of class and draw the least attention possible. What this year had done for him, I hadn’t a clue, but I had noticed subtle changes over the past several months. 

“Very cool,” I affirm. He smiles at me and doesn’t cover his smile like he used to, even with strawberry staining his lips, dripping down his chin. He grabs another from the gingham cloth between us that’s soaked in red. “You seem happy lately.”

He ponders for a moment, washing the tips of his fingers in the fountain at our side. Dozens of pennies rest a couple inches below, several of which have been thrown by us. We never shared the wishes out loud. “I am happy lately,” he says.

“You’re more confident, too.”

This, too, he mulls over, like I’m asking true or false questions and it’s his job to determine which. “I guess so, yeah,” he says, squinting at me. “Need to point out anything else?”

“Smart-ass,” I scoff, shoving his arm so that he teeters but not enough to fall in with the pennies. “I don’t know. I’m just proud of you. You’re, like, growing up.” I pop another strawberry past my lips to stop myself from sounding like a fool. 

But he’s more amused than anything. “That’s what happens. You’re, like, growing up, too,” he mocks me, but after a beat he continues, “It’s helped to have you around. And all the guys. Acting like everyone else all the time was exhausting, especially when I didn’t like half the people I was trying to emulate. You guys were so much more yourselves, and I realized I admire that more than conformity.”

I smile at him, my stomach full of the sugary sweetness of strawberries and pride. “I’m glad,” I tell him, and he’s blushing crimson but still doesn’t hide himself away. 

“The cherries are really good in May, you know?” he mentions. I wonder where he gained all his knowledge about what fruits are in season. Maybe his parents used to bring him here, or they still bring home fresh blueberries or oranges or pears depending on the month. 

“What’re you implying?” I raise my eyebrows, chew another strawberry, swallow. 

“That this is fun, and we should do it more often instead of just April. And I like cherries. That was implied, too.”

He’s acting nonchalant, trying to mimic the lazy breeze that blows past, but I know Jeongin enough to notice his ticks, including the way he scratches at his right ear when he’s nervous. That much has stayed the same, despite all he’s grown. He’s still just a boy—a high school boy with a crush. 

I purse my lips, leaning back on my hands. Palms press into the mosaic of glass that makes up the ledge of the fountain. “Yeah, we can buy some cherries next week.”

“Great,” he beams. His fidgeting stops. He thinks I haven’t noticed. 

“Are you at least brave enough to call it a date?” I ask.

The blush returns, red as strawberries, and he won’t meet my eyes anymore. “What? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Crushes have asked Jeongin on dates in the past, but he’s never had the nerve to do it himself. Even now, he’d rather I take the hint than confront him.

“Oh, come on!” I shake my head. “You’re old enough now to ask someone on a date and own up to it.”

He glares, eyes squinted at me like I’m an older sibling trying to embarrass him in public. 

“If it walks like a date and talks like a date, it must be a date,” I say.

“That’s not the expression. It’s duck, not date,” he counters. Of course.

“Am I wrong?” I press. “Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll drop the subject, and we can get cherries next week as friends. Pals. Buddies. Comrades. Chums.”

“I get it,” he interrupts. “You’re not wrong. I like spending time with you. A lot. Especially when it’s just me and you without school or the other guys around, which seems to mean that I like you.” 

“If it walks like a crush and talks like a crush—”

“Would you stop making fun of me?” he whines, but I never have, and I don’t plan to anytime soon. “Just...say yes or no, please.”

“Yes or no to what?” I feign stupidity, and the agony is apparent in his eyes, but

I want him to ask—to really ask, because I’ve been waiting for this day too long to half-ass the moment.

“You’re killing me,” he says, and I grin, which seems to put him at ease because his shoulders loosen and he grabs one of my hands before he asks, with the most sweetly pleading voice that makes my chest ache, “Will you go on a date with me next Sunday?”

“Of course, Innie.” I laugh. He’s wearing the most endearing smile and it suits him so well that I want—not for the first time—to kiss him. I have been eyeing his strawberry-marked lips for weeks, before this year’s strawberry season began. “I’m only upset you didn’t ask sooner.”

“Sooner?” His eyes widen so slightly. “How long have you been waiting?”

I pause, my heart picking up speed, and I pop another piece of fruit into my mouth to stall for an answer. “How long have you been waiting?”

“I asked first.”

I snort. “Are we five years old?” 

“Looks like it,” he says, pointedly, and I have no rebuttal, leaving me with no choice but to curse under my breath and admit the truth.

“A few months, maybe. Especially the last few weeks. Since you turned eighteen, you’ve just been...you. I like it.”

“You like me?” he clarifies. Now he’s the one trying to leave me in agony.

“I like you,” I say, and my boldness makes him blush instead, but I’m still eager to turn the attention back on him. “Your turn. How long?”

“I can’t remember, really.” He fidgets, scared to look directly at me because of how bright his face is. “Seungmin has been teasing me about my crush on you for a while — a couple months at least. I think it’s been coming for a long time.”

I think of all the classes where we sat together, even if we never had the chance to talk. Presence was the only thing we asked of the other. And there was the time, years ago, when he first asked me to come to the market and I was so, so eager for the extra time with him that I can home and told my mom straight away. I might’ve told her it was a date, and I might’ve sulked for some weeks after because it, apparently, had not been. 

“Yeah,” I agree. “I think it has.”

There are a couple awkward moments of silence stretching between us, begging to be broken, but we are trying so hard to get used to the new atmosphere, to accustom to the tangible shift in the surrounding air. 

“We could call this a date, if we want,” I propose, eventually. 

He blinks and says, a little dumbly, “But we’re almost out of fruit.”

There are only two strawberries left on the cloth, I realize, taking one for myself while pressing the last between his lips, which he takes with seemingly practiced ease. “What do we do on our dates once we run out of fruit?”

“I didn’t think that far ahead,” he admits. This is uncharted ground for us: spending time alone without the addition of strawberries to occupy our fingers and our mouths. 

“Me neither,” I second, shoving the stained gingham cloth into my bag and standing from the fountain’s edge. I extend a hand, and Jeongin doesn’t hesitate to reach and hold on. He doesn’t let go once he gets up. 

“Then let’s find out.” 

note - i should be writing a paper on the industrial revolution and marxism but i wanted to write about jeongin and strawberries instead and it was an excellent decision 

[longsightmyth]

Myth Reads The Naming Chapter-by-Chapter, Chapter 22

PELLINOR

The title of this chapter is The First Circle of Norloch, which we already know is going to be filled with dicks. Also penises, because, well.

Saliman has decided to basically be the Cadvan to Hem’s Maerad, convincing him to bathe and wear clean clothes and go get a haircut. Since Saliman and Hem are doing that and Cadvan and Nelac are out, presumably trying to gather support for council reasons, Maerad tries to entertain herself.

She tries to take in the sights of the first circle but can’t concentrate, and in Norloch even the libraries are run by pompous glaring people so she heads back to Nelac’s. There, Brin (Nelac’s housemaster) brings her lunch in her room and leaves her.

Finally Maerad gets dressed for the council meeting, taking Cadvan’s advice to dress formally and wear her sword and her lily brooch. She’s super nervous, and Cadvan, when he comes to pick her up, takes the time to assure her that if the council is full of idiots it’s not her fault.

She feels better remembering everything she and Cadvan have gone through but not totally over it, and doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes on the way to the chamber of the First Circle. Her dread grows as they walk up the table (think Return of the King’s Hall of the Steward but with more gold accoutrement for the setting here)

Maerad is mesmerized by the shiny thing at the center of the meeting table but finally looks up to see Enkir, First Bard of Norloch.

She knew that face. She had seen it before.

The world shattered into pieces around her, whirling into a storm of confused images. Maerad collapses to the floor, but she was not aware of Cadvan and Saliman bending over her in alarm, nor of the murmured consternation of the other Bards.

The towers of Pellinor were burning.

Maerad falls into a flashback. Pellinor is being sacked and her mother is carrying her out.

“Don’t cry, Maerad,” her mother whispered in her ear. “There’s my brave girl.”

[Maerad] looked into her mother’s face, glimmering whitely in the darkness. Milana was not afraid. Her face was smirched with ash, grim with despair and grief. But she was not afraid. She was hard and beautiful as adamant. Maerad swallowed her tears.

Milana, when Maerad asks, says they will talk about her father later. Maerad was hoping for another answer, since she saw her father killed by a mace, and asks after Cai (Hem). Milana says their friend Branar has him and they’re meeting up in a set of caves, but she needs Maerad to be very quiet right now. Eventually Milana has to put Maerad down, and they keep running through the empty streets of Pellinor. Eventually they make it through a rarely-used and locked door at the walls.

But somebody was waiting for them outside the door.

“Where are you going, Milana of Pellinor?” A tall shape loomed in the darkness. Milana gasped and pulled Maerad closer to her. [Maerad] heard the whisper of metal as Milana drew her sword. The voice laughed softly.

“Don’t think that any blade will wound me.”

“Enkir.” Milana’s voice wobbled with relief, and then she stood straighter, and the darkness around them was illuminated by a silver light, blooming softly from Milana. “What are you doing here?”

Enkir demands again to know where she’s going (and where her son is), and Milana starts to get suspicious and lashes out with magic instead of her sword. Maerad feels the magic battle for a second, and Milana apparently breaks through Enkir’s defenses enough to realize that Enkir arranged for the destruction of Pellinor. He goes on a rant about childish bards and manages to grab Maerad instead of trying to fight Milana as Milana expects. Enkir threatens to kill Maerad unless Milana tells him where Cai is, and Milana, though clearly desperate and freaking out about it, finally says that she has seen Enkir’s mind and he’s going to kill her and Maerad anyway, so no.

