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swan-of-sunrise · 3 years

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Specs and the Flyboy (Chapter Seven)

Summary: (Y/N) makes a break in the case that leads her and Jack into a dangerous situation, and something begins to shift in their partnership.

Pairing: Jack Thompson X Reader

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings/Disclaimers: None

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading! I hope that you enjoy!

Chapter Seven West Coast Strategic Scientific Reserve, Los Angeles (Previous Chapter)

Rubbing at her temples in a weak attempt to rid herself of a splitting headache, (Y/N) once again cursed Michael Carter and his codes. They were easily the most challenging codes she’d ever attempted to crack, but a small part of her couldn’t help but admire his skill. A very small part, she thought through gritted teeth as her head throbbed in pain.

Hearing footsteps approaching her desk, (Y/N) reluctantly opened her eyes to see Jack saunter past and drop a folded note into her crowded inbox without a single glance at her. She watched as he entered Daniel’s office before grabbing the note and unfolding it; her eyes skimmed over the message, which she had to read twice to confirm she wasn’t seeing things:

Take a break from M’s codes, Specs, you look like your brain’s gonna explode.

Glancing up from the note, her eyes immediately found Jack looking at her through the glass window of the office, his eyebrows raised expectantly. She shook her head and struggled to suppress a smile as he rolled his eyes in exasperation. As well-meaning as his note had been, both she and Jack knew that until she decoded another of Michael’s codes, their investigation was virtually on hold. Jack had reached out to some more of his friends in D.C. in order to learn more about Michael’s military background, but the continuation of their investigation rested squarely on (Y/N)’s overly-stressed shoulders. If I keep this up I’m gonna get grey hair before I’m thirty, (Y/N) groaned inwardly as she returned her gaze to the code before her. Before she could resume her work, Peggy entered the bullpen and as she made her way towards her desk, (Y/N) surreptitiously covered the code with her translation journals.

“Can I ask you for a favor, (Y/N)?”

(Y/N) smiled warmly, concealing any signs of fatigue from her friend. “Of course, what can I do for you?”

“The New York branch is a little overwhelmed with decoding old wartime messages for documentation and filing, so Daniel’s offered them our services.” Peggy began thumbing through one of the files she’d set down on the desk. “They’re fairly straightforward codes, so they won’t do anything to aggravate that headache of yours; in fact, they may even serve to relax you.” (Y/N)’s eyebrows shot up in surprise and Peggy’s grin widened at her reaction. “Oh, please, (Y/N), we worked together for years; you don’t think I’ve forgotten how you act when your headaches come on, do you?”

“You’re right, Peg, I really shouldn’t be surprised at this point in our relationship.” Shrugging good-naturedly, (Y/N) helped her friend clear a space on the desk and set up their codebreaking materials. Once Peggy had fetched them each a strong cup of tea, they began their work. Just as the younger woman had predicted, (Y/N) quickly found herself relaxing as she decoded message after message, only pausing in order to sip her lemon and honey tea.

They had been working in comfortable silence for a while when Peggy suddenly spoke. “Good Lord, I haven’t seen this style of code in years! You’re the one who introduced them to me at Bletchley, remember?”

“Hmm?” Dragging her eyes away from her half-finished code, (Y/N)’s lips curved into a smile as she studied the page in Peggy’s hand. “Ah, poem codes! As I recall, you thought it was an archaic code and a waste of time to learn. You still feel the same way about it?”

“Oh, sod off.” Peggy’s withering look was broken by a reluctant grin. “I’ll admit, poem codes are useful but they’re still a pain in the ass to decode and no one outside of Literature students could possibly know enough poems to successfully utilize them.”

(Y/N) opened her mouth to argue but froze as inspiration suddenly struck. Thinking fast, she gathered her translation journals and Michael’s code, whipped off her reading glasses and stood. “I forgot, I’ve got to get these write-ups down to Rose before lunch; I’ll be back in a jiffy, Peg!” With a brief glance in the direction of Daniel’s office, (Y/N) strode out of the bullpen and down the halls, quickly finding herself ducking into a cramped supply closet. She was practically bouncing in excitement by the time Jack squeezed his way into the space and flicked on the small lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. “I’ve done it!”

“What, finally had a mental breakdown? I know we need those codes cracked but you’re gonna run yourself into the ground at the rate you’re going, and-”

Unable to contain herself, (Y/N) reached up and covered his mouth with her hand; his eyes widened in surprise and before he could scowl, (Y/N) removed her hand and exclaimed, “I figured out how Michael’s creating his codes! He’s using his background in Literature to develop his own coding style! Remember, you read in that file the other week that he attended Cambridge before enlisting in the British Armed Forces, majoring in Philosophy and minoring in Literature; he definitely would’ve learned enough there to be able to create new codes.”

Jack’s brow rose and she got the sense that he was impressed by her epiphany. “And this new style, you can figure it out?”

“It’ll still be a challenge but since I think I have an insight into his process now, it shouldn’t take nearly as long as it has been.” With a triumphant grin, (Y/N) gestured to the code in her hand. “How about we decode this one over a turkey and Swiss at the diner tonight?”

“Sounds like a plan. Maybe we can also think of a better meeting place while we’re at it?” Jack’s face suddenly broke out into an amused grin. “I mean, the others might get the wrong idea if they catch us in here. You and me alone in a tiny supply closet…? Very scandalous.”

(Y/N) arched an unimpressed brow. “Is that so?”

“Oh, definitely. It’ll spread all over the office that the new codebreaker’s seduced the innocent Chief and then my reputation’ll be ruined.” His grin widened and (Y/N) rolled her eyes as she worked on extricating herself from the closet. “Hey, defending my virtue’s very important to me, Specs, don’t knock it!”

“Well, in that case…” Standing on her tiptoes and without a second thought, (Y/N) pressed a quick kiss on his neck and pulled away to admire the red lipstick staining his skin and shirt collar; with a smirk of her own, she gazed up at Jack’s stunned face. “Have fun defending that one, Flyboy.”

Before he could respond, she ducked back out of the closet and made her way back to the bullpen, fanning herself with her free hand as she went; for some odd reason, her face had suddenly become uncomfortably warm…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Thanks again for the ride, Specs, but I still say I could’ve made it back to Stark’s place okay on my own.”

(Y/N) took her eyes off the empty backroad to shoot the man beside her an amused look. “You sprained your ankle jumping off my fire escape; you and I both know that it’s going to hurt like a son of a bitch if you put more pressure on it than necessary, which would’ve happened if you stood waiting for a taxi. Besides, I feel a little guilty for laughing as hard as I did when you had to hide from Mrs. Espinoza in the juniper bush.”

Jack’s lips curled into a reluctant grin and he pointed a warning finger at her. “You tell anyone ‘bout that and you’re dead, you got it?” His grin widened. “You know, the last time I had to hide in a bush like that was when I was in high school; I was leaving my gal’s house when her old man came home early and to this day, I can’t look at a rose without feeling those damn thorns digging into my back.”

“Well, I’m sure your gal appreciated the gesture all the same, although I would’ve hid my fella in the garden shed if I were her.” She smirked but after feeling his eyes trained on her, she spared another glance at him. “What?”

“Did you date a lot in high school?” He raised his hands in defense when her brow rose in surprise. “Hey, I’m just getting to know my partner a little better, you don’t have to answer or anything…”

(Y/N) rolled her eyes. “And if I choose not to answer I’m sure you’ll just drop the subject forever, huh?” Out of the corner of her eye, Jack shrugged again and she sighed in exasperation. “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint, Flyboy, but no, I didn’t date in high school. Even if my father hadn’t forbidden me from dating and I wasn’t overwhelmed with schoolwork, I doubt any of the fellas at my school were interested in me that way and to be frank, I wasn’t very interested in them, either.”

“Well, any guy would-wait, why’s that sign look so familiar?”

Pulling to the side of the road, (Y/N) squinted to make out the sign in the faint glow of her headlights. “‘Fieldman Family Orangery, Next Left.’ I think it’s just a-” Her eyes suddenly widened in recognition. “Wait. Michael’s personnel file had an Adam Fieldman listed as a roommate from Cambridge. You don’t really think…?”

Jack had already retrieved her briefcase from the back seat and withdrawn the message she’d decoded over dinner. “You tell me.” Written in her barely-legible handwriting was ‘FFO-Lab/Dist.’ “C’mon, at best we get more intel on whatever the hell Michael and his people are doing and at worst, we break into some poor geezer’s orangery by mistake.”

“Maybe we should wait for another day…?”

“It’s a Friday night, so there’s bound to be nobody hanging around and the moon’s out, which’ll provide us with some natural light. All perfect conditions for a little snooping around.”

Ignoring the feeling of foreboding in the pit of her stomach, (Y/N) switched off the headlights and slowly drove closer to the orangery; endless rows of orange trees ringed a sizable factory building and off to the side was a lot filled with a dozen large delivery trucks. She parked the car behind the trucks and reached into her purse for her gun and pen. “You stay here, I’ll take a quick look around and-”

“Wait, what the hell are you talking about?” It was Jack’s turn to look apprehensive. “You’re not going in there alone.”

Once again sighing in exasperation, (Y/N) gestured to Jack’s ankle. “It’s a little difficult to snoop around when you can’t even walk, Flyboy, wouldn’t you say? I’m a fully trained field agent so I’ll be more than fine by myself in there. Okay?”

With his arms crossed over his chest, Jack’s hardened blue eyes bored into hers and she stared right back, raising a single challenging brow. After several moments, he turned away and heaved a sigh. “Okay, fine, I won’t go in.” When she made no move to leave the car, he threw up his hands in exasperation and gave her a look. “I promise, I’ll be a good boy and stay in the car! Happy?”

“I suppose so.” Without waiting for a reply, (Y/N) opened the car door and quietly stepped out.

Instead of arguing with her some more, Jack leaned forward and caught her arm before she could move, his hand wrapping firmly around her bare wrist; it might’ve been her imagination, but she could’ve sworn that her skin flushed at the contact. “And what’re you gonna do with a pen, Specs, write on ‘em?”

“You’d be surprised.” She gave him a secretive smile and withdrew her arm from his grasp before closing the car door and sneaking her way towards the closed factory, tucking the seemingly innocent pen into her pocket as she went.

Now this takes me back, (Y/N) thought to herself a handful of minutes later when she went about picking the lock of one of the side doors; she’d learned the skill shortly after joining up with the Howling Commandos and would never forget how many of her hairpins had been destroyed during her practice sessions with the soldiers. I’m pretty sure Barnes promised he’d buy me some more once the war was over, she recalled with a twinge of sadness as she remembered the easy-going Sergeant, but the feeling was quickly replaced with elation when the door unlocked with a faint click.

Nudging the door open with the toe of her shoe, (Y/N) raised her gun and entered what appeared to be a large packaging room; stacks of wooden crates formed long rows and in the faint light of the moon streaming through the skylights, she could barely make out an open doorway. Just as she was about to continue into the room, the sudden sound of footsteps grew increasingly louder and caused her to spring into action; moving as quietly as she could, (Y/N) hurried down the left-hand row and after spotting a gap in between two crates, hurriedly ducked into it and took a deep breath. The heavy footsteps grew louder before stopping altogether.

“There’s nothin’ here, wise-ass! I told you you was hearin�� things!”

“Yeah, yeah, just get your ass back here and deal, Jerry, I ain’t got all night to wait for you!” Another masculine voice called from the opposite end of the room. “And bring some more smokes while you’re at it!”

“Hey, you better not be lookin’ at my cards…!” Jerry’s voice faded as he hurried back to the opposite end of the room.

(Y/N) took a moment to let out the breath she’d been holding before poking her head out of her hiding spot to check if the coast was truly clear. Satisfied, she emerged and continued moving silently through the room and towards the open doorway; they must be security guards for the company, she reasoned as she flattened herself against the outstretch of wall behind the propped-open door, it doesn’t necessarily mean this place is connected to our case.

The moment the thought of sneaking back to her car to lay into Jack for his paranoia crossed her mind, (Y/N)’s attention was drawn to the muffled sound of voices through the open doorway. Ducking out of her hiding place, she crept into the next room and instantly spotted the light shining through the cracked-open door to her left; being mindful of her footsteps, she slowly moved closer to the doorway and flattened herself against the wall before finally allowing herself to listen to the voices.

“Listen, I’m okay with sending out another shipment in the next few weeks but we need to be more careful, the SSR-”

“-Hasn’t got a single clue about what it is or who invented it. My source inside the agency told me that their Chief has officially closed the case and that their only piece of evidence is locked away in their archives.”

The first man sighed in frustration. “All right, all right, but remind your hired goons not to leave another one behind at the next hit or that’ll have every agency in town on our tail. And tell the boss-”

“Tell him what? That you’re unsatisfied with your deal? I’m sure he’d love to-”

“N-no! No, no, I only meant…he needs to remember Chief Thompson…”

With a chuckle, the second man replied, “Concerned, are we? How touching. Rest assured, the boss hasn’t forgotten about that particular problem. Jack Thompson will soon be taken care of the same way he’s already taken care of that careless Templeton…”

Although she felt the handle of the gun slip out of her grasp, (Y/N) didn’t fully register it until the sound of the gun hitting the stone floor echoed throughout the room. Her heart jumped into her throat as she acted on pure instinct; she darted behind a stack of crates stamped with a vaguely-familiar symbol and fumbled with her jacket pocket, from which she finally withdrew her compact mirror. Holding it in front of her and adjusting its angle, (Y/N) watched as the door swung open and the two men hurried out. Because of the glare on her mirror, she was unable to make out any of their features and before she could get a closer look, the men caught sight of her gun on the floor and immediately ran back into the room; a moment later, a shrill alarm began blaring throughout the orangery.

“Shit.” She snapped her mirror closed and withdrew her pen from her pocket while she listened to the sounds of heavy footsteps approaching. Six men armed with pistols that just branched out into two groups, she deduced, most likely more on the way so there’s only one way to play this. After taking a quick peek around the crates and deep bolstering breath, she clicked down on the top of the pen and tossed it in the direction of the three armed men, flattening herself against the crates as the pen released a small-scale explosion that knocked out all three men.

As expected, the other three men were drawn to the commotion and (Y/N) used their reaction to her advantage; once they ran past her hiding spot, she leapt out and threw her compact mirror at the back of one of the men’s head, the force of it knocking him clear to the floor. Charging the two remaining men, she punched one roundly in the face and kneed him in the groin, using his unbalance to roughly shove him head-first into a stack of crates. The second man fired his gun at her and she ducked down just in time to avoid the bullet; she thrust a foot out and kicked his shin with the sharp heel of her shoe, jumping to her feet as yelled in pain and clutched his leg. She gave him a quick sidekick to the head and watched as he slumped to the ground, unconscious. The first man she’d thrown her compact at staggered to his feet, only to fall back down when (Y/N) grabbed an empty crate and slammed it upside his head.

Wasting no time, she dropped the crate, sprinted out of the room and back into the packaging room, the thought of escape being the only thing on her mind. Just as her eyes fell on the door she’d entered the orangery through, something large and solid slammed into her and sent her flying into the stack of crates to her left. She landed harshly onto the floor amid the broken wood and groaned in pain as she struggled to her feet, but a hard hit to her face sent her sprawling back down and her eyes instinctively squeezed shut.

“You’re one tough cookie, ya know?” The man standing over her let out an impressed whistle, and she recognized it as the voice of Jerry, one of the poker-playing guards from earlier. She also recognized the unmistakable sound of a gun being loaded and was silently thankful she’d kept her eyes closed. “Shame it’s gotta end this way.”

“Yeah, you took the words right outta my mouth.” (Y/N)’s eyes flew open just in time to watch as Jack Thompson knocked the man out with a single punch; the man fell to the ground in a heap and Jack immediately limped over to help her stand. “C’mon, we’ve gotta go, I already took care of the other guards but more’ll be coming…” They ran as quickly as their injuries would allow and since they were in such a hurry, (Y/N) didn’t complain when Jack dove into the driver’s seat and gunned it down the road. “That…that was the definition of a SNAFU.…”

(Y/N) struggled to control her erratic breathing and her shock was beginning to wear off, only to be replaced by white-hot anger. “I thought I told you to stay in the car!”

“Seriously? I just saved your ass from getting shot and you wanna argue about that now?”

“You didn’t trust that I could gather intel on my own, did you? That’s why you went in after promising you wouldn’t!”

“No, I went in after you ‘cause I heard a goddamn bomb go off and thought you were in trouble! And of course I trust you to get intel on your own, you’re an agent for crying out loud!”

She let out a heartless laugh at that. “This coming from the man who recently called me a weak, emotional liability!” Jack’s head turned sharply to face her and his dumbfounded expression only served to spur on her anger. “Face it, Jack Thompson, you don’t give a shit about our partnership, you just wanted to collect the intel by yourself for your investigation, and I-!” As she shifted in her seat, a white-hot pain erupted in her left leg and she couldn’t suppress the loud gasp of pain as her eyes squeezed shut. “Argh!”

“What’s wro-? Oh shit…” Jack’s abrupt shift in tone caused her to blink her eyes open and follow his horrified gaze to the expanding bloodstain on her thigh. “How deep’s that wound?” She didn’t answer, as the sight of her own blood was already causing her head to loll and her vision to darken. “Specs? (Y/N)! Hey hey hey, (Y/N), stay awake, you hear me? C’mon, keep your eyes open!” Her eyes were drifting closed, and the last thing she clearly remembered before succumbing to the darkness was the newfound pressure on her leg and the sound of her name being called over and over...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Cliffhanger! Thank you so much for reading! If you haven’t checked it out yet, I created a Spotify playlist for this series and I’ll be updating it every time I upload a new chapter.

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/21pWY7OiMFj8LaYpxhtVtW

Chapter Eight

“Specs and the Flyboy” Masterlist

Tagging: @nnon-it-up @fluffymadamina @remmyswritings @ourstarsailor @darkusangelus @josis-teacup @marvel-jackt-loki-buck @yeetyeetchickenmeat @sameoldbaby @theserenityspace @seeing-but-not-observing @supervoldejaygent @momc95 @brooke0297 @kinda-c0nfused @outoftheregular @mads-weasley

#jack thompson x reader #agent carter #jack thompson #peggy carter #daniel sousa #michael carter #marvel cinematic universe #strategic scientific reserve

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richincolor · 4 years

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Voting and YA Lit

The November election is getting closer and closer. If you're eligible to vote and need more information, Vote.org is an excellent place to start. The League of Women Voters also has a First Time Voter Checklist that may be helpful. This year there may be additional challenges to voting, but if you are able, please let your voice be heard through your vote.

In the final two months before the election, you may enjoy some related reading. First, a few YA novels featuring elections or voting:

Yes No Maybe So by Becky Albertalli and Aisha Saeed Balzer + Bray [Group Discussion]

YES Jamie Goldberg is cool with volunteering for his local state senate candidate—as long as he’s behind the scenes. When it comes to speaking to strangers (or, let’s face it, speaking at all to almost anyone), Jamie’s a choke artist. There’s no way he’d ever knock on doors to ask people for their votes…until he meets Maya.

NO Maya Rehman’s having the worst Ramadan ever. Her best friend is too busy to hang out, her summer trip is canceled, and now her parents are separating. Why her mother thinks the solution to her problems is political canvassing—with some awkward dude she hardly knows—is beyond her.

MAYBE SO Going door to door isn’t exactly glamorous, but maybe it’s not the worst thing in the world. After all, the polls are getting closer—and so are Maya and Jamie. Mastering local activism is one thing. Navigating the cross-cultural romance of the century is another thing entirely.

The Voting Booth by Brandy Colbert Disney-Hyperion [Crystal's Review]

Marva Sheridan was born ready for this day. She’s always been driven to make a difference in the world, and what better way than to vote in her first election?

Duke Crenshaw is so done with this election. He just wants to get voting over with so he can prepare for his band’s first paying gig tonight.

Only problem? Duke can’t vote.

When Marva sees Duke turned away from their polling place, she takes it upon herself to make sure his vote is counted. She hasn’t spent months doorbelling and registering voters just to see someone denied their right. And that’s how their whirlwind day begins, rushing from precinct to precinct, cutting school, waiting in endless lines, turned away time and again, trying to do one simple thing: vote. They may have started out as strangers, but as Duke and Marva team up to beat a rigged system (and find Marva’s missing cat), it’s clear that there’s more to their connection than a shared mission for democracy.

Romantic and triumphant, The Voting Booth is proof that you can’t sit around waiting for the world to change, but some things are just meant to be.

Running by Natalia Sylvester Clarion Books

When fifteen-year-old Cuban American Mariana Ruiz’s father runs for president, Mari starts to see him with new eyes. A novel about waking up and standing up, and what happens when you stop seeing your dad as your hero—while the whole country is watching.

In this thoughtful, authentic, humorous, and gorgeously written novel about privacy, waking up, and speaking up, Senator Anthony Ruiz is running for president. Throughout his successful political career he has always had his daughter’s vote, but a presidential campaign brings a whole new level of scrutiny to sheltered fifteen-year-old Mariana and the rest of her Cuban American family, from a 60 Minutes–style tour of their house to tabloids doctoring photos and inventing scandals. As tensions rise within the Ruiz family, Mari begins to learn about the details of her father’s political positions, and she realizes that her father is not the man she thought he was.

But how do you find your voice when everyone’s watching? When it means disagreeing with your father—publicly? What do you do when your dad stops being your hero? Will Mari get a chance to confront her father? If she does, will she have the courage to seize it?

There are also a few YA nonfiction books that deal with activism and voting rights:

How I Resist edited by Maureen Johnson Wednesday Books

Now, more than ever, young people are motivated to make a difference in a world they're bound to inherit. They're ready to stand up and be heard - but with much to shout about, where they do they begin? What can I do? How can I help?

How I Resist is the response, and a way to start the conversation. To show readers that they are not helpless, and that anyone can be the change. A collection of essays, songs, illustrations, and interviews about activism and hope, How I Resist features an all-star group of contributors, including John Paul Brammer, Libba Bray, Lauren Duca, Modern Family's Jesse Tyler Ferguson and his husband Justin Mikita, Alex Gino, Hebh Jamal, Malinda Lo, Dylan Marron, Hamilton star Javier Muñoz, Rosie O'Donnell, Junauda Petrus, Jodi Picoult, Jason Reynolds, Karuna Riazi, Maya Rupert, Dana Schwartz, Dan Sinker, Ali Stroker, Jonny Sun (aka @jonnysun), Sabaa Tahir, Shaina Taub, Daniel Watts, Jennifer Weiner, Jacqueline Woodson, and more, all edited and compiled by New York Times bestselling author Maureen Johnson.

In How I Resist, readers will find hope and support through voices that are at turns personal, funny, irreverent, and instructive. Not just for a young adult audience, this incredibly impactful collection will appeal to readers of all ages who are feeling adrift and looking for guidance.

How I Resist is the kind of book people will be discussing for years to come and a staple on bookshelves for generations.

The March Trilogy by John Lewis, Andrew Aydin and Nate Powell Top Shelf Productions

A graphic novel memoir in three parts. It tells of the Civil Rights movement through the eyes of John Lewis. Readers see Lewis and other activists launching campaigns such as the Freedom Vote and Mississippi Freedom Summer. The books lead all the way through to the Selma March.

And finally, picture books aren't just for children. Here are two picture books young adults would likely appreciate:

The Voice of Freedom: Fannie Lou Hamer by Carole Boston Weatherford, illustrated by Ekua Holmes Candlewick Press

A stirring collection of poems and spirituals, accompanied by stunning collage illustrations, recollects the life of Fannie Lou Hamer, a champion of equal voting rights.

"I am sick and tired of being sick and tired."

Despite fierce prejudice and abuse, even being beaten to within an inch of her life, Fannie Lou Hamer was a champion of civil rights from the 1950s until her death in 1977. Integral to the Freedom Summer of 1964, Ms. Hamer gave a speech at the Democratic National Convention that, despite President Johnson’s interference, aired on national TV news and spurred the nation to support the Freedom Democrats. Featuring luminous mixed-media art both vibrant and full of intricate detail, Singing for Freedom celebrates Fannie Lou Hamer’s life and legacy with an inspiring message of hope, determination, and strength.

Granddaddy's Turn: A Journey to the Ballot Box by Michael S. Bandy & Eric Stein, illustrated by James Ransome Candlewick Press

Based on the true story of one family’s struggle for voting rights in the Civil Rights–era South, this moving tale shines an emotional spotlight on a dark facet of U.S. history.

Life on the farm with Granddaddy is full of hard work, but despite all the chores, Granddaddy always makes time for play, especially fishing trips. Even when there isn’t a bite to catch, he reminds young Michael that it takes patience to get what’s coming to you. One morning, when Granddaddy heads into town in his fancy suit, Michael knows that something very special must be happening—and sure enough, everyone is lined up at the town hall! For the very first time, Granddaddy is allowed to vote, and he couldn’t be more proud. But can Michael be patient when it seems that justice just can’t come soon enough? This powerful and touching true-life story shares one boy’s perspective of growing up in the segregated South, while beautiful illustrations depict the rural setting in tender detail.