Enkir says that if she has then she’ll know that not killing them will amuse him, and Maerad cries and begs her mother not to let him hurt her when he cuts her a little bit.

Milana caves in the face of her daughter’s tears and blood, and tells Enkir where Cai might be but that she doesn’t know for sure. He lets Maerad go, but…

He strode forward and grabbed Milana’s chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. Maerad looked up in panic. What was he doing to her mother? Enkir’s eyes stabbed red flames, and Milana didn’t seem able to move, staring transfixed at his blazing eyes and shaking all over. Suddenly she collapsed, and all the light went out of her. Maerad stood trembling by Milana, staring dumbstruck at the tall man. He was standing over Milana’s body, his face still shiny with sweat. He ignored Maerad completely, as if she weren’t there.

“That’s the end of you, Milana of Pellinor,” he said, breathing hard. “There’s a lesson in that. How easy it is to break your paltry kind!” He wiped his face with his hand and spat on the ground. “You’ll make a slave, anyway. Not much of a slave.” He kicked Milana’s body, smiling with such malignancy that Maerad hid her face in terror, feeling the roaring in her ears, her world spinning, breaking, spinning…

She wakes up and keeps laying on the floor for a minute, considering everything and thinking about how her mother had been so lifeless up until Milana actually died at the cot and how Maerad had thought Milana had just refused to try and hated her for it (if you remember she compared Silvia and Milana waaaaaaay back), and decides that she hates Enkir and that she was glad her mind protected her for as long as it did.

If she had let herself remember that - the merciless breaking of Milana, the malice of Enkir, her own childish terror - she would have gone mad. But now she knew, and she would not go mad.

Cadvan gets her some water, and she stands up and is too angry to be nervous anymore. She covers it pretty well, apologizing and saying she was just overwhelmed at the idea of being here. Cadvan pretty clearly knows something’s up, but he and Saliman have to report to the council.

They do so, and Cadvan adds to his other notes (which Enkir questions the whole way) the observation that the Winterking is back on his bullshit.

“Always you were impulsive, Cadvan of Lirigon, and apt to leap where the more wise might pause and see an abyss.” [Enkir said]

“Do you claim that I lie?” said Cadvan. He seemed calm, almost serene, but Maerad sensed an overwhelming anger rising within him. There was a tense pause, and then Enkir smiled again.

“I would not have the temerity to say any such thing,” he answered smoothly. “I say only that what you suggest is unlikely in the extreme. The Winterking, the Nameless: such figures are shadows from a child’s tale of fear. I think, for all your well-meaning enthusiasm, that you are mistaken, Cadvan of Lirigon.”

The insult was clear, and Maerad saw a faint flush in Cadvan’s cheek. He took Enkir’s eye and held it, and it seemed the two wrestled together, although neither moved. Maerad held her breath. They were alike. She could not say how. Her heart hammered painfully in her breast.

… “Your arrogance will be your downfall, Cadvan of Lirigon,” [Enkir] said, and his voice was icy with rage. “It takes no Seer to prophesy that.”

After a super long and super awkward silence (written thusly: “The Nine seemed all to be inspecting their fingernails, except for Nelac, whose face betrayed exasperation”) one of the first circle is finally like ‘well this is not the first I’ve heard of hulls wandering around so maybe we can start with that at least’.

Anyway, Cadvan launches into the explanation about Maerad being the Foretold despite her attempted stares of ‘stop opening your mouth’, presumably misunderstanding and thinking it’s just her being nervous again.

And then Maerad starts thinking.

Maerad’s heart shrank, colder and colder, as he spoke. She saw Enkir shooting glances at her, and each glance was deadly. How could Cadvan not know?

Suddenly, with a blinding shock at her own folly, she remembered what had been nagging her earlier. Cadvan had known one of the Hulls who attacked them in the Broken Teeth on the Edinur Downs. Likud. That was his name. What had he said? Think we have forgotten, Cadvan, how eagerly you studied the secrets of the Dark?

Maerad stopped listening and sank into a black reverie. Was Cadvan a traitor as well? Her soul felt as if it were dying within her, but she bleakly followed her thoughts. Treachery was what had killed her mother; if she wasn’t careful, it could be the cause of her own death as well. Maybe Cadvan and Enkir were rivals in the service of the Dark; maybe that was the real source of the enmity between them. And if so, she was trapped, a trophy to be bartered between them, until such time as she was no longer useful.

She suddenly felt unutterably lonely, more lonely than even in the worst days at Gilman’s Cot. She was on her own now. As she had always been, since her mother was murdered: murdered twice, she thought bitterly, once by Enkir, and once by Gilman. No, she had Hem, at least she had Hem.

Now she had to find Hem and get out of Norloch, out of Enkir’s clutches. Could she trust Cadvan? She always had; but perhaps the friendship he had shown her had all been sham, a pretense to lull her into his power. How well did she know him, really?

The council, amidst sexism and general sideeyeing of Cadvan and Saliman and by extension Nelac, votes 5-4 against installing Maerad as a full Bard and therefore against acknowledging her as the Foretold.

Maerad had listened to the debate indifferently. It no longer mattered to her whether she was instated or not. She felt a bile rising in her throat, a hatred of all these men, a hatred of Enkir most of all — Enkir, the most treacherous. He was, she thought, out of place at a round table; he should be in a high seat with his minions at the level of his knees.

All the Bards stood and bowed, and wordlessly Maerad, Cadvan, and Saliman left the Crystal Hall. Behind her, Maerad heard the Bards sit down again, their voices rising in argument.

She paced dully through the streets of the First Circle, blind to the beauty around her. Her thoughts made her feel nauseous. If Cadvan was a traitor, she felt that she couldn’t bear it. But how could she trust him now?

End chapter

THRONE OF GLASS

Chapters 49 and 50

When last we saw our intrepid protagonist, she was writhing on the ground after being poisoned and using an inferior staff to fight a super evil dude. Also, possibly there were demons.

We reopen on basically the same events but now we’re in Dorian’s PoV.

Dorian watched in wide-eyed terror as Celaena thrashed on the ground, waving away things they couldn’t see. What was happening? Had there been something in that wine? But there was also something abnormal about the way Cain just stood there, smiling. Was there … was there actually something there that they couldn’t see?

She screamed. It was the most horrible noise he’d ever heard. “Stop it, now,” he said to Chaol as his friend rose from his spot near the ring. But Chaol only gaped at the flailing assassin, his face pale as death.

She kicked and punched at nothing as Cain squatted over her and hit her in the mouth. Blood flowed freely. It wouldn’t stop until his father said something or Cain knocked her truly unconscious. Or worse. He had to remind himself that any interference—even trying to say that her wine had been drugged—might result in her disqualification.

How’s that gonna help Celaena if Cain kills her, Dorian?

Anyway Nehemia is off to the side, Dorian notices, tracing little symbols in the air. I’d like to take this moment to point out that later people are doing stupid things like using their own blood despite being demonstrably able to write wyrdmarks in dirt and chalk, but it’s even STUPIDER now that we have the reminder that you can trace them in THIN AIR.

Anyway. Dorian stands paralyzed with fear as Cain keeps going after Celaena, and we cut to the self-same assassin’s PoV.

She would die soon.

Light and darkness. Life and death. Where do I fit in?

The thought sent a jolt through her so strong that her hands fumbled for anything to use against him. Not like this. She’d find a way—she could find a way to survive.

Instead of Celaena finding a way, Elena busts through to save her with magic and feral snarls and a crown of stars. I’ll talk about the weird shift from Elena-as-savior in the first three books to the sudden  Elena-is-a-manipulative-conniving-dick in later books in the comparison, probably. Apparently she drives back the armies of the dead (unspecified dead mentioned twice: it might have been interesting if Celaena was hallucinating or even actually seeing the spirits of people she murdered, but no, otherwise they’re just demons). I will also discuss Celaena deciding she needs to save herself and promptly being saved by deus ex machina instead. (to quote Elliot Schafer of In Other Lands by Sarah Rees Brennan, a much better YA novel that doesn’t deserve to be dragged into this but here we are anyway: ...with golden hair, as if Nature had said, “No worries, buddy, I gotcha, no nasty tiring thinking will ever be necessary, also have a crown.”)

Anyway, Cain overwhelms Elena after she magics the poison out of Celaena because sure why not.

The poison left Celaena’s body.

Cain, once again a man of flesh and blood, walked over to the sprawled assassin.

Pain, pain, pain. Pain from her leg, from her head, from her shoulder and arm and ribs …

“Stand,” Elena whispered again, and was gone. The world appeared.

Cain was close, not a trace of shadow around him. Celaena lifted the jagged remnant of the staff in her hand. Her gaze cleared.

And so, struggling and shaking, Celaena stood.

End chapter. Next chapter!

Celaena’s right leg could barely support her, but she gritted her teeth and rose. She squared her shoulders as Cain halted.

The wind caressed her face and swept her hair behind her in a billowing sheet of gold. I will not be afraid. A mark burned on her forehead in blinding blue light.

“What’s that on your face?” Cain asked. The king rose, his brows narrowed, and nearby, Nehemia gasped.

With her aching, almost useless arm, she wiped the blood from her mouth. Cain growled as he swung his sword, making to behead her.

Celaena shot forward, as fast as an arrow of Deanna.

Cain’s eyes went wide as she buried the jagged end of the staff in his right side, exactly where Chaol had said he would be unguarded.

Blood poured onto her hands as she yanked it out, and Cain staggered back, clutching his ribs.

She forgot pain, forgot fear, forgot the tyrant who stared at the burning mark on her head with dark eyes. She leapt back a step and sliced open Cain’s arm with the broken end of the staff, ripping through muscle and sinew. He swatted at her with his other arm, but she moved aside, cutting the limb as well.

He lunged, but she dashed away. Cain sprawled upon the ground. She slammed her foot into his back, and as he lifted his head, he found the knife-sharp remnant of the staff pressed against his neck.

“Move, and I’ll spill your throat on the ground,” she said, her jaw aching.

Celaena won a fight, y’all! Somehow! With a broken piece of staff! That she uses like an edged knife!

I mean. I guess at least she won. Is it bad form of me to quibble about the likelihood of a broken staff being sharp enough to slit a throat or slice through skin and muscle before the battle-hardened and experienced person you’re threatening does something else? It probably is. Ignore me. Celaena won a fight!

Cain yields and the king grudgingly declares Celaena the winner. Nehemia faints.

Celaena made a move to her friend, but her legs gave out, and she fell to the tiles. Dorian, as if released from a spell, dashed to her, throwing himself to his knees beside her, murmuring her name again and again.

But she barely heard him. Huddled on the ground, hot tears slid down Celaena’s face. She’d won. Through the pain, Celaena began laughing.

I guess we’ll just forget about Nehemia? Okay then.

Swap to Dorian’s PoV, where he insists that Celaena needs a healer.

Carefully putting his arms around Celaena, Dorian glanced toward Kaltain and Perrington [wondering who had drugged Celaena]. In doing so, he missed the look exchanged between Cain and his father. The soldier pulled out his dagger.

But Chaol saw. Cain raised his dagger to strike the girl in the back. Without thinking, without understanding, Chaol leapt between them and plunged his sword through Cain’s heart.

Blood erupted everywhere, showering Chaol’s arms, his head, his clothes. The blood reeked, somehow, of death and decay. Cain fell, hitting the ground hard.

The world became silent. Chaol watched the last breath issue from Cain’s mouth, watched him die. When it was over and Cain’s eyes stopped seeing him, Chaol’s sword clattered to the ground. He dropped to his knees beside Cain, but didn’t touch him. What had he done?

Chaol couldn’t stop staring at his blood-soaked hands. He’d killed him.

“Chaol,” Dorian breathed. In his arms, Celaena had gone utterly still.

“What have I done?” Chaol asked him. Celaena made a small noise and began shaking.

Apparently the active and actively bodyguarding captain of the royal guard of a nearly universally hated conquering tyrant killed somebody for the first time here. All of my questions could have been answered if he was a favorite given a bureaucratic and ceremonial position by his BFF the crown prince, but no, he’s supposed to be some hardened badass. Sure. Why not.

Dorian ruminates on how he doesn’t care about anything but Celaena now as he carries her to her rooms, because fuck Nehemia and his BFF I guess.

Kaltain’s PoV!

Kaltain suddenly picks up the idiot ball and demands to know why the poison didn’t work and actually says the phrase, “The damned poison I gave her.”

This is when I began to suspect that these books would never give me a political badass even if I asked really nicely, by the way.

Anyway Perrington and the king disclaim any knowledge of the scheme they hatched and used Kaltain to perpetrate and have her tossed in the dungeons, trial unnecessary, which is weirdly the only thing I applaud in this whole book. Evil conquering tyrant kings who run an entire continent and have demon helpers don’t have to explain why. It’s the only real demonstration of the king of Adarlan’s power over people in these books.

To the comparison!

COMPARISON

Hey look Pellinor continues to give everyone names, underlining the theme that everyone is important and worthy of respect and seemingly unimportant people can change the course of the world or whatever.

Hey look ToG continues to do no weaponry research and say ‘fuck Nehemia’. I shouldn’t be surprised, but the way Celaena talks about her in later books it’s a lot more like they actually hung out and cared about each other’s fates so it’s still kind of shocking how little of a damn Celaena and the book gives about her.

On that note, I’d like to compare Celaena’s immediate and unquestioning mistrust of Nehemia to Maerad’s new questioning of Cadvan and Everything He Has Ever Done.

On the one hand, okay, Celaena maybe has some compelling evidence at the time to suggest that Nehemia is working against the king of Adarlan and possibly killing some of his enforcers. But like. I still don’t know why she cares? It’s not even framed as ‘oh shit she’s gonna get herself and maybe me killed’ it’s like ‘but why would Nehemia work against the oppressive conquering machine?!’

And then she’s not. Or I mean she is, but not in that particular instance.

Maerad, on the other hand, has a sudden number of cluebats driven into her skull. Her interpretation of them might maybe be a little off, but nonetheless she was just bombarded with a shitton of memories and she KNOWS bards can be evil without being hulls. Isn’t it a tad convenient that Cadvan showed up to pick her up from slavery? Isn’t it a little weird that he keeps telling all and sundry about how she’s probably the Foretold despite telling her not to tell anybody? Even Silvia didn’t want Maerad riding off with him. Isn’t it funny how the hulls all know his name? Literally everyone comments on Cadvan’s previous dealings with the dark, even Dernhil.

I also appreciate how this doesn’t drive her immediately into trusting anybody else, because if Cadvan can betray her she is fucked. She knows there are different levels of evil, from petty every day to world ending to mid-range. I appreciate how she considers that Cadvan and Enkir might both be evil but competing.

This is a girl who hasn’t had anyone to depend on since her mother’s brain and soul were broken magically AND whose father was murdered. The two strongest people in her life (and what little we have seen of them and how people talk about them, we know both of them were incredibly strong personalities on top of being magically and physically strong. Milana looked a dude holding her child hostage straight in the eye, measured the odds, and told him to his face that she knew he was going to kill them anyway. It’s only after Maerad, a single-digits child who clearly thought her mother could solve everything, begged, that Milana gave in) died in ways they shouldn’t have been able to. How is Maerad safe?

She’s got Hem and maybe Silvia, and love how Maerad takes all of the information that she just got, assesses it, and immediately decides exactly who she can trust and who she wants to save and comes up with exactly one at 100%. It may be weird to love that and hate Dorian’s decision that nobody and nothing matters to him outside of Celaena, but here we are.

STATS

Throne of Glass

Pages: 11

Fragments: 21

Em-Dashes: 26

Ellipses: 10

Pellinor

Pages: 18

Fragments: 12

Em-Dashes: 5

Ellipses: 9

[everyonesawhoregrace]

The Birmingham Journalist

Chapter 2 - Why

Where Joan Cooke reenters Thomas Shelby’s life. But instead of being his lover like so many years ago, she is the cities journalist. 

“Do you remember me, Tommy?”

“I never forgot.” 

We don’t make it far in each other’s hands before I slip away and stop walking behind him. He grits his teeth, the both of us standing on their sides of the wall, staring at each other. The office stills, everyone scared of the man before my eyes. Doors shut, and gazes are lowered.

“You’ve lost some weight, Joan.” He talks to me like it strains him, as if he cant get over the fact that I’m really here.

Well guess what love, I’m here.

“And you have too.” I bite back, noticing that he actually looks perfectly healthy. If anything, he’s bulked up quite a bit, looks handsome even. Christ, here I go.

“No, I look normal, you look-” He weakly mentions my state.

Yes. I have lost a bit of weight, but with the wedding and the stress of him moving to America for work. I wasn’t eating as much as I probably should be. I’m starting to look like skin to bones, which is completely true, even mum, who can’t even remember her first name sometimes thinks I’ve lost weight. But, I’ve been working on gaining it back. That I can assure you.

“Fuck off, Thomas.”

His eyes move from each body part of mine before making their way up. Hunger fills his eyes. Still, he noticed my obvious shift in emotions, I’ve always been insecure about my body, something he helped a lot with. 

“What are you doing back?”

“I got a good job, one that pays good and London was not offering.” My eyes missed his, and everything about him, I quickly learn, I missed tremendously. “Who told you I was back?”

“Johnny-Dogs said he saw you leaving the train coming here. Polly kind of confirmed it, said she had one of her dreams. Said it was about you being back in Birmingham. And Curly of course was ecstatic.” Thomas smiles small. “He said he had a hunch a lady I knew would come back to haunt me.”

Johnny-Dogs, Pol and Curly, I wonder how those guys are doing. Especially Polly Gray.

I place my hands behind my back, watching Thomas smile before he frowns. “Did you miss me, then?”

He fixes his eyes on mine. “You gave me an ultimatum and then left me the day after I proposed to you...”

Ouch. But all so true. I almost wince, I was just being as hurtful as he was towards me. And if anything, that ultimatum was to help him.

“You didn’t answer my question.” I remark.

“Where were you for the past six years?” He asks in a breathy voice. One that says: yes. I missed you.

“That’s a story for another day,” I lick my lips, in need of a smoke.

Oh, he’ll have a field day when he sees me with a cigarette between my lips. When we were adolescents, and he smoked a pack a day, I would always annoy him about how awful they smelt.

The past six years, my goodness. I met the man of my dreams and more, dad died, my sister had four kids with four different men, we no longer speak. Mums got dementia, and I found out that I can’t reproduce, but married the man of my dreams and more. I went to school for writing, landed a small job in London before applying for work here. When I got the job, I left London and csme bsck.

I can feel my eyes shift to his, blood rushing throughout me as if I’ve been awakened again with him. I also spent six years trying to get over you, Thomas.

I wonder if I ever even fell out of love with him, feeling my heart swell up. Just like it had so many years ago. He’s aged quite a bit, but in a way that makes me want him even more. The haircut is new, and even though it’s very new, it’s also very handsome.

He’s still got those hollow cheeks and a face that can put anyone else to shame.

Even though I know I shouldn’t, I picture my beloved Dennis beside his face. Dennis, whose got rosy cheeks and ginger hair. Dennis Thompson, he’d probably lose his mind if he found out I were feeling this way about my ex. Especially with a man like Thomas, who I had told him about on many occasions. I fondly recall Dennis telling me that Tommy was no good for me. That I deserve better.