#voting #election #YA Lit

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squidproquoclarice · 3 years

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

~~~~~~~~~

December 1919

St. Denis, Lemoyne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, Molly--”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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seekingstars · 3 years

Text

New York - Alex Dimitrov

New York is the best city to cry in.

I’ve cried on the corner of Spring and Greene smoking one cigarette after another, taking two-hour lunch breaks in 2006 at my first internship at Interview magazine.

I cried in Washington Square Park the other night thinking about healthcare and how I quit my job to write poetry, and how even a job in poetry prevents you from writing it.

I’ve cried so many times in front of the fountain at Lincoln Center, then watched the cars drive by on Columbus without reason to cry and I’ve cried even more then.

The one year I lived on St. Marks Place I was in grad school and cried at Cafe Orlin with one drink for a million hours until I’d write a poem and immediately send it to the New Yorker feeling entirely justified because why wouldn’t they want it. It was terrible. All of it. But I miss those days most.

The 6 train is my favorite train to cry on.

It’s always late and full of other people’s fathers. No one really looks at you because they’re so glad they’re not you, and of course because they know that being anyone is a tragedy like the MTA itself.

There’s something productive about crying in New York. It’s almost like crying alone in your apartment but you can cruise strangers and run errands at the same time.

Once I was so exhausted I started crying in the middle of a drink with my friend Rachel at the Beagle (which is closed now) but I was telling her how people always ask poets to do things for free as if we don’t have to pay rent or attend to our loneliness.

Please pay poets, people. Please pay poets more than anyone else.

I’ve also cried when I was happy in a cab on the FDR listening to Patti Smith the day my first book got taken. And again that night when my parents asked how much money I’d make and what I would do next, you know, after this poetry thing.

It turns out that next there’s more crying. In so many gay bars I’m going to list them: Boiler Room, Eastern Bloc, Nowhere, Metropolitan and I could go on but this poem isn’t about gay crying, just crying in general.

That reminds me how I used to cry in Ray’s Pizza (also on St. Marks Place) and how one time a guy asked if I had cocaine and if we could “go somewhere more chill” to do it.

I was so confused I pretended to stop crying and said, “No. Can’t you fucking see that I’m crying.”

Then I went to Cooper Union across the street and continued crying there but less convincingly.

Believe it or not, I’ve never cried in a man’s apartment. A man I was sleeping with or about to. They’ve all thought I was too detached and should cry more. They’ve all been emotionally bankrupt, to say the least. Especially the lawyers.

Clearly none of them could picture me crying in front of the Bowery Hotel when I lost my wallet, the same day I had three poems rejected and went on an awful date, the kind that makes you wonder if you should stop talking to people and just max out your credit card at Opening Ceremony.

I’ve also cried in the Sunshine on Houston (all of its theaters and the lobby) and each time I remember how someone once told me it was a bathhouse, which is delightful and makes me feel incredibly safe.

(The Sunshine is also closed now by the way, like Opening Ceremony. And that’s what happens in New York when you finally find a good spot to cry in. It’s more or less gone in a flash.)

Of course there’ve been times when I wanted to cry and couldn’t. Moving. Waiting for test results. Finding out someone I used to date is now married (to a dancer with a nice face and no talent; good luck with that, babe!).

I don’t think I should count the times I’ve cried at home. Who could anyway? I’ve only had three apartments: St. Marks Place, Houston and Allen, and 75th and 1st Avenue.

I got that last one being lucky one night on the A train, when I ran into a guy who was on the same call sheet for a photo shoot we once did for Out magazine.

He told me he had a friend who had a friend who wanted to pass the apartment down to a gay friend because the rent was good and in a nice area.

I’m that gay friend, I said! That’s me.

And I still live there—still gay— the last time I cried being two hours ago.

Sometimes I cry walking down Prince Street pretending I have allergies. It’s my favorite street in the city and my favorite street in the world.

Especially the red brick surrounding the church where on many weekends in summer vendors set up their stands and sell mostly odd things.

A woman almost sold me a crucifix there in 2010 but I couldn’t afford it so we talked about past lives and Stevie Nicks, and how Tusk is most certainly better than Rumours.

By the end of our talk she just gave it to me. She was a painter and had great energy and I’m sorry, I know this is not LA but that word just does something for me.

It might be like counting the wars America’s been in if I had to tell you all the restaurants I’ve cried in. Most of them are in the East Village but I do love throwing a tantrum on the west side where people are slightly more scandalized because they’re maybe a million dollars richer. I have no idea. I have $574 in my bank account right now.

I’ve also cried in front of delivery people and I never feel bad because there’s so many reasons to cry here I know that they get it.

Besides, I tip 30% (sometimes 35 if I’m feeling emotional), and I’d like to take the time now to remind people to tip well. It says everything about you, especially on a date.

Naturally, when I see someone crying in New York it’s like an invitation. Like I should get to work and join them, like we’re about to do something important together.

I do feel lucky I live here since growing up I wasn’t allowed to cry, and if I have kids I’ll definitely tell them how useful it is and how it costs only nothing.

You’re free to cry all the time! Please cry, everybody! Please use your freedom!

Until one day you realize you’re not free at all. You never were to begin with. You’re just another person crying on 10th Street.

Again.

#poetry #alex dimitrov

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tenglows · 4 years

Note

hi! could you do 9 + 49 with yangyang? 💜💜💜 love your work! :)

[ 9: i wanna know just how to love you ] + [ 49: you really didn't realize it was me all along? ]

the prompts ✧ inspired by to all the boys i've loved before

it was bad. how you got to school and everyone was crowded up against the walls, laughing at something you couldn't get to see.

it was worse when your best friend yangyang joined you, tightening his grip on his backpack straps.

“have any idea what this is about?”

you shook your head, and was about to talk when one boy whose name you didn't know turned back, wide smile on his face.

“some letters have been scattered around school, like, love letters”

that's when you felt it, the first pang in your chest. then another, as you saw your friend's laugh in amusement. and another, when you dawned on what really was happening.

“no way, from who?”

“it doesn't say. they aren't signed, just named. i heard there's one about you, yangyang” he kept talking, and you wanted him to stop. to leave, to pretend this wasn't real. but he only came back with a piece of paper, handing it to your friend. you wanted to cry.

“this is sick! look y/n, someone's in love with me” he cheered as he wiggled the letter in front of your face. upon seeing no reaction, he moved it faster, insisting. “come on, read it” you gave him a half smile and pretended to read your handwritting.

“that's cute” you said in an almost non audible voice.

“i know right? i should find her and take her out, it's been so long since i've had some action” he winked.

of course he'd say that. you were struggling to keep yourself together at this point, legs shaking and heart thumping. how had the letters come out?

days passed and the scandal of the love confessions had died down a bit. people were still interested in finding who had written them, but they had no clues whatsoever. you also tried to avoid all the names from the letters: huang renjun, the boy in your art class who had been your unrequited crush for a few months, until you kinda forgot about him over winter break. choi san, the cute guy who got in trouble for bringing his cat to school. lee donghyuck, the class' president who helped you pass a physics exam.

your evasion was succesful, and the boys never approached you either. so you assumed they didn’t suspect it was you. nevertheless, you couldn’t stay away from the most important name on the list. the only one who still remained true, who you still hadn't gotten over. liu yangyang.

sure, everyone at school had started to ignore the topic. everyone but your friends, who were yet to let it go.

“what about that girl you got partened up that one time in biology? ella was it?” yukhei inquired, as he crossed out the possibilities on his mind.

“i don't think so, i think she even hated me for taking too long to do my part”

“clearly whoever wrote this didn't want the letters spreaded around. she's not making it easy to be found” your friend added and you almost rolled your eyes at that. smart observation, yukhei.

“anyways” ten, who was clearly done with it as well, changed the topic, focusing his eyes on you. “y/n, what poem are you going to present today?”

you had almost forgotten. you had to hand in your final work for this semester and read it for the class. you always liked poetry, so no one was surprised when you chose it as the subject for your writing class.

“i think i'm just gonna gather up some of my previous works and read some of them. i can't come up with new ideas”

“well, it's gonna be great no matter what you read” yangyang assured you, squeezing your arm, and you smiled at him. getting a little bit too lost in his eyes.

standing in front of your entire classmates, you were a bit nervous. you had settled on what to read a few minutes before the bell rang, and you hadn't even had the time to proofread it.

but you had done this before, and you always enjoyed it. so you introduced yourself, the title of the poem, and let the words easily slip from your mouth.

claps filled the room when you finished, and you caught sight of your friends, cheering loudly and raising their arms. when you got back to your seats, they hugged you, still praising you. no matter how many times you'd exhibit your writings in public, your friends' reaction was always encouraging. you loved them for that.

“that was so good!” yangyang celebrated. “have you showed it to me before?”

“no, i don't think so”

“hm” he uttered, eyebrows arched in confusion and concentration. “sounds familiar”

it was evening now, and you were getting some homework done in your couch, when you heard a knock on your door. puzzled, since your parents were meant to come home later, you opened the door. yangyang was there, an arm hiding behind his back, and a serious expression on his face.

“and i don't think i've ever loved anyone this much. but it feels familiar, it was in another life that we perhaps met” he quoted the poem you had read that day. “such love is only found once. did i find you in this lifetime? i still don't know” he finalized, reading the last part from the paper he revealed.

realization hit your face like a thunder and your heart almost escaped your chest. you did collect the poems from older ones, and you didn't notice the one you had recited was one you wrote together with the letter to yangyang. so it had some shared extracts.

your friend was still standing in your doorstep, and figured you could run away. shut the door in his face and leave town, start over. you would miss your friends, yeah, but it was better than the shame you were facing now.

“hey, it's okay” he said softly, as if he could see all thoughts plastered over your expressions. “can i come in?”

you sat away from him on the couch. it was maybe the first time you had had this much distance in between you.

“you really didn't realize it was me all along?” your voice was small, scared of coming out, scared of what this story held.

“i never thought you would see me like that” he replied, similar tone as yours.

it was bad, how you felt as if your tongue was tied and couldn't articulate any words. you wondered if this was the end. the end of all the late nights at the arcade, of the bike rides, of the netflix's recommendations. the end of your friendship.

“i wanna get to know you” he distracted you from your thoughts, but only managing to confuse you more.

“what do you mean?”

“romantically wise. let me take you out on a date, i want to know the in love you. i wanna know just how to love you. even if i already do”

he had gotten closer to you now, shoulders brushing and hesitant hands that dithered wether to hold yours or not.

“you like me?”

“you really didn't realize it was me all along?” he mocked you, repeating what you had said earlier. you felt your face flush. “the one who is completely head over heels for you?"

he lifted your chin for you to look him in the eye. he gave you one of those smiles you so deeply adored, and when he leaned in to leave a small peck on your lips, you felt you could fly. your body was floating and everything was too, the boy holding your face, your furniture, your notebooks, all the poems you've ever dedicated to him.

yangyang's phone vibrated in his back pocket, bringing you back to earth from the daze of staring shyly at each other's eyes, feeling like little kids in love.

“it's yukhei, i told him i was gonna come here” he picked up the call, putting it on speaker.

“hey yangyang, hey y/n” the voice spoke, as if he already knew both of you were listening. “thank me yet for sending out your letters?”

“what?” you screamed jumping from your seat, yangyang bursting into laugher.

#yangyang au #yangyang scenarios #yangyang #yangyang fluff #wayv scenarios #wayv fluff #wayv au #wayv imagines #yangyang imagines #nct fluff #nct au #nct scenarios #nct imagines #fluff

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justphilia · 4 years

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Aubade is a great fic; too bad it’s possibly dead.

Been a while since I did a long long babble on a fic I like, and lately, I’ve been rereading a few fics to fuel my entertainment. I low key notice how rare it is to find a multi-chaptered fic for Ritshou that doesn’t have Terumob as main, which is really funky honestly.

I talked about Aubade once, in my list of incomplete fanfics I missed back in like February. But it’s so good, I’m gonna make a long post about it lmao.

Even though this fic has literally taken the number one ranking in my favorites list, it only took today for me to bookmark it in my ao3 (mostly because I’ve been waiting it for it to be completed before doing so.)

And generally, anything that I bookmark on ao3 is something I’ve cried about at least once, whether it’s because of the story or because I love the story too much. So anyways,

Aubade by Ravenesta is a M rated Ritshou fic centered around Ritsu, who moves in with Shou after Shou declared he was going to stay in Japan for good.

They buy an apartment together near Ritsu’s university and go on a shopping spree in IKEA for furniture and such, which is as chaotic as it doesn’t sound. The tension between them is real and it’s there, so much so you just want them to get together already sometimes.

I’ve read this fic for a total of 4 times, and I will keep rereading it until the day I die. If you asked me what would come to mind if I thought about Ritshou, it would be the fic’s summary;

My dove, my doe, I love you so I cannot, will not, let you go

Ritsu and Shou have been orbiting around each other ever since they were thirteen years old. Really, something like this was inevitable.

It’s so simple and sweet, and somehow, without fail, every time this summary (specifically the poem) comes to mind, I would get teary eyed. Even now I’m getting :’( over the poem, just because it literally speaks Ritshou to me.

The fic starts off with Ritsu heading back home by train to Seasoning City during his summer break from college in Grain City. It’s written in a way where it’s very easy for you to visualize the scenario of Ritsu waiting for the train to come while holding a cup of cheap coffee.