But as I stare into his eyes, I wonder for myself if that’s true. Am I better than Tommy Shelby?

I get lost in those blue eyes, feeling compelled to be in his arms again. Because I missed home, and that’s who he is behind that wall he’s got built up. He’s home.

“What are you doing back?” Weak this time, and almost as if to ask me to leave. He reaches for me, his fingertips cold against my hot skin.

I inhale sharply, stepping back until I am against the wall. Thomas seized the moment, moving right in front of me. He presses a hand to the side of my face, his fingers lightly massaging my scalp. “I’ve spent so many years trying to get you out of my head, Joan. And finally when I think I told myself to forget, you’re back.”

I press my hand against his, swallowing. “Don’t say that...”

“You broke my heart. What else do I say?”

You broke mine! “You became this soulless gang-“

“I was doing things that I felt I had no choice doing. I needed to keep my family safe.” His other hand falls against my other cheek, lightly caressing me. He tilts my head up, making my knees go weak.

He still gives me those eyes, like I’m the only one he sees.

“I’ve spent-“ Thomas catches himself, he looks pained. “I’ve spent six years waiting for this day to come and now that it finally has, all I can think of to do is kiss you.”

My eyes widen, as I drift off to his lips. His words make their way throughout my body: all I think of to do is kiss you.

My God, I want you so bad.

I inch closer, our chests brushing as the air between us gets thick. He doesn’t let go of my cheeks, and I don’t let go of his hand that cradles the side of my face.

I feel weak under his touch. Why did I come back, finally asking myself. Why? Was it because of the job, I had no reason at all to even apply in Birmingham. I had no reason. Nothing fuelling me. Right?

I feel his hands under mine and run my fingers over the softness. People, they come and go but Thomas has been nothing but the best. As I look into his eyes, I know the reason I chose to come here, it was him. Because not a single moment went by that I wasn’t thinking about this man. And we once gave ourselves to each other, but failed to piece one another back. Throughout those six years, I knew I would always come back to him. And now, as I ache in anticipation, do I finally flutter my eyes shut before swallowing. 

“Kiss me, Tom.” I whisper.

He ducks his head down, tilting his head as he shuts his eyes. I get on my toes and lightly kiss him back before we part. Electrifying tingles make their way into my body, it’s as if I’m seeing life in colour now.

It took one kiss. 

“I need to go.” His voice is raspy and deep, making my insides heat up in protest. “I’ll find you tonight. Okay?”

“Okay.” Nodding, I wither away from his touch. Don’t go, my insides beg and plead. 

Sometimes I need to convince myself to turn my cheek, and most times I don’t listen to myself. But today, right now, I know I should. So I walk away from him, knowing that this is totally, completely wrong. 

[myfearless-love]

A Trip to Your Heart

Summary:  Emma Swan is forging a devious plan to save the sanity of her best friend, Mary Margaret, or at least to stop her form quoting those stupid swashbuckling pirate tales. The core of her plan is to hunt down and neutralize the internet famous writer, dashingpiratecaptain aka Killian Jones. But soon her ideas go down the drain, because she certainly hasn’t counted on developing feelings for the man whose entire writing career she is about to destroy.

Rating: M

Word count: ~8.2k

Also on: FF.net and AO3

A/N: I’m so excited to finally share this little story with all of you!! It’s my first time participating in something like this so I’m hoping you’ll like the fic I created for this wonderful event. A huge thanks to @captainswanbigbang for organizing all of this and bringing us fans all together!

A big ass thanks to my my beta @1handedpiratewithadrinkingprob for helping me throughout creating this story and making sure that what I wrote is actually making sense and is presentable for all of you to read!

And an enormous thanks to @katie-dub who created ths kick-ass and beautiful art for my fic! Check out her art HERE And if you’re there, check out her other works because she’s super talented!

A Trip to Your Heart

Why is it that people always want the things they don't actually need?

This is the million dollar question Emma is pondering on as she sits down on one of the beach chairs with a rum-based cocktail in hand, christened as Salty Dog for some reason. She feasts her eyes on the open water and endless white sand as the wind is playing with the ends of her hair and the salt water is gently spraying her face – it's something she's absolutely not used to in the crowded and hectic city of New York.

She's aware that people must be giving her strange looks as they pass by her and she can hardly blame them. Her attire practically screams she's not really dressed for the beach: the frame of her big, red sunglasses almost cut a hole through her straw hat, her upper body is wrapped in a thin yellow blouse (its shade is so vivid that Emma is sure the material would glow in the dark) and her long legs are covered with a long, black summer skirt. The largest surface on her skin that remains uncovered are her feet, and not intentionally. She fell asleep on the ferry here, and in her hurry to get off the vessel she forgot to put her sandals back on.

Walking all the way here on the hot pavement and sand was quite a pain in the ass but what could she have done? She wanted her drink more.

Despite her looks, her brain is functioning quite well, but as it happens, she needs to make a certain someone believe otherwise. This person is called dashingpiratecaptain and she's been working on hunting him down for over a year now.

She's incredibly annoyed it took her this long to finally find him, considering she does this for a living on a daily basis.

The first time dashingpiratecaptain, or in short, KJ (as he usually signs his thank you comments) appeared on her radar was last June. He is considered a veteran writer in the world of online writing and his stories are a favorite of her best friend. Such original works emerged from his keyboard like The Crimson Flag, Isle of the Black Sand, Give No Quarter. If the titles and his username didn't make it clear, he specializes in pirate stories spiced with black humor.

Like really bloody pirate stories.

Mary Margaret is completely hooked on them. After a while, she just started vomiting quotes from his works, even during breakfast, which very nearly made Emma climb the walls of their shared apartment in annoyance and exasperation.

(She really can't wait for her brother to finally pop the question and have the flat all to herself).

Now imagine a twenty-something woman with a pixie haircut as she jabs her fork into her scrambled eggs and shouts "Avast ye, landlubbers! 'Tis cackle fruit is for me liking!"

Of course, Emma's first thought was to find a shrink as soon as possible (and the second to look up what the hell Mary Margaret said).

Her acquaintance, Archie Hopper, who is actually a therapist, said that there's nothing wrong with the brunette – her fanaticism, while a little intense, is still normal. Emma would beg to differ though, and she doesn't really want to imagine then what counts as 'not-normal' in Hopper's dictionary.

So the whole parade with the stupid pirate stories and references just went on. Just before the end of summer and the start of their last year in college, Emma's least favorite writer published his newest creation named 'Honor Among Thieves' which is about a brunette bandit woman who tries to seek passage on a pirate ship to escape being hanged by the authorities.

Let's just say that Mary Margaret felt a strong connection with this character pretty quickly. By November, almost her entire wardrobe was replaced with white (it's the character's favorite color apparently) and medieval looking clothes, and she all but stopped hanging out with others (except with her boyfriend and Emma obviously).

Nice words, threatening, stealing her laptop – none of that worked.

Emma felt like her friend was slowly withdrawing from reality, the only thing she wanted to talk about were these stupid swashbuckling tales.

So Emma decided she needed to single-handedly remove the source of the problem – alias dashingpiratecaptain.

But how?

First, know your enemy. The most effective way of getting close to a writer, she suspected, is through his works. So she read. A lot.

KJ got one or two brownie points from her – she found his jokes original, the mood of the stories were enjoyably twisted, the ratings were fairly correct.

In truth, there was not much she could hold against him except what he did to her best friend. But that alone demanded retribution.

In the next step, she started adding comments to a few of his chapters, then after a bunch of praise, she decided it was time to bring in the big guns and composed a fan letter to him.

But soon their exchanging of emails turned into a regular thing. In the end, she found herself quite frequently enjoying their correspondence.

And what had she found out?

The following things in a nutshell:

He graduated in Natural Resource Recreation and Tourism (she didn't even know they teach these kinds of things).

He was born in a small town in England and moved to the States a few years ago (he didn't specify the reason).

He wanted to take tourists on his ship and sail the high seas but an accident (again, he didn't specify) had thrown a wrench in his plans.

He has an older brother.

He's the proud owner of three dogs - adopted from three different places (how admirable).

Besides writing, he likes hiking and playing his guitar.

The question then arises; what did he manage to learn about her in turn?

Well, only the fact that she is completely nuts.

In the midst of midterms and getting her degree in Criminal Justice, she didn't have the energy to keep up with all of her lies. So, she fed him a different tale each time. Eventually, she got tired of it and went absolutely bananas.

She thinks he enjoyed it.

Because why else would he continue to reply to her emails and agree to meet with her?

That is why she's spending her downtime under the burning sun and among an endless number of squealing children running free whilst trying to enjoy her alcoholic beverage. Apparently, KJ (or one of his relatives) owns a vacation home near this beach and he's currently spending the last days of July here with his brother and sister-in-law.

And so on impulse, Emma thought she could visit him. Because crazy people are supposed to be spontaneous, aren't they?

Her phone shows ten o'clock - exactly when their little 'date' is supposed to happen. For guidance, she described her huge sunglasses and glow-in-the-dark blouse. He said he would wear his favorite leather jacket - probably no one would be stupid enough to run around the beach in that kind of clothing except him.

She peeps around.

She has the image of the leather jacket in her mind down to its every thread, but the rest is shrouded in mystery. She hasn't the faintest idea of how he looks. Usually, she pictures him somewhere between Calico Jack and Jack Sparrow, with tanned skin and scars, maybe even with a parrot on his shoulder.

As she continues to wait for her target, she wills the last remaining ice cube from the bottom of her glass and pops it in her mouth.

"Warriorprincess?" a deep voice echoes behind her suddenly.