It’s realistically detailed too, going as far as to include little quirks about Ritsu and the people around him (stranger or not).

Both Shou and Shigeo gets introduced during a phone texting scene, where you can easily tell their personality was conveyed right through the way they message Ritsu. Shigeo adds little face emoticons with caring and sweet messages, and Shou shortens his words to ‘u’ and ‘ur’ with chaotic spacings between words and many exclamation marks.

Even Ritsu has his own way of messaging, always adding punctuation to his sentences.

Later on, after Ritsu arrives in Seasoning City, he’s picked up by Shigeo and Teru, who are already a couple in this fic, and you can tell how much Ritsu misses his home.

Teru is such a beautiful mess in this fic, everything about him is dramatic and overtop, going from his haircut to his little diet habits, and he’s still playful with Ritsu. The ‘Little Brother’ nickname will never go away.

(Also, at some point, Ritsu makes a face immaturely after seeing Shigeo drop a kiss on Teru’s head and I think that was pretty funny)

(Also also, they all call Reigen ‘Dad’. Which is hecking adorable, but it did confuse me at some point because Ritsu named Reigen’s contact as Dad and I legitimately thought that was Ritsu’s actual dad until later.)

Fast forward after Ritsu gets a haircut from Teru in Spirits and Such. Pretty funny considering how Reigen did the same thing to Serizawa in Season 2, but I’m mildly sure Serizawa doesn’t exist in this fic so it was probably a coincidence.

So they’re going shopping and Ritsu gets another text from Shou, because Shou isn’t in town, or at least, that was what we were led to believe, until he does pop up.

And it wouldn’t be Shou if his appearance isn’t random, so of course his first line is to comment on Kiwis looking like balls.

Ritsu, being Ritsu, responds by calling Shou an asshole and proceeds to be conflicted between wanting to punch Teru, because he knew all along, or wanting to hug Shou, because Ritsu misses him so much. He goes for the latter.

Cue Shou and Ritsu hanging out because Shigeo and Teru had to go save Reigen from a spirit job, and their interaction is just so Ritshou it makes you feel fuzzy inside y’know? Because it’s just...friends being friends.

Ok so fast forward again, and they’re sitting around in Ritsu’s room and here’s where the plot begins:

Shou, sleepily, declares he wants them to live together, before suddenly falling asleep.

And Ritsu panics because he can’t tell if he’s serious or just sleep drunk. So he consults Teru to confirm this, who answers that, yes, Shou was being serious, and this just makes Ritsu panic even more because wow he did not expect that and mostly because he can’t afford an apartment.

Shou, being the rich boy he is, offers to settle the payment, because of course he would.

Ritsu weighs his options in his head and convinces himself that he’ll do it. So that’s what they do. They make a little list, which is funny and adorable, and start scouting for apartments online.

Fast forward yet again and Ritsu’s plan was to first gather his shit from his dorm room, crash there for a bit, before fully moving into the new apartment.

Reigen, Teru, and Shigeo are seeing the two off at the train station, and Reigen being Reigen, he’s all double checking that Ritsu has all his shit and it’s just such a dad moment.

Most of their luggage is Shou’s because Ritsu packs light and most of his things are at the dorm, and I brought this up because of this scene:

“It’s my oldest friend!” Shou had argued, trying to wrestle it from Ritsu’s hands. “Six years I have known you, Suzuki, and never once has there been a working bulb in this lamp.”

We get a few more cute scenes of Shou running around and being playful before being tired out and falling asleep on the train, and there’s this tender moment where Shou’s snuggling on Ritsu’s jacket, which the latter had taken off early, and he makes a comment saying how it smells like Ritsu which just baffles the only. It’s...nice, makes me fluffy.

Anyways they reach Ritsu’s dorm to crash and pack, and they have this scene where Shou gets a little emotional about how organized Ritsu is, and he genuinely couldn’t believe how Ritsu is making this work.

So! Chapter 6, alright! And it’s the apartment viewing chapter, because of course they need to view apartments before moving in (which is as fun as it sounds).

They view 3 apartments, with the third try being the charm;

Apartment 1 fucking sucks! And Ritsu only chose this because he wanted to get a feel of how apartment viewing works, and you gotta hand it to him for thinking ahead. So no matter what, he knows he won’t be buying this apartment.

Apartment 2 was actually pretty decent, the landlord, however, was not. Throughout this scene, she is constantly trying to get into Ritsu’s space, and you don’t exactly know what’s up until the very end where she gets really close. Shou saves Ritsu in the end by dragging him away and making it known that, “THIS IS MY MAN DO NOT TOUCH.” And makes an enemy out of her, so big whoops.

Apartment 3 is kinda awkward but workable, with their landlord being the sweetest man to walk this earth. His kids were born on the viewing day, which made him a little late, though Ritsu finds in understandable. After the viewing, Ritsu asks if they can crash at the apartment even though they haven’t actually gotten it yet, and the man’s like, “Don’t worry, you’re gonna live here anyways so might as well crash here now!” Protect this man.

Next scene we have Ritsu finally moving out of his dorm and into the apartment with Shou and after getting a few groceries, they finally decide they should head to IKEA for furniture. It’s a pretty funny scene because everyone knows IKEA is an equivalent to a bloody maze, so you get to watch them play around in the display rooms and climbing into beds and getting lost.

And it’s funnier because this is the Shou’s first time stepping foot into an IKEA, and Ritsu makes fun of him for it briefly. Shou gets back at him later on when they’re playing around in a bathroom display room.

he doesn’t quite notice where Shou’s wandered off to until he turns around from a bathroom sink and spots him in a shower stall, calling him over with a wave of his hand. Ritsu steps inside, ducking his head under the bar for the shower curtain

He almost startles when Shou reaches over and pulls the shower curtain closed with a flourish, leaving them enclosed in the shower stall, somehow still mysteriously lit by no lamp that Ritsu can see. He shoots Shou a questioning look, only to snort when Shou leans back against the shower wall, a hand over his heart and eyelashes fluttering.

“Why, Mister Kageyama,” he says, all false coquettishness, “Cornering a young girl like me alone in a place like this? How scandalous.”

He considers giving Shou the reaction he wants, a laugh and a shove on the shoulder and possibly a comment about exactly how classy making out in an IKEA shower stall is, but the reaction he’d gotten earlier was too good to resist playing along with the joke.

He shamelessly uses his height advantage when he steps into Shou’s space, one leg between Shou’s and a hand propped casually on the wall beside his head. He leans down so that their noses are almost touching, and says low, “Well with you standing here all gorgeous like this, how could I resist?”

It’s pathetic joke flirting, some cheesy disaster line out of every old black and white movie he’s ever watched with his mother, so he doesn’t quite expect it when Shou seems to freeze, eyes wide and locked onto Ritsu’s. It’s only for a few seconds, a barely noticeable pause before Shou’s howling with laughter as he pushes past him out of the shower, but Ritsu gets caught on it, on the hitch he thought he’d heard in Shou’s breath, on the way he feels oddly wired, like his skin is buzzing from the proximity, and what the fuck had just happened?

This scene, ladies and gentlemen, had me sold on the fic. Starting with how Shou had playfully dragged Ritsu into the display shower in an attempt to tease Ritsu, only to be surprised that Ritsu had played along because, according to Ritsu, the raven would usually just laugh and dismiss the joke as a joke.

You can literally see that’s where the subtle feelings come out, where their friendship suddenly moves a bit faster into something more. It’s a slowburn for a reason, because their relationship happens really slow, so it’s moments like these that makes you really warm inside.

We come to a near end to the fic from here, which includes a scene where Shou cooks and Ritsu has a wet dream that’s pretty brief tbh and nothing too explicit don’t worry. Then there’s some scenes where Ritsu’s doing school things and Shou’s being Shou in the kitchen and everywhere.

It slows to a stop after the iconic Shou and Ritsu flies scene, because we’re all suckers for Ritsu trusting Shou that he won’t drop him when they fly.

SO! You can pretty much get the idea of how the fic will end/go from there since the major arc scene has been settled (moving in together). And frankly, if Ravenesta was to stop the fic on chapter 9, I don’t think we’ll lose too much since the only thing we didn’t get is a conclusion to the slowburn.

If you’ve read up to here, thanks for indulging me I suppose. I mostly write little reviews for my own sake since I really talk too much and it’s very hard to collect my thoughts at times.

Is this a fic I would recommend? Most definitely yes, it’s lovely, it’s well written, it’s captivating. It is the embodiment of Ritshou’s romance, and I really wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

#mob psycho 100 #mp100 #kageyama ritsu #suzuki shou #ritshou #shouritsu #fanfic babbles

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victoriousscarf · 4 years

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1, 2, 7, 9, 18 for the writing meme

1. What themes would you like to write about that you feel don’t get explored very often?

I mean... I’m very obsessed with duty vs desire as a main conflict to the point where everytime I see it I end up banshee screaming but I also know I do see it from time to time. I also really love messiah/disciple issues, and again, while those exist I don’t think they often exist in the way I WANT them too outside of some very good poems. And also weirdly it’s something I haven’t written much myself.

2. What are some common elements of stories you are tired of seeing? What would you avoid writing about?

Nihilism passing as tragedy? Listen, I’m all for a good tragedy. I love a good tragedy! I’ll write dozens (and I have). But tragedy is not the same as just full on the world is terrible and nothing good ever wins nihilism. Tragedy is cathartic. It’s teaching. It’s hope found in the midst of despair. Like (and I know you won’t mind me quoting Hadestown here):

It's a tragedy It's a sad song But we sing it anyway

'Cause here’s the thing To know how it ends And still begin to sing it again As if it might turn out this time I learned that from a friend of mine

See, Orpheus was a poor boy...But he had a gift to give...

He could make you see how the world could be In spite of the way that it is

Can you see it? Can you hear it? Can you feel it like a train?

That’s a good tragedy! But a lot of stories these days are just nihilism. So screw that.

7. Favorite description in your wip? (If asked more than once, respond with a new piece each time)

... it does not exist lol. Does indicating the royal court’s reaction to scandal through how many fans are out at a time count as a description I can love???

9. What scene was the hardest to write for you and why?

I can’t think of any off the top of my head specifically but usually it’s bridging scenes that are the worst for me. Like when I need to get characters from point a to point b but I don’t actually give a shit of how they get there? But I need to explain HOW or WHY they got there? It’s not always physical, it might even be an emotional bridging scene.

18. What writers have inspired you with their use of language? What are some of your favorite quotes?

I feel like this needs to be two separate questions lol. I have multiple documents just stuffed of random quotes that I used to find. These days you can usually find quotes I like under the tags “words I really like” or “english has only one word for love.”

But if pushed I’ll probably start quoting Richard Siken’s Crush: “Sorry about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine.

I couldn't get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time.”

Authors that have inspired me with language meanwhile... Terry Pratchett, Ursula le Guin and Jane Austen spring immediately to mind, and though I despise almost all the themes and everything else about what he writes about, I love Ernest Hemingway's prose. As soon as anyone gets a little too flowery I’m always like no, no, bring it back.

Oh! and for quotes I’ve been obsessed with Robert Frost’s “stopping by woods on a snowy evening” like now and forever.

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

Bonus round: Guess how many fics I’ve named after this poem

#vs does a meme

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nautiscarader · 4 years

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2019 in animation - very selected summary

So, I dunno if anyone’s noticed, but this year was crazy strong when it comes to animation, both in terms of amount and quality of it. No matter what type you liked - traditional...

...3D...

...cell-shaded...

...hyper-realistic...

- oh, wait, wait, no, my mistake, that’s clearly live-action.

Anyway, no matter what type of animation is your favourite, this year gave you something. and I’m gonna go chronologically, listing those that I have been able to see. Keep in mind, day only has 24 hours, so I couldn’t see every new season or premiere (for example, I had no interest in OK KO, or She-Ra). Some spoilers below. And Gifs. LOTS OF gifs.

In January: we were still riding on the Spiderverse bandwagon from last year,, which culminated with an Oscar in February. And though as I’ve said, the movie would have worked better imho as a, say, Netflix series, as only two of the spider-people were properly fleshed out, I have to admit, it was a well-earned prize.

Then we were hit by the finale of Steven Universe, and while some complained about the another redemption of cosmic regime, it was an incredibly satisfying ending to a great cartoon... so much so that a whole movie and an epilogue series was made.

plus, it had a segment animated by James Baxter, so it’s automatic win..

January also blessed us with a reboot of another old-forgotten property, Carmen Sandiego, with her second season arriving in October. And it proved that reboots do make sense, but only if you actually do something with it. The story was fresh, creative, and yet, similar in its serialised form to capture the imagination of viewers. Also, grappling hooks for the win.

February was the month of dragons. Not only we got the conclusion of How to Train Your Dragon franchise, but Netlfix gave us second season of The Dragon Prince. While I still consider HTTYD 1 as the best movie of the franchise, as it cleverly told the story of a conflict without any obvious villain, HTTYD 3 was a satisfying conclusion, strengthened by the Homecoming special in November.

TDP S2 on the other hand, did everything season 1 did, except better. For once, the studio finally broke their piggy bank and bought a new graphics card, so the choppy 15FPS animation of S1 is gone. The story got darker, more mature, yet whimsical, and it only made us hungry for more. Luckily, S3 was just around the corner.

March gave us season 2 of Craig of the Creek. I have to admit, I missed out on this cartoon in 2018, and it was a humongous mistake. CotC is quite possibly the most wholesome cartoon out there, telling amazing story about a boy, his friends, and his family, glorifying the mundane adventures in the creek to truly epic proportions. The family is especially important part, I do not remember a cartoon where bonds between family members were as well written as here. Definitely a must-watch if you have missed it as well.

On 8th of March, the International Women’s day, DC Superhero Girls 2019, aka My Little Pony But Humans And With Superpowers, started, and it was a blast. Creator. Lauren Faust, has once again proven that whatever she touches turns into gold. The shorts were funny, clever, and changed just enough of the DC universe to feel familiar, yet show us new, interesting scenarios.

In April, Missing Link had its premiere, showing that traditional, stop motion animation not only has place in modern times, but it can deliver spectacular scenes, though of course, we expected nothing less of studio Laika.