She throws her head back on the chair, and the straw hat she's been wearing flops down to the sand. A pair of insanely gorgeous blue eyes are blinking down at her, and she has to do a double take. She's so stunned that it takes her half a minute to realize that this freakishly good-looking man just called her by her own username.

Warriorprincess.

It sounded quite catchy when she first thought of it.

She leans her head back a little more to take a better look at the notorious dashingpiratecaptain, but the movement causes the ice cube in her mouth to slide backward on her tongue. She quickly turns on her side, gasping and choking, trying to overcome her shortness of breath. After she succeeds, she pushes herself up and accepts his hand when he gives it to her to help her stand up from the beach chair.

And that's when she realizes his other hand, covered in something that looks a lot like a black glove. Which is odd, because his right hand is bare, except a ring on his thumb.

Then she remembers something he wrote in one of his letters - a sailing accident.

Oh.

So, that must be a prosthesis.

"You okay, lass?"

She nods, embarrassed, both at almost choking on a stupid ice cube and because she was practically ogling his fake hand.

If he noticed, he doesn't comment.

"Killian Jones," he introduces himself instead.

She can barely force back the groan that is threatening to escape her mouth. It's not enough that he's freaking handsome with his perfectly disheveled midnight hair and dark scruff along his sharp jawline, he, of course, has to have an accent like that.

And she didn't even mention the glorious chest hair peeking out of his half unbuttoned shirt.

She forces a crazy smile onto her face. "Anna Clarke," Her favorite but unfortunately very much deceased tutor in the foster home probably doesn't mind if she borrows her name for a few hours. Taking on the personality of the woman who she always thought was dancing on the verge of craziness but was the friendliest and gentlest human being she met in her life was probably what Emma needs right now to pull off this entire scheme.

He removes his sweaty hand from hers. "I'll soon perish in this jacket…" he explains, adorably scratching a spot behind his ear and gracefully shrugs the leather off.

For a brief moment, she thinks he's going to get rid of his dark blue shirt too, mentally preparing for that eyegasm she's just sure she will be getting - but he only pops two more buttons.

He snatches her stuff from the sand and nods toward the buffets and other booths along the beach. "Shall we go?"

Although she doesn't have any clue where he's taking her, she follows as quickly as possible. She thinks she can actually hear her feet sizzling atop the hot sand and pavement as they reach the stores and stands selling souvenirs and other useless things.

Killian comes to a halt beside her. "Where are your shoes?"

"I have none. I'm experimenting with the hippie lifestyle."

"And how's that working out for you so far?"

"Pretty great."

He watches her with amusement in his eyes as she shifts from one foot to the other. Eventually, the heat gets unbearable and she's forced to flee into the coolness of a nearby store.

Killian marches after her and targets the sandal collection in the middle of the place.

"I'm good without shoes," she insists, pulling him back by the elbow before he can pick up a footwear.

She's about to sabotage his online writing career, she doesn't need the additional guilt in the mix.

"Then what will it be? Should I carry you on my back?" he gives her a once-over and in a low and teasing tone he adds: "Though, a herniotomy might be a tad more expensive than a new pair of sandals."

She huffs and snatches off her sunglasses, giving him her best fake death-glare. "Hah, I'll have you know I'm as light as a feather."

She's really tempted to call his bluff though, she would really like to test out his back muscles.

God, it has been far too long since she got laid. It makes her mind quite one-sided and distracts her from her main task and the reason she's actually here.

"The cheapest, then?" he bargains, pointing at a green one with an ugly ribbon on top. It's really repulsive and not at all her style, but his intense blue gaze and the fact that she very much prefers to have skin on the bottom of her feet decides for her.

She fishes out her wallet and completes her purchase so quick that even The Flash would get jealous, just so it wouldn't even cross Killian's mind to buy it for her.

Somehow she knows he would.

He only shakes his head and smiles as she slips her now empty purse back to its previous place. Her life, consisting of constantly running away and living on the streets had taught her to be thrifty, which means, beyond her travel cost she gave herself a $10 limit.

Looks like now she has to reach that five o'clock train, or else she can walk all the way back to her apartment.

She walks silently beside him and notices a deep frown across his forehead as he probably broods over something. They're strolling through the walkway alongside the beach. On their left, a multitude of vacation homes and a huge forest stretches out. The air is mixed with the scent of pine and the ocean and Emma inhales, closing her eyes in the process.

Only to open them when her stomach decides to play the sound of a dying whale. She feels her face heat up.

"Are you hungry?" Killian asks, a child-like enthusiasm hiding in his voice.

"You could say that." Clearly, that one grilled cheese she had in the morning wasn't enough to get her through the day.

"My sister-in-law likes to play Martha Stewart and usually makes enough food to feed an entire army, even if it's just the three of us now," he informs her, rambling. "They already know about you, so ah, they insisted I invite you… if you want that is." He finds that same spot behind his ear and Emma thinks it's a sure sign of his nervousness.

But his invitation kind of leaves her like a living statue, probably looking very much like the figure from the painting called The Scream. He watches her reaction and lets out a hearty laugh.

She doesn't join him in his fun.

Horror is taking residence on her face. Emma only prepared to spend a few hours with him alone - emphasis on alone. During that time she would somehow get her hands on his phone, delete all of his stories in secret, and change his password for good measure. She already knew he was kind of a lazy shit when it comes to his phone, always using the "remember me" function - and besides, it's his fetish to answer every critic as soon as humanly possible, so he checks each story on his phone twice a day.

Her plan would've been perfect. But she didn't count in the brother and in-law. How the hell is she supposed to screw over a great guy while his family is around?

He puts a tentative but encouraging hand on her shoulder. "Relax, love, they won't eat you alive."

Mary Margaret - she reminds herself. Her best friend's common sense and social life are on the table.

She will deal with her conscience later.

To keep her gloomy thoughts at bay, she inquires about the menu.

"Tomato soup, the good old Spaghetti Carbonara and ice cream for desserts," her stomach gives an appreciative gurgle at that line-up. "I wasn't sure about that particular type of pasta though because up until last month you were vegetarian," he considers. Fortunately for Emma, her sunglasses and hat are able to somewhat cover her grimace. Where the hell did these brilliant ideas of hers come from? "But last week you shared your experience about a new diner and their heavenly Buffalo wings, so…"

She flashes him a cryptic and maniacal smile. She thinks he's satisfied with her answer.

They come to a halt before a lovely, two-story house. On the other side of the fence, there are three dogs, currently playing the "who can bark louder" game. The smallest is a Bichon Bolognese, its fur all white like the snow, the middle - quite the chubby thing - is a light brown terrier of some sort (or so Emma guesses, not that she knows much about dogs, though, but one of her foster families had a similar looking one). And the last one - the biggest - is a three-legged mixed breed with beautiful dark fur. Killian mentioned that this one is the closest to his heart and now she can see why.

While Killian slips through the entrance to try and tame the wild beasts, Emma attempts to match the names with the dogs from his emails. She remembers rolling her eyes when she got to know what they are called - he clearly loves Peter Pan too.

She crouches down and the pudgy one tries to reach her with its tongue through the bars, wagging its tail in the process. "Jolly?" she guesses.

Its mate, the one that looks like a living cotton candy, goes absolutely ballistic by her presence, pacing anxiously up and down in front of her. "Smee?" At that. the dog stops and leaps, bouncing off the fence as it prevents the wild thing from attacking her.

"Smee!" Killian scolds, and the dog cowers at his commanding tone. Emma can actually imagine him as the persona he so likes to write about in his stories, the dashing pirate captain standing on the deck of his ship in all black ordering his crew around.

She shakes her head. Now is not the time for fantasies.

The other two mutts seem friendly enough - Roger, the black one, even glares at her with loving doe eyes. Emma decides to venture inside, and to her relief, none of them bite into her ankles.

"You were right. They didn't eat me alive," she nods.

"Yet. The worst is yet to come, love."

He lays his hand on the small of her back lightly as he guides her further on to the house. She can see a nicely set table on the veranda peeking through the many plants and flowers decorating the front of the house.

It looks quite cozy.

She takes a deep breath and starts taking off her accessories.

As she reaches up to remove her hat, her one size too small blouse rides up slightly at the movement, exposing a sliver of skin by her hip bones. Killian's attention is immediately drawn to the bared area.

"Stairs," she warns him.

But it's too late.

He trips, and in order to not land face first on the ground, he somehow leaps to the table and grabs onto it, pushing it away a good half meters in the process.

Emma looks up and there's a man, probably in his late thirties, standing in the doorway, shaking his head. From his expression, Emma assumes he's been standing there since the beginning of Killian's little stunt. "Now, now, little brother. I don't remember asking you to redecorate. That table was exactly in the right place."

Emma can see as two red spots appear on Killian's cheeks as he finds that spot behind his ear with his finger. "I'm going to help Elsa…" he grumbles and stumbles into the house.

Emma and the man shares an amused and conspiratorial glance. He puts down a bowl full of soup next to the vase on the table and shakes hands with her. "Liam Jones."

"Anna Clarke," she continues to promote her dead tutor's name further with her ever-growing shame. Lying to only Killian didn't seem like such a serious crime, but doing it to his family is another thing. "Thank you for the invitation and sorry for barging in on your vacation."

"Nonsense!" his blue eyes, a deeper shade than Killian's, are glowing with warmth and a smile stretches onto his face, peppered with light brown scruff. "My git of a brother was practically counting down the days and it's always good to see a fresh face around the house," The words leave his mouth like a jingling serenity, accent very much the same as his brother's, and she immediately feels welcome.

It certainly is a first.

From inside, light rock music starts to filter through. Liam whirls around just as Killian appears by the doorstep again and waves a black phone in front of his face. "Your mate, Robin, was calling you."

And suddenly like thunderbolt, the sight of the dark device reminds her of the reason for her visit: to remove all of KJ's writing from the cyberspace and change his password.

The thought sends a wave of nausea through her. She doesn't even realize as Liam's wife approaches her. "Are you alright?"

"Of course!" she almost yells, forcing a huge smile onto her face. She quickly thrusts out her hand. "I'm Anna Clarke."

"Elsa Arendelle-Jones," she gives Emma a smile and suddenly Elsa has her in a firm and friendly hug. Emma is so stunned that at first, she doesn't know what to do, but then her arms tentatively snake around the woman's shoulder. The gentle squeeze ended with the other woman's thorough examination of Emma's attire. "I like your style."

Emma feels a strong need of correcting her – not hers, it's Anna Clarke's, her evil and crazy side.

"My dearest sister-in-law," Killian growls beside them, though there's no heat behind his words. "Can you do me a favor and stop harassing our guest?"

Elsa elbows him in the ribs gently and Killian lets out a laugh. She really likes his deep melodic laugh, Emma decides, while the two continues to bicker like little siblings.

"Now," Liam claps his hands together. "Let's eat," he practically shoves her towards his brother and he graciously pulls out the chair for her next to him. "Eat as much as you like," he urges. "Don't be shy!"

Liam only seems satisfied when her plate is full to the brim with all kinds of food (Elsa really overdid herself). He's such a mother hen, Emma thinks. And also, the fact that she hasn't had a good home cooked meal since she could remember is probably written all over her face.

When the dessert is served, she draws whipped cream circles vigorously on her plate until the strawberry ice cream is completely lost under the white colored foam. Killian is quietly chuckling next to her and when his knee accidentally bumps with hers under the table, her hand jolts at the sudden body contact and a small amount of whipped cream lands on his face.

"Oops," she puts her hand theatrically to her mouth. Killian blinks at her in surprise and his family lets out a laugh simultaneously.

After his face is clean again and declares that he intends to get even with her, the topic of their conversation drifts to everyday life, especially where it concerns her. She would even enjoy the special attention if she wasn't burdened with forging lies upon lies. They are half-lies, in fact. She's really attending a university in New York, but instead of dorms, she's renting a decent apartment with her best friend. And although she did want to study law and become a lawyer, her scholarship was only enough to go through with criminal justice instead.

Emma is more and more certain that she must be one of the best at being undercover, if her current situation is any indication.

Or not.

By the time they are finished with the whole three-course meal and Killian showed her around the house, she is all fidgety – all the lies she created has piled up inside her and every time she recalls them, guilt cuts through her like a sharp blade.

She starts chanting her best friend's name in her head, willing her determination to find its way back to her.

It doesn't work, goddamnit.

Her stomach shrinks with fear – her resolve is nowhere to be found.

What the freaking hell is she doing here?

She's jolted out of her thoughts by a light touch on her forearm. A soft smile is dancing at the corner of Killian's lips as he looks at her and all she wants to do is fling herself into his arms and confess her sins.

"Did you bring swimming suit?" he inquires and she nods. "Then let's go back to the beach!"

After she stutters her gratitude for the invitation to his brother and sister-in-law, Killian links their arms and drags her out of the house.

All the way to the seashore she's studying her blood red toenails as Killian walks beside her silently, his hand occasionally brushing hers in the process.

She doesn't mind the close proximity.

She's gradually becoming very aware of how much she's grown to like him, way before they met a few hours ago; and in parallel, a recognition takes root in her – she's in a hopeless situation. Her brilliant 'Operation: Save Mary Margaret's sanity' project is officially doomed as well as any kind of fantasy about Killian.

In the end, the only one she double-crossed is herself.

Congratulation, Emma, you did it!

She's hoping she can blame all of this on the nuisances and headaches that her graduation had caused her. Until then, if Emma can't get out of this game victoriously, Anna Clarke can still have some fun, right?

Killian turns his impossibly blue gaze on her, and when he notices her grin, he breathes out in relief. "I was beginning to be afraid my family has upset you with something."

"Of course not," she protests. "But if you don't mind I'm gonna go and change." With a graceful movement, she seizes her bag from his hold (he had insisted on carrying it for her, and while she typically wouldn't like this, she couldn't resist his intense gaze and the I'm a gentleman, love dripping from his lips) and slips in the nearest dressing room.

After a while, Killian emerges from the men's room and fuck, she's absolutely certain that happy trail goes beyond his waistline. They're trying to disguise their mutual ogling by doing mundane tasks in the process; Killian by neatly folding his clothes and Emma by searching for something in her bag. With a raised eyebrow, she removes a sponge ball from under her water bottle and holds it up to him.

His eyes brighten and the sight knocks the wind out of her lungs. Again. The contrast of his blue eyes and the darkness of his hair are in perfect harmony.

As she takes all of him in, she realizes he removed his prosthetic hand and even with the scars and angry marks at the end of his wrist he's still a freaking walking-talking genetic wonder. He glances back at her sheepishly when he notices where her gaze has wandered to, but when he doesn't find disdain or revolt or whatever he's assuming on her expression, he visibly relaxes and takes off towards the water faster than superhuman Usain Bolt. He dives into the sea when he's at knee depth, and laughing at his antics, Emma drops her bag into the sand and joins him. The salty water hits her heated skin and she doesn't even care that she forgot to apply sunscreen. It wouldn't be the first time she has to deal with a little sunburn.

"Baywatching to the deep water?" he offers and she approves his suggestion.

The scene, where she gallops forward in slow motion fits perfectly into her 'nutty as fruitcake' profile. They glance at each other occasionally and mouth silent and overly articulated words to each other. The people in their area are trying to avoid them and all the splashing water they're leaving in their wake - except the children. Emma reads something like this from their expressions: So we'll behave exactly like we do now when we're adults, only dumber and no one will scold us for it? Yay!

The deep water, in this case, reaches a little above Killian's navel and for Emma, the surface grazes her breasts. They're backing away from each other unhurriedly and she holds the ball in her hand ready to throw. Killian estimates the distance between and takes a couple more steps backward. He clearly thinks he can outwit her with a few more added feet.

"Let it fly, love!"

She swings her arm and the ball lands with a splash directly in front of him. He stares at her skeptically as if sensing some trickery in the air. "You've been working on this all summer, haven't you?" It's his turn to toss the ball, but he somehow miscalculates the gap between them and his fling turns out too short.

"And you clearly haven't been working out all summer, have you?" she taunts.

He purses his lips into a thin line; his man pride demands retribution. The next throw isn't directed at her, but rather at another freaking continent. She snorts resignedly because really, she can barely see that damn ball now it flew so far away. "Are you serious?"

"You were doubting my competence."

"What competence?"

"You seriously wound me, love," he feigns offense. She waves in a sign of surrender and dives in the water.

The last time she pulled off such a distance in freestyle swimming was probably in grade school, so it's not really a surprise when her urge to brag is overcome by weariness as she reaches her target.

But she decides, no matter how stupid it would seem, that she will inch back on her feet. She lowers her legs and sinks immediately. She thrashes until she's below surface again and attempts to scramble forward. Then a horrible thought flashes through her mind - what if one of her limbs starts cramping?

She only had to wish it.

Her calf twitches with a dull ache as if this is the first time it's used after months. Her brain is suddenly clouded by sheer panic.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God. - she repeats to herself over and over again. The land doesn't seem to be getting any closer, her toes are groping for the ground in vain. It's like the sea is tugging her inwards, right into its belly. She can already envision with vivid clarity the news article about her death: Deceased young woman was masquerading as somebody else; her friends are standing astonished by her double life.

She's flailing without any consideration or co-ordination - her only goal is to somehow remain above surface and get air into her lungs.

"Anna, it's alright!" Killian's voice is coming from afar, even though she senses he's somewhere close to her. She continues to thrash uncontrollably.

"Clarke!" he shouts. She doesn't fully realize what is happening; she's busy fighting for survival. She clings desperately to the first solid thing her hands can reach. And at some point, freaking finally, her feet burrow into sand again. Her traitor of a calf starting to regain consciousness again.

"Bloody hell," he puffs out. She's still clinging to his neck like her life depends on it, and fuck, it was. His wet raven black hair is bundled with her blonde curls, creating an exquisite contrast. She untangles herself from his body, quite reluctantly, she might add.

He turns his gaze at her and their eyes lock. After a few silent moments of staring at the other, they both let out a laugh at the situation and can't seem to stop for several moments. When their amusement subsides, they straighten and look into each other's eyes. She swallows at the intensity of his gaze, but is unable to glance away. She holds her breath as his hand reaches under her wet hair below her ear, his thumb caresses lightly on her cheek.

His eyes search hers, silently asking for permission and she should pull away and run back to the beach and then to New York, but because she's a weak idiot, she stays. He leans into her, his lips drawing near and hers open in anticipation. He stops inches away, his blue eyes drift down to her mouth as though he's savoring the moment. Her heart beats faster than ever when he finally presses his lips to hers in a long kiss. It's gentle and slow first, she feels her hands begin to slide up his naked chest and encircle around his neck as the kiss begins to grow heavy. She exhales through her nose when his hand slips off her cheek and tightens around her waist. She doesn't want this moment to end. Her entire body has been taken over by the overwhelming feeling of relief (because she finally got a taste of those luscious lips), combined with a good deal of panic (because she likes him and she should be deleting his stories and getting the hell out of dodge) and lust (for obvious reasons).

But soon her tense nerves begin to relax and her troubling thoughts are melting away, their surroundings disappear, leaving only her and Killian.

This feels true. And good. And right.

She draws her tongue over his teeth and swallows his groan of pleasure as they slid closer to each other, no visible gap between them. She's about to get completely lost in him when a bunch of shrieking kids run by them, spattering their bodies with a great amount of salty water, breaking their moment.