In May, one of Disney’s long-running series, Star vs The Forces of Evil had its finale, and that brings us to the first screech of the list. Many people complained about the direction the show has taken, some claiming it has gone off-track in S3, some saying it was S4 that dropped the quality. Some, like me, saw nothing wrong with it, but the finale let people dissatisfied. If anything, it was too short, and definitely could use an epilogue movie that would tie some of the remaining plot threads in something bigger than one single pan-shot.

Rest in piece, laser puppies

Wait, they’re alive? Well, then... rest in piece, Hekapoo and her puppies.

This month also presented a first contender for this Summer’s line-up, Twelve Forever. The cartoon took us into wild, bizarre land of imagination, and offered quite a few very mature lessons about growing up and acknowledging one’s responsibilities. It also provided much needed representation, both in terms of colour and sexuality.

Sadly, amidst scandals with its creator, the show was canned, though it’s also Netflix’s fault for not marketing it enough.

A-and maybe the show was just a tad too... creepy....

Also somewhere in May some Games might have been lost and some Thrones burned, but no one cares about it anymore. i think it was popular for a while, though.

However, 12 Forever was just a start. June gave us Amphibia, my personal top-bingeable cartoon of the year. Disney has hit a jackpot, giving us an incredibly creative fantasy show with rich mythology and enough emotional conflict to create fantastic storytelling. The only slight complain was the scheduling, as episodes aired daily, meaning the season was over by the end of the month. But honestly, the amount of humour and adventures with Anne in the forg world we got compensates that thousandfold. Book 2, coming in 2020, can only makes thing more interesting.

Going for a hat-trick, in August we got the premiere of a cartoon that I was betting would be my personal favourite, Infinity Train... Until I learned of its schedule, even weirder than Amphibia’s. While Amphibia took a right turn, and gave us 20 episodes, a perfect amount for both plot and filler stories, Infinity Train... turned out to be a mini-series with just ten episodes, airing daily, two per night. And that, in my opinion, was a fatal mistake. Not only we now know that the story is not over, as Season 2 arrives in January, but the short episodes and its density gave very little time to leave an impact on us. If it was at least spaced out, then maybe I wouldn’t be so judgemental, but for me it was a blow that deflated the balloon I was clinging to since 2016 pilot. Still, there is more to come, and the story was more than interesting, so we’ll see if I get used to the pocket mini-story arcs.

September. Remember Steven Universe? That cartoon that ended? SIKE, HAVE A TV MOVIE. And by gods, old and new, what a phenomenal movie it was. A musical telling its own, contained story of betrayal, trust and finding yourself, based on Rebecca Sugar’s mis-adventure with a phone that reset itself... I have seen this movie at least ten times, and its OST is one I come back to constantly on Spotify. The songs are amazing, catchy, incredibly-well written, deep, and, as usual, send very adult messages about growing up and finding one’s identity, which SU was already famous for. Must watch.

Continuing the theme of reboots that actually make sense, Ducktales finished its second season after duck-bombs in March and May, with a heart-breaking story of Della Duck and humongous finale, extending DT’s universe to other Disney Afternoon shows. Season 3 promises even more, and DT is a golden standard of making a reboot that stays faithful to a more than half-a-century old material, while adding enough material to keep things fresh and funny for modern audience. What I’m saying is, Disney could really learn from Disney (pictured below).

But while some things start, some have to finish. October saw the end of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, a show that has taken Internet by the storm in 2010 and...

...okay, cringy brony things aside, this was a clever re-imagining of the decades-old property, and its popularity, especially amongst the people outside the target demography is a proof of its quality. The ending was perfectly serviceable, nothing that stood out, in my opinion, but it definitely didn’t disappoint either. MLP FiM will live in history as the cartoon about pastel tiny horses that made adult men cry and gave them enough passion to create years of of visual crack. And porn. Lots of porn.

November: Just In case if one season of human and elf adventures was enough, The Dragon Prince Season 3 arrived in November, and it provided a thrilling conclusion to its first smaller story arc. Though I wish the season was longer, and it dived into the history of Elves’ and Humans’ animosities, I would be lying if I said I didn’t binge-watch it all in one sitting, gripping my chair.

Do you like Green Eggs and Ham? Yes, yes, I do, Sam-I-am. Question: how do you take a classic poem, made purposefully of limited vocabulary, and turn it into a thirteen episode series with a beginning, middle, and end? The answer: You add bunch of weird stuff and the mother of all complicated backstories... at least by the original’s standards. And here’s the thing: this is the first Dr Seuss’ adaption where it works. Somehow the writers were able to stretch each verse of the famous poem into a surprisingly emotional story about friendship, losing and restoring hope, as well as following your dreams. Plus, it gave us Fargo-esque team of Bad Guys. Come on.

And just in time for Christmas season, we were blessed with Klaus, a clear contender for a Christmas classic in my opinion. This STUNNINGLY beautiful traditionally animated original Netflix movie is a very, very clever reinterpretation of St. Nick’s mythos, telling a deep, and very realistic story of greed and selfishness, and how can one turn their life around by changing their life, one present at a time.

We’re about to end the year, so HOW ABOUT SOME EMOTIONAL TRAUMA, KIDS? Yes, Steven Universe Future is here, and from the looks of it, Steven’s problems are just beginning, since they mature with him. The show’s too real, man. However, it also provided much needed levity, giving us a familiar taste. Nothing more to say, as the show is still airing, and it will surely give us more emotional moments.

And that’s a wrap for 2019. As I’ve said, it is not exhaustive by any means, and from the looks of it, 2020 is gonna be as packed as its prequel. So yeah, the world might be on fire, but at least we got some nice cartoon to binge-watch.

Happy new year everyone! At least I have time until 6th of January when the first episode of Infinity Train Season two arriWHAT DO YOU MEAN IT’S OUT ALREADY

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wangjunyeong · 4 years

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hello everyone !! i’m jada, and it’s super nice to meet you all ! i freaked out when i saw a historical rp in the tags, and couldn’t resist, so ... here i am ! i’m super excited to start interacting with you all, and though i’m a little late i’m going to start getting to messages and all that ! i don’t want to make this too long, so i’ll end by introducing you to my princely baby the 5th prince wang junyeong ! you can find his bio here, plots here, and profile here ! and i’ll leave some general info about him below. also, like to plot !! i hope to see you all very soon and wish nothing but the best for this group !

his name literally means eternally talented, bright, and handsome it was written in the stars for him to be so cocky !!

he’s a huuuuge player, he’s definitely the pretty boy type and has many relationships that he prides himself on, though he has to keep it away from the public’s ears. kind of a silently understood thing though, if you know what i mean?

that brings me to his secret scandal - he’s a little concerned that either a bitter ex will come out the shadows or one of his partners will have a “surprise heir” if he keeps acting carelessly. this is really dangerous because well, he could have a child out of wedlock, and b, his lifestyle will be out in the open. it would really clash with the whole graceful prince thing he has going on so you know ... not a good look !

not naturally a fighter, but after years of training he can ! definitely not his specialty, though, and he’s much matter at handling issues through talking.

since he was younger he’s been good at learning languages, and he has a big interest in chinese and japanese ! also has a passion for poetry, funny enough it started from trying to impress girls with love poems but transformed into a true beloved hobby of his.

though he wants power he doesn’t want the throne nearly as much as some of his other siblings do, he’s kind of aware he’s not responsible enough for the role and instead wants just enough power to feel like he has control and live comfortably.

though he’s gotten interested in inter-kingdom relations due to his people skills, he does well at negotiating and forming alliances !

all in all he’s still got a very young heart and just wants to have a little bit of fun, but now that he’s getting older the pressure for him to marry is on and he couldn’t be any more disinterested !

i’ll probably add some more but his links have a lot of information as well ! thank u for taking the time to read this ilu ! <3

#goryeo: intro

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courtorderedcake · 5 years

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Hallow : ch V - CSSNS 2019

“The Goblin King was prepared to host the Darkness, stealing Fae women away to their corrupted lands underneath the ground as concubines. The Darkness chose another in his stead, but not before this selected vessel enacted a devastating attack in its vengeance, revealing its hatred & rage. The battle was a lesson the old kings had forgotten; never underestimate an opponent.

Many more lives were lost as they razed over any who dared defy The Goblin King’s will. Only the pure love of our rulers united in matrimony, breaking the Vorpal Dagger, sealed the darkness and the Goblin menace away. The light flourished under their fair rule, and the queen bore a child as pure as moon beams, swan feathers, and starlight. They lived happily ever after, and shall be written in history as Heroes for All Time.”

This is the history Princess Emma memorizes from the day she is born, paraded about and presented only with the highest protection. The palace is a cage she wishes to escape, desperately. Not careful what wishes she made, Emma discovers history is written by the victors - The Dark One has an entirely different version of the events that took place.

Read on AO3 here.

Rated E for explicit themes, Mature situations, and Fae fuckery.

Written for @cssns

Ch 5 / ?? - In which shit goes to hell

Emma did not see Killian again for over a week, which was almost a blessing in its own right. It allowed her to fully gain Elsa’s friendship and respect, a fact which delighted both Ingrid and Anna in turn. At first.

They soon discovered that Emma and El sa were a pair to be reckoned with, though, which ended with Anna shrieking and throwing pillows at them when Elsa discovered a poem from Anna’s long term boyfriend.

“An Ode to Anna, Princess of Reindeer,” she read, as Emma laughed and Anna tried to snatch the piece of colored, smooth parchment back. “‘While one has antlers and in the forest hides, I only wish I could lay a crown as lovely, before you were my bride.’ Oh Anna, how romantic, Kristoff has outdone himself. I especially love the part about how he wants to ride you as well -"

Anna went scarlet from forehead to fingers, the blush making her eyes blaze as they wrestled. Emma knew she was missing the butt of some joke, but it still took a few passes for them to explain - and by them, of course, she meant Elsa only, as Anna was too scandalized to contribute.

"We’ve been together for decades, it’s cold here, and we aren’t getting any younger!” Anna protested. “Plus, he’s dreamy in his coat, his nose is always warm, and his pockets fit both of our hands with a sandwich to boot. Perfect man."

Emma was rapidly discovering that courting was very different than even the most modern standards at home. Here, relationships were loud, heady, and were what Anna called 'the most progressive in modern history’. Elsa only rolled her eyes, and muttered about it being about time that women could wear pants. At Emma’s pressing, they showed her another glossy photo book similar to the one that Ingrid had given her, this one a 'Fashion Magazine’.

Pale women graced the pages, sporting large teeth - some gapped, much to Emma’s fascination - stick-like long eyelashes, and long pin-straight hair falling to improper lengths. They wore the same long dresses in floral patterns that were similar to those in Emma’s wardrobe back home, only with no bodice, petticoat, or undergarment. Elsa flipped the pages to show Emma a woman with a bright pink bubble in her mouth, her eyelashes long and rimmed with kohl and a shockingly bright cobalt liner, her hair piled high on her head behind a thick white band like a cone.

"A beehive. They’re all the rage. I guess that even Twiggy, Jackie O, and Mia Farrow have been spotted with them.” Elsa flipped a page to a skinny woman in a scarf, shiny white boots, and a scandalous dress. Emma sucked in a breath, feeling like a child being caught with illicit materials. The other women didn’t bat an eye, Anna flipping until the page displayed a darker, olive skinned woman with freckles and cloud-like curly brown hair wearing a shirt and breeches made of denim material. Emma’s mouth fell open in surprise; pants apparently were breeches, and not made of supple leather or soft calico, but of cotton denim.

“It’s soft, I have a pair. They wash them so they aren’t scratchy like cattle sacks,” Elsa supplied.

“I prefer skirts myself, still. I like to model myself after Audrey Hepburn or Grace Kelly. The classics, you know,” Anna said, and Emma tried to nod in agreement though she was terribly confused.

The week dragged on like this, no one too worried about Killian missing.

“He’ll show up when he decides he can forgive himself, so we can forgive him in turn. Or when he wants to be fed,” Ingrid said on the fourth night, as they settled in to watch a horror film playing on what they called a 'television’. Her voice fell to a teasing bitter tone, and she gave Emma a wry smile. “It’s why we don’t go and get a cat; it would have competition. He wasn’t always this intense, but even before that parasitic leech he needed space to realize what an idiot he is.”

They ate popcorn and drank hot chocolate, Emma convincing them to try it with cinnamon. It was a hit with everyone, especially when the movie became terrifying and they huddled behind pillows. Emma had never seen any Fae that terrified her, but this was a monster and not a Fae at all, and a swamp monster at that. Its dead, cold eyes as it tried to catch its young victim made Emma feel ill. They reminded her of Nil.

Emma’s sleep that night was difficult and filled with shadows, shapes she couldn’t discern or make out, and hallways with no end. Waking with a start, she was relieved when she found all of them asleep under a blanket, together on the couch.

Life dragged on and the comfort of a routine helped some as Emma tried to make sense of everything new all at once. Killian was still nowhere to be found, an absence Emma sorely needed to collect her thoughts. She needed time to plan her next moves. Ingrid, Elsa, and Anna were ready to help with anything they could, armed with advice and suggestions.

Chewing on a piece of chocolate cake, Anna addressed Emma over the books she was reading. Nemo had a large study full of books on the old lands and their culture, along with detailed notes. Taking advantage of this Emma spread them over the table and studied them for anything that might be of use. “So, when he comes back, don’t let him treat you any less than what you are. You need to treat him like the asshat he is. Build up some walls and armaments, you know?"

Emma sighed, resting fingers on the bridge of her nose. "I have walls, Anna. I have armaments. I don’t like that I have to trust or rely on him any more than I like being away from my home.”

“Do you think he knows that? Challenge him. Challenge us!” Ingrid said, smirking. “Take no shit, Emma. You’re a princess, and your own general now. Your own commander. That demands confidence and respect.”