(Stupid summer camps).

As they part, she sees his eyes sparkle and lips curve up into a gleeful smile and she can't help but smile back. As her heart calms down and starts beating at a normal speed again, she contemplates him. His hair is a complete mop of mess atop his head, locks of hair clinging to his forehead and his cheeks are slightly red from joy and the hot summer weather. All of this and the last couple of minutes don't even remotely fit into the notion she formed about him based on his writings. He looks so young and innocent.

She voices her thoughts to him too.

"Writing helps to let off some steam," he explains. "Otherwise I wouldn't be such a gentleman," he winks and she doesn't argue. She couldn't really find a fault in his manners since they met.

At the same time, an incredible idea strikes her - if they find him an alternative solution for managing stress and tension, then maybe… "Have you ever thought about athletics? Maybe running?"

"It wouldn't work," he dashes her hopes. "It would only tire me in the long run, thus making me more tense. Who the bloody hell loves being sweaty all the time and waking up the next day with muscle strains?" She couldn't agree more, if she's being completely honest. Besides running after jerks who skip their bail, she's lazing on her couch with a bag of chips all day, watching Jeopardy and screaming at her TV.

Forget it. She sighs to herself. A day late and a dollar short. Water under the bridge. She's full of idioms now for her stupid situation because she screwed up. It's time to face the music.

"I saw a park nearby. Let's walk there," she suggests after they make their way back to the beach.

Killian pulls on his shirt and Emma does the same with her flashy yellow blouse. He watches her with worried eyes, one eyebrow high on his forehead. "Are you sure? It sounds quite dangerous. You could trip on a pebble, or catch some disease from the birds there. You could bump your knee against a bench," he lists. "Based on previous events, I say you would do better in a meadow with nothing but a water bottle."

She presents him her best poker face. "I could get an allergic attack from the flowers," she argues. "Or choke on the water, as you saw earlier."

He looked on with no change of expression. "Aye, you are right. There's danger lurking out there at every corner."

"It's hanging over me," she agrees. "But lucky for me, you're here to get my back," she inches closer to him. She laces their fingers together and he gives her a brilliant smile.

On their way, they're discussing which one of them has the most embarrassing and downright weird stories under their belts. In Killian's anecdote, he, his brother and Elsa went to a restaurant one evening to celebrate the couple's engagement. A bearded, slightly chubby old man ate his dinner at the neighboring table and was peeping at them every now and then. Elsa and his brother paid no mind to him, only Killian noticed it; the man made his flesh crawl with his creepy glances. But after paying the bill, he left and Killian thanked his lucky stars.

"Half an hour later we, too, finished our meals. We were walking down the streets peacefully and when we turned at the corner he was there. The guy was just standing there, one of his hands fumbling for something in his pocket," he goes silent, intentionally increasing the tension, like the great storyteller he is.

"Gun? Knife?" she urges.

"Oh, no. A pack of cigarettes and a lighter," her face turns into a disappointed grimace. "When we got closer he smirked and spoke up for the first time. I'd wished he would have shot me instead."

"What did he say?"

Killian temporarily holds off the storytelling when they get to the cocktail bar because the girl behind the counter is shouting at them loudly. "Wait!" she yells. "You left this here!"

When they pass the stand, he continues his tale. "He said: Killian Jones! How you've grown!" he glances at her with a gloomy look.

In the background, the cocktail Girl is yelling out a name. "Emma! Emma Swan!"

Emma glances back over her shoulder, the bartender is waving a black card holder at her.

Killian reaches the end of his story. "He was my P.E. teacher in grade school. Every year he tried to fail me."

Emma freezes, her eyes are on the cocktail girl's hand, more precisely on her papers she is holding. I.D., Social Security card, etc. The girl can't really bring it to Emma, at least five customers are waiting in line to get a drink, one of them drumming his fingers on the counter impatiently.

"Anna?" Killian asks, puzzled.

"Emma!" the girl yells again, now happy that Emma finally noticed her.

Emma swallows hard and trudges towards the beach bar, only mumbling "My papers," at Killian's still confused expression.

She walks back to him with bowed head and a racing heart, the plastic card holder almost breaks in her vice-like grip.

Killian asks the dreaded question. "What the bloody hell was that?"

My march to eternal humiliation, my journey through shattered plans, Anna Clarke's last mission - she would have answered, but no sound comes out of her mouth. She needs to make a grandiose gesture. Something honest. She awkwardly extends her arm, like she's introducing herself for the first time.

She watches her slightly shaking fingers, the seconds tick by slowly, her embarrassment growing like weed. Then her gaze falls to his long fingers as they encircle her hand. She snaps her head up in disbelief. An army of emotions are battling on his handsome face: forgiveness sits at the corners of his lips, puzzlement rests on his forehead and hurt is swimming in his eyes.

Since her vocal cords decided to not work, he is forced to take the first step. "Killian Jones, still."

"Emma Swan, now."

The ceremony is extremely awkward. Killian runs his hand through his half wet hair and slumps on the edge of the bench nearest to them. Emma sits down on the other end.

"I was aware that you lied about plenty of things in your emails," he watches the sea with slumped shoulders. "Not that it bothered me that much. It wasn't your lies that I loved, but the way you presented them. After a while I just sensed when you were being truthful," he pauses. Shrieking children and chatting parents sound in the background. The gleeful noises are driving her crazy. "Or at least I thought I sensed it," his voice goes at least an octave deeper and he turns to her with a scowl on his face. "Why did you do this?"

She confesses to him the real reasons. It can't really make her seem worse in his eyes than it already is. "My best friend went completely nuts, because of your stories. I thought if they were gone, everything will be alright with her again."

He gives her a condescending glance. "Have you never thought about talking with her and trying to understanding her?"

Oh yeah, it did occur to her. Unfortunately for her, a few weeks too late. But it wasn't Killian that made her realize this. By the time they met she was already aware where she took the wrong turn.

This whole thing wasn't in the interest of Mary Margaret for a while now. She was led by her curiosity and adventurousness. She orchestrated a play for herself and without his knowledge, Emma forced Killian to play a role in it.

Why? Because she liked the character that she created: the heroic best friend, the witty pen pal, the dorky Anna Clarke.

But really, why is it that people always want the things they don't actually need?

She's mulling over this question yet again while fiddling with the hem of her ridiculous yellow blouse, the salty summer breeze hitting her face lightly.

Killian asked for some time, said he needed to sort his head out. He promised he would be back in an hour and they agreed to meet at their original meeting point. Her phone shows that she's quite ahead of time. She places her ugly sandals on the beach chair she occupied just a few hours ago and attaches a piece of paper between its straps with her goodbye scribbled on it: Thank you for everything. And I'm sorry. For everything. - Emma

That is the extent of her lyrical talent.

She's reflecting on the day's events for two hours as she waits for her ferry, and as the vessel arrives to take her back to the mainland, she realizes there's nothing to think over.

She screwed up.

End of story.

She was so caught up in her mission to fix her best friend that she didn't realize there's nothing to fix. Emma saw an opportunity in her best friend's obsession; an opportunity to break free of her monotonous life and be someone else. Someone who is spontaneous and trusting, who is the complete opposite of her. She wanted an adventure and now she got it: she was so far gone in her play that she hurt two people in the process without even realizing it: Mary Margaret, who did nothing wrong but love a few pirate stories, and Killian, who only wrote said pirate stories.

Emma made herself the villain in this tale.

She's learned from her mistake (or at least she hopes so) and as soon as she gets home she's going to squeeze the life out of Mary Margaret - metaphorically, of course, because she'll give her best friend the biggest of hugs. They will have a girls night and talk about what is really going on in her head. It will be great.

But there's hardly anything she can do to make it up to Killian. She owes him another apology in case her note doesn't get to him, but her options end here. She's not even sure if he will even open her emails, let alone answer them.

The farther she gets from the beach, the gloomier her mood becomes; a feeling of sad resignation takes over her. She pulls her legs up on the seat and flips through her card folder in boredom. Stupid papers; they were all against her today.

And at the top of everything, a damned mosquito is about to have a feast on her elbow. She strikes down hard and her green folder flies away, sliding on the dirty floor until the black hole underneath a seat swallows it up. She squats down to try and fish it out, but her fingers touch something completely different: the straps of a faux leather sandal.

She lets out a laugh and ceremoniously buckles her previously lost shoes back on her feet. She regards them as a sign from above. As if it was life's way to say that "She's wrong, the fates are on her side".

She grabs her notebook and a pen from her bag and writes her very first (and probably last) short novel about how much of a moron she has been. She finishes just as she arrives back home, the two-hour train ride goes by in a blur.

She types it into her laptop as soon as she arrives at her apartment, publishes it under the name 'Warriorprincess' and waits for the miracle.

After only a week, she gets it.

"Emma!" Mary Margaret bursts into her room, balancing her laptop in one hand. "You wrote this, didn't you?" she shows her the "masterpiece" of Warriorprincess.

"Yes," Emma admits.

"I can't believe it!" she jumps up and down like a kid on a sugar high, her voice several octaves higher than normal. "You're highlighted! You're among the recommended writers! Just under KJ's story! Oh my God!" she places her laptop down on her nightstand and starts pacing in front of the bed in pure ecstasy. "Do you know how much I love you?"

"What?" she's taken aback.

"My friends will die of envy if I tell them what a crazy genius my best friend and future sister-in-law is. You're even friends with KJ!"

Emma buries the urge to correct her on that, instead, she focuses on the first part of her sentence. "Your friends?" she repeats.

"From the site."

Since her little adventure, she's been fighting to restore their friendship to the way it was before Killian's stories, and now Warriorprincess had reached that breakthrough.

She steps closer to Mary Margaret. "Will you tell me about them?"