Elsa pulled the piece of cake from Anna, earning her a playful slap, as she joined the conversation. “Be like your mother. Assertive and dangerously graceful, ice and fire.”

Emma thought of her mom, how quickly and quietly she could dominate a conversation to turn it in her favor. How hard her gaze could be, how her brows furrowed as she asked a question that ensnared her prey. Her face of triumph when she was using a bow during target practice or on a hunt, or using her tongue to land centering marks in a debate. Feared and adored, respected and admired.

When she tried to imagine that on herself, it felt wrong. How could she ever compare?

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Killian let himself stay away longer than normal, an eerie feeling of being followed something he couldn’t shake off. It had started in a dark cave somewhere in Africa, as he lurked in an antechamber waiting until he could move somewhere less damp.

It persisted through his next changes in locale, before he finally sat down in a dusty bar in the rolling plains of what was now called America. Nothing about the name America made any sense; however, after some light reading and chats with the Arren women, he had come to conclude nothing about America made much sense at all - least of all, why it was not called what the Indigenous or Northmen had named it. The bar was named even more nonsensically; a squat shack that was more rust than anything else in this neverending dustbin of nothingness was not exactly a 'Tree House’.

Killian ordered two glasses of rum, sliding one over slightly, the person who had followed him sitting down without hesitation. Her skin was tan, but her eyes were tired under her cropped blonde haircut.

“Tink,” Killian grunted slightly, her dagger’s point pressing hard into his groin. “To what do I owe thi-"

"Listen. I’d like to make this quick and easy enough for both of us. I know you have the princess within your grasp. I have a friend who wants to ally with her. It’s complicated, but I trust you. I will be here, on these nights. Come see me. Dress nice.” She drank her rum in a flash, leaving a hearty tip and a business card, then disappeared as if she’d never even been there at all.

He drank his own glass before picking up the business card. In ivy green ink, the front stated boldly 'Tink Rebel - Siren - DJ’; on the back were a few sporadic dates and an address. There was no way to trust her, but it was better than any other lead he’d gotten.

It’s the only lead you’ve gotten. Magic is all but forgotten or mere banished remnants here; it should be easy to get the shard.

“And it should be just as easy finding someone else to watch over the princess as well? Do you think we can find some ponce to pawn her off on, so we can be free of this?” Killian asked wryly, slipping the card into his pocket before stepping into the night’s shadows.

That too. The further away she is from us the better. See if Tink can recommend a short cliff with a long fall.

“Aye.” He disappeared again, leaving a long trail behind before returning to the nearest point he could that would get him to Ingrid’s. The walk was long, but not unwelcome.

When he arrived it was dusk, a note on the door explaining the stillness of the house: Ingrid and Elsa were delivering a wedding cake, Anna was with her paramour, and Emma was 'practicing’. Elsa had even scribbled a little note for the princess, telling her that there was salve in the cupboard. Practicing? What could she possibly have to practice? Elsa and Emma were now on a first name basis? What all had he missed?

Killian found Emma on the patio, the night air cooling as her she focused intently on repetitive strikes with a sword. She did not seem to notice his arrival at all, continuing to practice blocking an enemy, then parrying.

Clearing his throat she turned with surprise, her body immediately in a well practiced defensive stance. Interesting. The princess was not a novice in swordplay.

“Care to duel?” he teased, raising an eyebrow.

She lowered the weapon, shaking her head. “You’re not worth it."

His blood lit, temper flaring. "Oh? Well, don’t you sound confident. Haughtiness doesn’t suit your temperament; aren’t you supposed to be good at needle point? Swordplay is quite a bit out of the wheelhouse of the 'demure’ princess act."

"My father is the best swordsman in the realms. He wanted me to be better, and I…” She got a far off look in her eyes for a moment, then shook it off. “I just wanted to spend time with him. I like to think that I am very good at it."

"Thinking that you are,” he smirked, letting the Darkness ripple through his skin and muscles, picking up a discarded cutlass from the pile Ingrid must have provided, “does little to prove that you are. Shall we test your mettle, Your Highness?” Killian raised the cutlass in an attacking stance.

To his great surprise she did not flinch or seem prostrated by this bravado, only shrugging and changing her stance to defend against his chosen style.

“I don’t go easy on anyone, especially if they underestimate me. Are you sure you want to spar?” The calmness in her words set his teeth on edge, and he answered by throwing himself forward. She didn’t even act surprised, moving in a subtle side step that left her in his previous position, her footing incomparable.

Killian laughed, more surprised than anything.

“This might actually be fun, especially since there’s no welcoming party for me tonight.” He circled her, and she mirrored his steps in their defensive opposite. “I thought all of you might have missed me a bit more. My ego is wounded.”

“You left without much more than a word,” she huffed and dodged a low arc, parrying away as he dodged to strike her side. She moved quickly, adjusting to try to attack his flank. “They were worried about you. You should apologize. Your ego deserves a good, sound beating anyway."

"They should worry less. I see that you and Elsa are thick as thieves now, though. There’s that.” Emma fluidly rolled to move in close to him, throwing him off balance and forcing him to fall back in retreat as he regained his footing. Her furious volley made him feel young again, green in the ears. Liam had given no quarter when they practiced either.

“Elsa is great. She might forgive you if you genuinely apologize,” Emma said quietly, sword against sword, pushing with her weight as he slid the metal blade down towards her neck. He wasn’t a lad practicing with Liam anymore, and the Darkness sang in his veins reminding him of that fact. His blood boiled hot as her advice was drowned out by the buzz in his head.

You are so weak, so beyond help, that even this castle coddled, custard fed, soft boiled, princess has you on the ropes. She’s the reason Elsa was mad, she’s the reason why all of this is happening, and what would Liam say -

“Shut up!” Killian swung up in an arc and went after her like a madman, his attacks relentless as she played defense against them, the metal clanging sharply, enough to make his jaw smart. He spun into an attack, kicking out her leg, barely hearing her shout of disapproval. “Shut up, shut up, shut up -"

With his back turned towards her while he was fighting with the voice in his head, Emma pushed up slightly, kicked hard, and took his legs out from under him, resulting in Killian landing on his back. Emma used her sword to smack his fingers, making him release his sword as he cursed. Killian growled at her as she took both swords and held them crossed in front of his neck. Her face was cool, expression entirely detached from the task in front of her. She had trounced him as if he was half asleep.

That would not do.

An outward kick of his boot aligned to connect with her knee, sending Emma falling back a step, while she was knocked out of her concentration by his crooked move. With a well practiced turn he let her sword slide against his shoulder, ripping the cloth of his shirt and digging deep into the flesh, listening with a delighted sense of malice to the horrified sound that came from her mouth.

She doesn’t know what you are capable of. What the world is capable of.

Emma was frozen, her breathing unsteady, her hand shaking as he yanked the other blade free of her grip. It fell with a clatter to the tile, and with another kick it slid into a flower bush while Emma looked on helplessly.

"Do you know,” Killian circled her, her hand jerked free from the pommel as he shrugged the sword from his shoulder and kicked it away, “what people will do to you? Any of the Mortals or Fae that think that you could be a stepping stone, what they’re thinking of? They’re not going to play fair, or think about bad form . Do you think they will stop hunting you, just because of a wound? You’re going to have to fight to the death, Princess."

Emma made a noise of rebuttal, but it was lost as he pushed her forward against one of the patio’s stone walls. Pinning her there to look in her fearful eyes made the strength the Darkness gave him pulse in his veins, its steady beat a call for more. How could he merely whet his appetite and not feast?

Make her pay, you cowardly poltroon. Make her hurt. Make her suffer!

Her hands fumbled, pushing him away as if she could, her movements no stronger than the touch of a butterfly. He caught one of her wrists in his hand with an iron grip, marveling at how dainty it was; it would be so easy to break, the voice in his head loud, so many voices that they were a whine covering any plea she might give.

Emma shifted slightly, eyes changed and no longer panicked as they stared up in fury. Her other hand twisted to reach the chain around her neck, taking the dagger shard that hung there and made a long slash down the hand that trapped her own.

Killian’s brain registered two things at almost a second apart. The first was that he did not feel the slash of the dagger piece immediately. In his experience, that could mean it was such a precise and quick blade that he had not felt it, or that the pain from the newly made wound was so great, his body could not process it all at once. The second was a brutal confirmation of his thoughts, the answer arriving in an abrupt, agonizing pain that wrapped around the end of his left arm like a venomous snake.

He threw himself away from Emma, all but shrieking as she approached with concern.

Emma looked furious, but also terrified, her voice shaking. "I - you can’t do that, how dare you do that! Why would you do that, what is wrong with you! And I - I didn’t cut you that deep -” Her hands reached toward his forearm even as he tried to flinch away. The cut was slight to the point of barely bleeding. She was right; she had barely nicked him in the trail she made down his hand to his wrist, and then a bit longer.

It felt as though she dipped his hand in fire, while someone rubbed jagged glass up and down his nerves. Killian saw white, the world taken from him in bright flashes that made the Darkness screech. His hand was burning, the world was burning.

As soon as it had come, it was gone. The same delicate wrist twisted to let slender fingers on her cool hand slide across the scrape, all pain gone, disappearing to next to nothingness. Light poured into him, light that was so vast, so intangible, so heavy in ways that were not bound by any laws Killian knew. The Darkness fled, hid away from what it knew was something ancient that followed no arcane limitations. His shoulder wound closed up as she laid a hand over it, the knitted flesh without an ache or scar that the Darkness would have left.

The moment she was done, Emma scrambled backward and so did he, the distance as they both caught their breath warranted.

Killian examined her, watching her shoulders shake and her hair fall in a curtain around her face. There was a dull ache in his hand briefly, but the Darkness was only a far off murmur. It was far too weak to protest when he moved closer, muttering an apology in her direction.

“I don’t - M'sorry.”

For her part, Emma nodded as she shrank away, before she stood to stare down at him. “You always have so many apologies, Killian. So many times when you could have just been…” Emma trailed off, biting her lip and fighting back emotions. She collected herself with another breath. “You could just try to forego apologies, to try and get it right without having to break someone first. What did you - what did it want you to do to me? What would you have had to apologize for if I hadn’t…”

He could not think of a reply, and if he had, he would not have given it. Emma was right. Watching her walk away, his hand throbbed. Looking down at the long mark, Killian noticed it was reopening, the dull ache starting at the top of his palm making his fingers stiffen and bend. With the princess’s departure, the Darkness crept back in slow increments, and he waited for their own dark magic to do its healing work on his crooked fingers.

The Darkness pushed at the scrape, its powerful magic attempting to imitate the light that had healed Killian’s shoulder. When nothing happened, the Darkness howled, strange emotions running through it and its vessel. Among the heaviest of them was the Darkness’ terror, and Killian’s feeling of a deep, burning regret, laced with shame.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Emma managed to avoid him in ways that grew more cunning with each day that passed. The date was set for their meeting with Tink and entry into the club, preparations being made by everyone in the house as they focused on Emma. He hadn’t even told her about this potential meeting, she had to learn of the development through Elsa, the coward. It was easier for him to disappear that way, his own form of avoidance from the way Ingrid’s ever-knowing eyes immediately narrowed in on the way Emma and he pretended that the other didn’t exist

Elsa dug out a dagger to match the sword they found for Emma, which Anna helped her practice with. Anna was a surprisingly talented blade fighter, and he could see Emma’s tension ease when Anna volunteered to help her train. He had also seen the quick look of panic at the thought of having to partner with him again.

She’s scared of you, this goes in our favor. The look of fear there is -

“Enough.”

You weren’t going to hurt her, just instill a bit of real world fear. We only listed some suggestions of things to tell her, not things to do. Those were ideas, just that. You didn’t act on them, even if you could have. You could have, but you weren’t strong enough. You frightened her and look at how well it worked!

Killian snorted, scrubbing up his face before giving up and resting his head in his hands. Weak enough? He was plenty weak enough, and the Darkness knew it too, had whispered into his ear things no one should experience, justifications wrapped around each act. ’ She deserves it ’, 'Make her suffer’ , ’ She’s your greatest foe ’, ’ She can’t stop you ’, all hissed over and over, every word made to sound so enticing. The urge to retch came over him, the old pew creaking against his weight as he stood to pace, his bad hand throbbing from its use in his hurry.

His bad hand. That was the only thing the Darkness seemed concerned about besides the ever-present need for the shard, its few words on the subject curt and bitterly sharp. It had never seen a wound like this. The dagger was meant to control the Darkness, to bind it to a vessel full of vengeance. It could kill the vessel, transferring ownership to another as had been done in ancient times, but that required ceremony. His hand had gone from a dull uncomfortable twinge to throbbing sharp shooting spasms that caused his fingers to stiffen into a claw like form. He kept his palm wrapped in gauze, alarmed to find the scrape, now a cut, leaving bloody stains.

Arguing with the Darkness over this was no use. It was its own pain, its own form of torture on top of his penance for attacking Emma. That and the constant echo of Emma’s voice rang in his head like a church bell, sometimes louder than the cacophony that was the Darkness, other times only a gentle tone. If this was his punishment, it was his to suffer alone. The small abbey somewhere in the mountains was far enough to cover their tracks, changing locations to make it harder to use a location spell. It seemed fitting, too, to search for penance in this quiet, snow filled hall, the stained glass and belfry crumbled onto the rough floor.

You can’t have your freedom without her absolute compliance. She’s not ready for a battle, not ready for the world. If you’re not willing to train her properly, the Goblin will -

“Please, enough.” Thoughts of the Goblin Prince and what he might do, how close Killian had come to acting like the creatures who had taken Milah, swirled in another deep pull of his gut even as he paced in the cold cathedral.

She was safe, and you should make sure she learns this lesson. We need her not completely broken, but close, so close, to gain our freedom. And shouldn’t the sheep know that the wolf is -

“I said enough! Enough.”

Silence finally came, except for the gentle cadence of Emma’s words.

“You could just try to forego apologies, to try and get it right without having to break someone first."

"What would you have had to apologize for if I hadn't…"

Killian promised himself that he would never find out. Disappearing with a puff of smoke, he appeared miles outside of town, and began the long walk down the mountain to the shop. Even as the Darkness squirmed under his skin like electric eels, he focused on crafting an apology to Emma to vow that regardless of their dislike for each other, he would never violate her, couldn’t even lay a finger on her without permission due to the dagger’s magic.

Every word seemed wrong, and by the time he arrived at the shop front to quietly slip back onto the patio, he realized that he was in a deep bloody mess of it.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Emma was well accustomed to avoidance. It was an important part of palace survival when everyone wanted you nearby for their vanity, prestige, or to mite out a point in a quarrel, or your least favorite tutor was trying to teach you your least favorite lessons. To think she’d give a king’s ransom just to see Regina’s cross face with her eyebrows almost pinched into one straight line again, to go back to when translation of ancient runes was her greatest worry…

Someone avoiding her while she avoided them, though, that was new. This was new. Emma found it refreshing as she tried to spin the positives of working with a sociopath. He knew what he’d done, what he’d broken, almost as much punishment as the nightmares he introduced with his actions, or the thought of Nil’s threats made good creeping up on her without warning. Sleep no longer came between worries for those who she left behind to Nil and the Goblins’ wrath and those who she cared for here, further haunted by thoughts about who might be lurking nearby. Elsa or Anna found her asleep in strange places at strange times, Ingrid picking up on the tension immediately like some hunting hound, and all three of them tried to chase down the creature Emma feared.

How could Emma ever tell them it was Killian? That her fear was how he might lose control because of the demon voice in his head; how he had looked at her and their struggle before he retreated, how he made her feel in the few seconds that he took away her own limited control?

Elsa and Ingrid continued to push, and Anna watched quietly, observing until she asked Emma up to her room. It was almost dark, dusky colors painting the glimpse of the sea into a rainbow when Emma took Anna’s hand and helped both of them out of her window and onto the roof. Anna had brought a basket full of blankets, a thermos of hot chocolate, and chocolate covered orange peel for both of them, making Emma squint in suspicion.

"Emma, my family… Well. It’s hard to be the less exceptional one in some ways. Ingrid, Elsa, my mother, and Olaf were all gifted with incredible talent, ice magic passed down through generations. My father had normal or average talent, and I followed after him,” Anna began, handing Emma the thermos cup, laden full of the steaming beverage. She held up a finger to indicate just a moment, sprinkling a small container of cinnamon over the drink. Emma smiled.

“The thing about being ordinary, or I suppose I should say not extraordinary, is the difference in the sets of problems my sister and I faced, and as such, the way we see the world. Elsa is brave, she’s daring, and she’s far beyond outspoken. Ingrid is the same; they don’t see the purpose in not beating down doors to find what’s behind,” Anna said, nibbling on the orange peel. “For me, it was never that easy. I learned instead to watch, to wait, to listen and learn before rushing ahead to leap. I know that sometimes force is not the way to help."

Emma tried to interject, but Anna shook her head, laying an arm around Emma’s shoulders.

"Emma, anyone can see you’re trying to be strong, but I can see you’re hurting.” Emma flinched in her hold, and Anna gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me anything. You don’t have to say anything, or talk about specifics - you can vent, you can talk, I can talk, or you can ask for advice. I just don’t want you to feel alone, and I want you to feel free to tell me if something happened with no worry of anyone else knowing. I’ll listen, even if it’s just to silence.”

“Anna, I -” Emma began but couldn’t finish, instead crying onto her shoulder in a sudden onslaught of tears. Her hiccuping gasps left Emma feeling like her lungs didn’t work, but Anna was patient, only stroking her hair and soothing her, giving her soft paper handkerchiefs from a box in her basket.

Emma heard a noise, both of them turning to see Killian pacing the patio, talking to himself as was usual in the evening hours.

“Emma, I’m not going to pry, but I know that he did something awful to you. I know that he can be truly a terrible person, and that we sometimes protect him too much.” Anna looked from Killian to Emma, her lips a straight line in concern. “I will be damned, though, if he touched you, if he acted in any way less than a gentleman; I will gut him myself -"

"He didn’t. Not really. We were sparring and he was suddenly so angry. It was like a switch went off, he just lost control. He scared me. He terrified me, because I thought he might do something, I thought he’d be like Nil. He stopped -”

“I’ll kill him myself if you like; he’s bound to never hurt any of us, that disgusting -"

"No,” Emma started, reaching for Anna. “That’s just it. He stopped, and he looked just as terrified as me. I don’t think… I think he’s losing a battle too; I think that thing is grinding him down. I could almost hear it, and it’s a constant scream. It’s torture, Anna. I - I don’t think - I think whatever safeguard he has for you, Elsa, and Ingrid, is holding what’s in his head on a tether. I don’t think he was going to hurt me, but I think that thing inside of him wanted me to be afraid. It wants him to doubt himself, to keep him scared too.”

“It’s still not OK, Emma, he still -"

"It’s not right, and I know that. However, nothing happened and I… This situation we’re in, he’s been alone with that thing in his head for a long time. It’s not the first time I’ve seen him struggle for control and win. I don’t think he would ever do anything to betray the last vestiges of humanity in himself.”

Anna mulled over Emma’s words, weighing them. “Elsa says there’s still good in him if you look for it, but I admit this only to you - that thing is definitely getting louder. I’ll think of something to keep you two away from each other for now.”

“Thanks, Anna,” Emma whispered, resting her head on her knees.

They went to bed soon after, after Emma accepted Anna’s offer to train with her in the morning instead of Killian with great relief. With her mind focused elsewhere, Emma almost forgot about his existence as they spent the morning and afternoon practicing stances and blows, until Ingrid asked them to go drop off a package at the harbor.

“No,” Killian said flatly, without looking at Emma.

As Anna raised her palm and started to speak, Ingrid gave her a withering look that Anna returned with her own glare. “I’ll go, it’s not a big deal -"

"You have chores to attend to, and are minding the shop. The princess has not seen our harbor, and needs a chaperone. Specifically, her chaperone, and the one that is charged with protecting her while she is in our care. Unless he has decided to forego protecting her, in which case I will personally make sure that he cannot step foot in this home again.”

“It’s fine,” Emma shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. To the harbor and back, maybe an hour or so. Let’s not make a fuss.”

Emma walked away to fetch her shoes before anyone could start up again. Waiting outside, she found herself entirely unconcerned with who would be joining her; regarding the sea up close and personal was an experience she needed to count as a win. The sea was a primordial part of what created magic, an element of nature that had long been fought over by many different species. Peace had been hard won for those in the ocean’s depths, and here it was again in danger. If this might be her last chance to see it before either the beginning of a war or her abominable marriage, she would not let anything stand in her way.

Killian stalked out a few minutes later with nothing more than an affirmative nod at her. She followed in silence, his exasperated body language becoming more and more noticeable. He cleared his throat a few times as if he had something to say, only to end up more tense than before while furiously picking at his ear. Emma had finally had enough with the entire debacle after he practically ran into another woman while mulling his thoughts. The drop off itself was quick, but when she did not turn in the direction of home immediately, he began to press her.

“We’re done here, aren’t we?”

“I have other things I’d like to do,” she replied firmly, with a slight shrug of dismissal. “Go back, or do something else if you like. It doesn’t matter."

"No. If I show up without you, Ingrid will throw me out on the bloody streets! Do whatever it is on your own fucking time, princess, I’m not -” Killian’s voice grew louder, but Emma interrupted with a sigh.

“Killian, I’d appreciate it if you could just…” Emma trailed off, her voice tired. “Just try and be a good person, a gentleman, just until I get to see the ocean, finally. I’ve already forgiven you, and I can’t have you ruin this for me too.”

Killian sputtered, his face turning from calm to angry in a flash, then almost just as quickly becoming impassive once more. It would have been amusing, if she had been willing to tolerate his behavior. He stayed quiet, unsettling so, as she took in the sea. The silence itself was surprisingly companionable, both of them sitting on the pier’s edge, the port bustling with brightly colored fishing boats. The sun dipped lower, finally settling into the sea and spreading out blankets of pinks on the horizon.

“Thank you,” Emma whispered, and Killian grunted. Emma refused to turn to look at him, but let her words spill over into the darkening water. “We don’t have to like each other, but that - when we were sparring - that can’t happen again Killian. I need to trust you enough to know that you would never -"

Killian made to start speaking and Emma waved her hand in an attempt to make him stop.

"No. Listen. I am not saying that - I know that wasn’t your intention when this happened. You caught yourself, you didn’t - You didn’t let it push you into becoming someone you aren’t, even under all of… you didn’t let yourself. I just need the promise that you won’t let that thing take over you, that you won’t let it master you when you have control. That thing wants me destroyed.”

Killian swallowed hard, and took a moment before answering. “I don’t know if I can promise you that.”

“You need to. If we are going to be allies, you need to.” Emma sighed.

“I found a potential ally for you. I can promise for now that I want to be free, and I will not find freedom within the Darkness.”

Beautiful lies. Let’s see how perceptive the princess is, hmm?

“For now, that will have to do.” Emma sighed, and stood up, finally ready to return.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Being around humans was grating enough when Killian was not in a hurry, but being around humans while under a time crunch, especially ones that tried to flirt or were too nervous - it was hell.

The styles of human fashion had changed markedly in the time that Ingrid had resettled with her nieces, allowing Emma several wardrobes to choose from in both past and present clothing. Ingrid was taller, but with a quick hem all of her clothing fit the princess well enough, and Elsa or Anna’s outfits fit her perfectly.

Killian could find nothing that fit in what was left of Liam’s or Nemo’s clothing, and even if he could, breeches and a tufted tunic did not seem to be 'en vogue’. With a little research and a brilliantly orchestrated bribe of the women getting to dress Emma, he’d found a shop in the city that carried the newest trends in what this ruddy century considered clothes. They called it post-modernist, or mod - the contrast of black, white, and primary colors or prints more of a headache to Killian than cohesive.

The saleswoman had been tinted red from the second she came to help him with his measurements, pulling out an animal print suit that he immediately refused, then another in an itchy fabric she called corduroy. After many attempts, he settled on a few garments, and hoped that Emma didn’t have nearly as much trouble with whatever Anna or Elsa cooked up.

Killian heard her protests behind the door as he adjusted the neck of the damned clothing that this world had made popular. Anything called a 'turtleneck’ shouldn’t be a mainstream garment, but here he was wearing one in black, tucked into charcoal and blue checkered linen trousers with a matching 'sport’ coat. Plaid, was the word for it, the saleswoman had informed him of its pattern name, completely flustered by him when he walked out from the dressing room with it on in the shop; his hope that this would be inconspicuous was already in question.

Emma protested loudly again, and he heard Elsa and Anna laugh brightly while Ingrid made clucking sounds with her tongue.

Stepping closer, Killian tried to separate their voices.

“There’s nothing -” Emma stammered, her voice high and wavering.

Elsa soothed back, voice dangerously sugary, her preferred way of convincing a customer to try a new dessert. “That’s the style. It’s Modernist, all the rage in the cities.”

“My legs! - and arms! No, no way Elsa, and these tall slippers are -"

"Heels, Emma, they’re heels ,” Anna supplied. “You look amazing, and I mean it. In this realm, this is a deal maker and what the women wear out -"

"There is nothing to this! I can’t possibly convince someone to ally with me wearing -"

"Oh, you’d be surprised. I almost put you in my go-go boots before deciding on the heels. And it will get you inside, which is what matters. If you have to, you can find more clothing. Plus, Ingrid did some light enchantment work on your bag. Your sword is in there should you need it, and I put in some hair pins and lipstick,” Elsa said matter of factly. “Now then. Come on, let’s get one last look at you -"

There was movement behind the door again, along with more protests, before the door swung wide open in front of Killian - much to his surprise and Emma’s shock to see him waiting.

Emma stood at his height, or maybe just below, dark kohl lining her eyes and making them look like cut emeralds in their sharpness, contrasted with a soft pink color on her cheeks and lips. Her hair was pinned up loosely and messily gathered in the back, strands pulled loose over her shoulders and by her temples, the ends falling on the simply cut blue of the dress she wore. Strange slipper sandals with impractical straps climbed just above her ankles, the heel far too high for any sort of work, and she wobbled dangerously in unsteady excitement. A sharp 'V’ in the fabric neck of the blue dress let her collarbones brazenly peek out with the top of her breasts, no corset or undergarment evident, with a dropped waist that slightly flared out to end abruptly at her thighs, showing off long legs that seemed to never end. Her shoulders were bare as well, sun-kissed skin everywhere on display as she tried to pull the fabric down with one nervous hand.

Focus! What is wrong with you?

The Darkness was ignored and unheard. Killian found himself unable to speak for a long moment as Emma’s cheeks reddened deeply, the flush spreading down her chest so quickly he could follow its path, making his mouth dry.

"I can’t leave in this if he is going to make faces and mock me the whole time -” Emma began, growing even more flustered when the other three women burst into peals of laughter. “Please, there has to be a longer gown than this -"

Killian cleared his throat, unsure if he would be able to speak without his voice cracking, leveling a glare at Elsa. "I agree. This - this won’t work. She needs to be able to move, to not stand out -"