And words are flowing out of the brunette's mouth, because Emma is finally there to listen to them without judging her favorite stories and claiming her best friend went insane. Mary Margaret doesn't have any mental diseases, she proves to be a thousand times healthier than Emma and furthermore, she doesn't lack in friends or rationality. The only thing she's short of is the tolerance for boring people and, sadly, her colleagues at the preschool are included in this category.

Emma's best friend inhabits the large group of misunderstood artists and dreamers. Case closed.

"I'm happy we could talk this through," Emma grins at her when Mary Margaret is out of breath from talking for thirty minutes straight.

"Me too," she smiles at Emma. "So the next time KJ posts a story, you won't call our provider and have them shut off the internet, will you?"

"Don't worry. I'd probably break my own arms first before I would do that."

Mary Margaret appreciated her lame joke, she's still swimming in the waves of hyperactivity. She hugs Emma and grabs her laptop from the nightstand, clicking and typing in it a few times.

"Kj didn't write a comment on your story," she reports. "But someone else did," she turns the device toward Emma so she can look at the screen. She starts reading the review and when she gets to the middle she snatches the laptop from Mary Margaret's possession.

Dear Warriorprincess,

Stylistically, there is still room for improvement, and I advise you read the story over again; you left a few typos in it.

Moving to the content of the story: the heroine's motivations are absurd, as well as her actions. The storyline, partly as a result of this, is messy. Also, I could not take delight in the emotional background you have outlined. If your main character is inspired by a real human, I suggest she visit a specialist.

You did not let the male character's story to properly unfold, although I saw a great amount of potential in him. And huge competence. In addition, I missed the further demonstration of the characters' external features. Why did you not mention the heroine's big, aquamarine eyes and her shapely legs?

The ending is simply terrible.

Nevertheless, I enjoyed it. Congratulations on being highlighted!

P.S.: Would you be interested in exchanging some letters, which could help me fill your head with nonsense and turn your head? Then we could perhaps meet in person. I would introduce myself under a fake name, bewitch you even more, get caught red handed and vanish into thin air – of course, I would leave a dramatic goodbye note behind. So what do you say, love? I can tell you from experience, it works quite well.

Above her shoulder, Mary Margaret is trying to make out the name of the user. "Warriorcaptain...Do you know each other?"

"Not enough. But we can remedy that right away," Emma grins and clicks on the sign in button.

fin.

[basadd]

It starts off in this rectangular compound with shelves up some of the sides. It’s forward long and it’s got doors on each end, and a little door in the middle on the right. Somehow and somewhy there’s a bunch of people stuck in that room by chance and were being shot fire(that hurt like *shit* by the way) at by some dude/villain in one of the end doors. I was one of those shelf people, and the easiest way to get away from the fire was to go up, climbing the shelves, which made near zero sense because the flamethrower’s flames can reach even the corners of the room. There’s also a pretty whitish BIG golden retriever that’s wearing a sort of vest and just now reminiscing i feel *really* bad for the person whose service dog got dumped in there without them.

So, you know, I’m climbing up the shelves (which aren’t empty by the way) to try and get away from the hellfire. People are dropping off left and right. The fire’s source is stationary, not that it matters. I’m pretty sure the reason we were all there was to kill or at least stop the fire guy, but it’s not like us civilians were doing that anytime soon.  I don’t know when i consciously realize i’ve had this dream before, but i have, and all might in the later parts i’m pretty sure was santa claus before.

Eventually, after a good half hour or so of murder and terrorization, the fire stops and the man behind it talks to us. What does he say? He’s a white skinny villain wearing all black flanked by soldiers and tanks. He’s a thirty-something. I’m slightly confused at this point because i was fully expecting endeavor. It’s all of our first glance at him. I think he was even using a machine for shooting fire. Huh. Anyway, he’s talking to us, I barely absorb any of it, being freshly terrorized. He announces that we made it through the ‘first wave’, and i sicken. As they parade down the rectangle, perfectly fire-free, to make their exit through the opposite door, i dread the fact that they’re coming back, and it’ll get worse, as things in video games tend to do. This really feels like a video game, and i don’t like it. They exit, tanks and all, through that door. All of us are too stunned to attempt an assassination.

While they’re gone, through the side door, two heroines emerge. They say nothing, and fail to acknowledge us, eyes only for the door/chamber that the flamethrower and troop of villains were stationed in before. They’re wearing superhero costumes, and they’re of the american heros-- i’m pretty sure one of them is wonder woman, and the other, i’m not sure. But they weren’t wonder woman and whoever else the second woman was dressed up as. They were, through, competent infiltrators. They pry open the fire-source door and ??? do something? Steal something? Probably steal something, but for the life of me i can’t remember what it was. The POV is following these women now. After they’re done stealing or breaking or gathering data or whatever they have to pry the side door open to return out of it. It does not stay open very long, and one of them get pinched when she’s mostly out. (it’s a thick door.) Her (?)friend pulls her out, and the door inconveniently reopens. One of the people trapped in the warehouse try to escape after them but the door starts to close on them, too, so they back off. That pretty dog i mentioned earlier didn’t know better, though. They jumped through, got stuck at the three quarters point of the thick door, and the women doubled back to help the currently thrashing service dog and possibly take it along wherever they were going. They pry the door open again just wide enough for the dog to move freely again and instead of going the final step, the dog leaps backwards back into the enclosure. This stumps the women, but they decide not to question it.

Here, somehow, the women’s clothes change from superhero to ragged prisoner garb. Not proper orange prisoner’s, but grey smudged and ripped like anime prisoners-of-war’s.

Their surroundings remind me of a hospital. They need to leave it, but if nurses notice them they’re done for. Doing the deer thing and staying still works remarkably well in my dreams, so that is the best way to reach their goal. The short-haired one, whose haircut sort of reminds me of shigaraki’s, lays down on a cart belly-down and stills. She lets her eyes scan the halls on their own. Her companion, with longer, dark brown hair, wheels the cart to the nearest corner and lets her look around. There’s a nurse. So they wait.

Somehow, glossed-over events take place and they end up exactly where they were in the hall with the cart, but now sitting around a table with a third person. Shigaraki-hair’s face is crumpled with the weight of something she has to do, and i’m also filled with dread because I know what it is, and I know how it’ll turn out. She’s handed a knife---a weird one, looking to be carved out of one of those metal rulers with cork backs. There’s a commotion of nurses around the corner. Shigaraki-hair stands up from her chair and clutches that blade in her hand. The commotion is waiting for her.

It turns out through some semblance of misunderstanding Shigaraki-hair managed to claim that she could kill the man in the chamber’s chamber-- where the flamethrower had been stationed-- but now All Might was in there. As a prisoner. And the people in the first big chamber were chucked in there to kill him. And for some reason, these nurses thought that she was volunteering to 1v1 him and kill him herself. With…. The ruler knife.

Shigaraki-hair’s companion and probably girlfriend at this point grabs her face and makes her sit down again. She grabbed her face wrong so she spends a good couple of seconds rearranging her hands to grab her cheeks better and it takes like a second too long so they both laugh a little.

I think she wishes shigaraki-hair well. I know what’ll happen. Does she?

Shigaraki-hair gets led to the chamber, and now it’s filled with red auditorium seats in an angled around a rectangular floor in front of the All Might-prison. She gets shoved into one and left there. The same people who were climbing shelves earlier but are now there against their will to kill All Might are there, too, but I don’t know about the dog. Kyle, one of my friends from school, sits next to her and greets her. I’m minisculely comforted by his presence because there are friends here, but that means that he must be there the be forced into killing All Might or being killed, too. That’s his only cameo.

Shigaraki-hair is manhandled to the open floor in front of All MIght’s door, and the bad people back away to let her ready herself. She holds up her knife. What the nurses believed was a lie, there was no chance she could stand against All Might. Whether it be by the number one hero himself or the bad people after she failed, she was going to get killed.

She was.

The scene changed. I’m myself, in my real-life grandfather’s backyard, sitting at a picnic table that was never there in real life. A party must be going on, with all the people around me. My parents are there, but the rest of my relatives, i’m not so sure about. I know the All Might scene hasn’t ended, by surroundings have just changed-- this backyard is exactly the space of the chamber with the red auditorium seats. The battle was still going to happen and shigaraki-hair was still going to lose. It was dangerous to be here, because here *was* there. The river behind me was the wall that withheld the great hero, and my grandfather’s house the wall that the flamethrower man and his following had disappeared to. I stood up. It wasn’t just shigaraki-hair that was going to die, now, it was some of us, too. Some of us were aware of this happening and had precautionary things set up so they wouldn’t die. My mother wasn’t one of them while my dad was, and i was perfectly okay with that.

Then my grandfather’s dream-neighbor shows up from the direction of his backyard. I remember him from my previous dreams. I distinctly remember him holding three skinny, tall waffle cones of the good rich chocolate soft serve ice cream, but I also distinctly remember him having two hands. Well, that didn’t matter; he couldn’t be here. He was innocent and completely uninvolved--he also had two kids, I knew that. He couldn’t be here.

He greets people. When he turns to me, I walk around the table and grab him by his arms, looking him in the eye. “You need to leave,” I tell him forcefully but quietly. “You need to get out of here. Please, get out.” I pray to all hell no one will call me out for kicking out a guest this rudely, and it’s a near miracle no one does. He’s a little offended but mostly confused as he looks at me, a greasy teenager shaking the life out of his arms and practically begging him to go away. I keep pleading, and eventually he must comprehend the desperation in my eyes and relents. As i let him go and he collects his bag and ice cream cones, he makes a joke about being jewish because i’ve had something like this dream before but instead of All Might it was Santa Claus.

He doesn’t leave the yard by the time I wake up.