Mumbling something, a flash of magic caught Emma’s shoes with a silvery hue. "There. Stability charm.” Ingrid nodded. “High boots were all the rage in the Court for some time. This charm saved my neck before. You should be just fine now.”

“As for moving and standing out,” Elsa purred, holding Emma’s shoulders and giving Killian a salacious look of amusement, “the charm and her bag should be just fine for any trouble you may run into. She’d stand out if she didn’t wear something trendy, especially with it being such a warm spring. Or are you implying that Emma stands out for another reason?"

The air crackled between them, the bait in Elsa’s questioning apparent to everyone but Emma, who looked perplexed.

"Killian, I don’t like it either. I can find something in their closet that is -” Emma began, reaching her hand towards him. He flinched away, Elsa giggling once more before Anna gave her a sharp pinch. Even the Darkness stayed quietly observant, as unsteady and unaware as Emma in this regard.

Killian scrubbed a hand over his face furiously, giving them all a thin smile. “No, no, Elsa knows best about these things. Come on then, shall we? I don’t want her getting any more bright ideas .” Emma stepped around him, looking back confused as she stepped down the stairs to head outside, all of them giving her encouraging looks. When she was out of reach, Ingrid simply shrugged and excused herself, while Elsa grinned widely. Shaking her head, Anna watched bemusedly as Killian mouthed he was going to kill them, and Elsa mouthed back Good luck .

Emma waited for him on the terrace, glowing softly in the star light, bag clutched tightly in hand. She bit her lip, anxiety written across her face.

“We don’t have to do this, love. If you aren’t ready, that is. We can train longer, work our way up to this, or have them meet under other circumstances.” His whispered attempt at reassurance fell flat to his own ears, so it was no surprise when she shook her head.

“I’m done waiting. I can’t wait any longer; every day that passes means it’s more likely that…” Emma looked down, taking a deep breath. “Let us be done with this.”

“Aye.” Offering his hand, she slipped her own palm against his and curled her fingers to rest interwoven with his. They took a step together and were gone.

*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

Emma was unprepared for the combined smell of too many people, urine, and acrid smoke when they landed on the strange hard ground that made her teeth rattle at the impact. She gripped Killian tightly, resting her head against his chest as his jacket fluttered against her cheek in the wind and he let his arms hover inches away from her before lowering them to his side.

“Princess?” he asked gruffly and she sighed, pulling away to steady herself on her own.

Emma pressed a finger to her temple; there was another beat that came through the ground, far more unsteady as it rose up. The thumping noise made her feel off kilter. “Sorry,” she murmured, looking around.

Across the street, lights swung back and forth, lighting in different colors and patterns to what Emma was now realizing was a beat. She stepped towards it and saw a line of people waiting near a single entrance, strange words swimming across a black panel of lights. People jostled her as she tried to get closer to read what the lights said, but it looked like they were in a different language. She looked for Killian to ask, but he was nowhere in sight.

A blaring noise came from her left, two large lights approaching quickly, too fast for her to stop. What was this beast -

Hands pulled her roughly back onto the crowded walkway, a pair of blue eyes under wildly curled blonde hair incredulously staring at her.

“Are you trying to get killed, lady?” the other woman hissed. Emma blinked, staring at her. “Watch where you walk, okay? You’re going to get flattened by these asshole drivers if you don’t. Your boyfriend there should have warned you."

Killian came into view, staring at both of them with annoyance.

"Bloody hell, Emma, I looked up for two seconds and you were gone -"

"And in the middle of the street, looking up,” the stranger pointed out.

“And in the middle of the street looking up, at gods know what -"

"Where I saved her from a car hitting her,” the stranger added again.

“Where she saved you from - Bloody brilliant, you almost got hit by a motorized contraption. Taking you to the city was an awful idea, I should have - ugh. Because that’s just a bloody brilliant way of making mates -"

"So this isn’t your boyfriend then. This is your father?” the strange woman questioned, and Emma felt her cheeks flush deeply, Killian looking at both of them in disgust.

Emma tried to stammer out a few nos, but not before Killian supplied something suspiciously sounding like 'bugger all’.

“If he’s some sort of sugar daddy, that’s fine too, no judgements. It’s the 60s babe, free love and love free, ya know? Just making sure he’s with you, should be watching a pretty lady like you -"

"She’s nothing to me,” Killian stated harshly. Emma sucked in a breath, but the stranger only shrugged unperturbed.

“Right then. I’m Alice. Since I saved your, er, nothing person here, if you happen to be heading into the Never, do you think I can get in with you? You both look very posh I must say.” Alice said, giving Emma a little spin. “M'own not 'nothing person’, we call them a girlfriend, is in there somewhere. I haven’t seen her in weeks, and she hasn’t been home or to the usual or unusual places. You catch my drift?"

"Yes, we’ll get you in!” Emma replied, laughing lightly.

At the same time, Killian issued a firm, “No."

Alice sighed deeply. "I hate to beg, but I will. Please. Her stage name is Cheshire, but her real name is Robyn. I’m desperate."

Emma looked at Killian, her eyes pleading. He shook his head, crossing his arms. "Absolutely not. You’ve already almost died out here; we’re getting in and out of here as quickly as possible without any more of your nonsense. Now come on.”

Pulling Emma’s arm roughly and walking across the street as the cars stopped one by one, Alice scrambled to follow. The line parted around them, leading to two large guards at the door with name tags on their bulky, overly large black suits: T. Dee one stated, the other T. Dum . Emma wondered how two different people could look so entirely like each other, and be so vastly but unnameably different.

“We’re on the list,” Killian gritted through his teeth, the noise and heavy beats of the music making it difficult to hear. “KJ and E.”

Alice tugged on Emma’s bag gently, pointing out the marquee above, the black banner with its blinking lights. “It says in Greek, 'Θαύμα Ποτέ Νησί’. Never Worry Land. Never Wonder Land.”

Despite the heat of the evening, a chill ran up Emma’s spine.

“Yep. Yer right here,” one of the men said, pulling aside a red velvet rope while the other opened a door for them.

Squaring her shoulders, Emma spoke as firmly and loudly as she could. “She’s with us too,” nodding at Alice. The woman’s eyes went wide, and the guards at the door narrowed their squinting glares. Killian’s nails bit into her flesh until the two guards looked at each other and shrugged, letting them all enter.

Past the entrance, Alice launched herself at Emma, laughing and crying at the same time. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, you beautiful woman. I - we, me and Bynni, we owe you.” She turned to Killian and stared at him, almost like she could see right through him. “We owe you too, so consider this: be nicer to her. Μπορεί ακόμα να σας σώσει."

Killian bristled, letting go of Emma in contempt. The inside of the club was dark, but the bars and dance floor shone with bright and strange combinations of lights, sound, and color. Women writhed in cages that moved around the large dance floor, the size of which was comparable to a small ballroom.

Elsa had been right about her attire. If anything, Emma was modestly dressed compared to the strips of fabric some of the women were wearing, hips and buttocks on complete display as they undulated. Killian motioned for her to listen, and she peeled her eyes away to regard his face.

"No more bullshit, Emma. You have to listen now.” She nodded, and Killian seemed to relax more, staring at their surroundings. “I have to find our contact, Tink. She said she would be at the far end of the dance floor, so stay here. I’ll be back shortly.”

“Yes sir. No more disobedience.” Emma gave a mock salute and he bristled even more.

“Just stay here, look pretty, and act nice. You know,” Killian smirked and let his anger volley in a faux sympathetic tone. “What you’re good at.” Emma looked as if she’d been struck, and he smiled a pitying grin, her glare following him.

He made it a few steps away before returning, remembering his dire warning. “This is the most important thing, I almost forgot.” His voice was deadly serious in contrast to the smug sarcasm he had just displayed. “Do not drink or eat anything they give you. Not a morsel. Do you understand?"

Emma nodded, and Killian raced off towards the dance floor.

The music of the club was overwhelming, thrumming through her body. She watched Killian disappear into the mass of people, heading towards a raised platform with large speakers on either side. A woman stood, raising her hand with a strange ear warming device on her head, a short green dress that was covered in glitter fitted to her like a second skin.

Killian had instructed her to stay where she was, so she leaned against a tall chrome stool watching everything with interest. A man with a saccharine smile grinned at her from behind the counter, the walls behind him filled with various colored bottles of spirits. He seemed too young to be there, a child-like mischief behind his smile, but one marked with a strangely malicious intent. Emma shivered. She didn’t like the way the man’s eyes gleamed as he looked at her with that same look that pricked at a familiar uneasiness.

“Can I get you a drink, Miss?” he said, and his voice was like sweet cream. “On the house.” She didn’t see him make any movement, but a drink suddenly appeared in front of her. It smelled of vanilla, strawberries, honey, and sugared plums. Killian’s warning played over in her head.

Do not drink or eat anything they give you.

A tag was on the bottom of the drink. Had that been there before? She pulled it between her fingers, almost upsetting the martini glass. A picture of two rabbits sitting on a flower bed while toasting drinks was etched on the yellowing paper, inky ornate cursive flowing along the bottom. Drink Me . Strangely, if she put the tag down, the image from afar looked like something else entirely but her brain could not place what.

Emma put it down and went to move away when a gaggle of women pulled her to the dance floor. Emma was spun, twirled, and swallowed by the dancing crowd. The music had changed, moving through her body like a delicious current. Her dress suddenly made sense - everything was hot and slick, the scrap of a dress almost too much fabric on her skin now. In front of her, a pair of brown eyes met hers, and a woman ground against her, gyrating her hips into Emma’s to the beat of the music. Hands behind Emma grasped her hips, and another woman, a redhead with dull gray eyes stroked up and down her sides. Emma felt overcome, the movements overwhelming. Swaying slightly, she tried to press through the crowd and back to the bar, but could not move through the group that seemed to only knit tighter around her.

The world twisted again, and a muscular, lean, dark skinned man grabbed her in a dip, hands low on her thigh as he brought her leg up in the air. Pulling her close again, they spun in an elaborate tango before he twirled her into a tanned blonde man that made a cat-like purring noise, the dancers around Emma moving closer and making movements that left her breathless. Martinis were being passed again, tags being thrown in the air and raining down on sweaty skin. A waiter with the same gleaming eyes as the man behind the counter smiled that same saccharine smile that belied something dark just below the surface.

“Try a drink, Miss.” He had the exact same voice as the other man, and she backed away. “Just a sip, they’re delicious.”

Emma refused again, now pushing against the flow of the throng of writhing bodies. Another group of women pulled her into a grind, the pressure intense, their hands roaming free on her body. Everything felt deliciously good, and she forgot why she was so frightened before as soft, gloss covered lips kissed a trail down her neck. Behind her, two women touched trails down her sides with rough finger pads, one gently tugging her hair, the other alternating small nibbles on her ear lobe while running nails down her exposed shoulder. They were all whispering at once, and Emma’s mouth was so dry.

“Have a drink, try a sip. Drink it, it tastes amazing!”

Emma’s knees went weak as it felt like thousands of hands were on her, stroking her in exquisite torture. Scratchy moans turned to whispers and breathless gasps of the same words.

“Have a drink.”

Pleasure coursed through her body as Emma rolled her body and spun to the music. Her head was blessedly empty, she had no worries, and what would one drink do? It couldn’t hurt; Killian wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy, so it very well could be she should drink it.

Something in her mind wriggled, and she realized that her eyes were closed. She opened them to see Killian struggling to get to her, Alice with him looking horrified as he tried reaching out his hand and shouting words that she couldn’t hear over the music.

The dagger around her neck glinted, reflecting the bright lights that littered the ceiling. Light hit a dancer, the redhead with the dull eyes, and to her growing terror, Emma saw that the woman was falling apart. A skeleton with dripping remnants of flesh jumped with the crowd and ground her hips with a decaying man. Bodies pushed hard against her as she tried to reach for Killian. She saw more of the waiters giving out drinks, the liquid sloshing in their glasses. The redhead threw back a martini after clinking it against the decaying man’s glass, and suddenly they were young again. Emma screamed but could not be heard over the din.

Killian tried to grasp her outstretched hand, fingers barely touching her own, but several of the suited waiters were surrounding her. The man behind the counter held out a drink, and with the illusion broken, she could see the viscous, bile yellow drink in the glass, noting the sour smell it permeated the air with. Emma couldn’t hear anything but the music and the chanting of the men with their gleaming eyes, the same four words somehow superimposed over the music.

“Have a drink, Miss.” One of the waiters tilted her head back, another held her arms, a set anchored each leg, and one secured her jaw open. Killian tried to fight to reach her, but the crowd clawed at him from every angle.

“Lost Boys! Leave her!”

The man behind the counter smiled as recognition dawned on Emma, her panicked noises swallowed by the song.

The yellow liquid poured down her throat, and as soon as the glass was empty she could hear the moans and screams of agony in the music’s shrill tones. Her body felt tired, leaden, and the room spun as she felt what could only be described as a thread being cut in her solar plexus. A force pushed her deep into her mind, swimming through darkness towards a small window of sight, watching her entire body move under someone else’s control.

A low, oily, familiar, voice spoke from the depths of the darkness. “Emma? How amusing, it feels like ages since you and I last spoke!” It laughed, and through the window of what should have been her eyes, she watched erratic movement that must be dancing. She could now see the truth of what this place was, the glamour lost as some strange magic controlled her. “Well Emma, you’re mine now. A Lost Girl, one of Pann’s very own menagerie.”

A memory swam through her mind.

Granny had told her grandchild legends to scare her into bed at night. Granny would never deign to tell such tales in front of Emma, but Ruby on the other hand was happy to oblige. When they snuck out at night and drank honeyed wine on a secluded balcony, Ruby would try to scare her with the stories of the olden times.

“So then Granny said,” Ruby hiccuped softly, “that the Fae that got banished, they used to make these circles.” She swayed, making a circle in the air with her finger. Emma was warm and felt herself swaying in the warm winds, looking out over the orchard below. “They made ‘em out of mushrooms, and if a human walked through one, BAM!” She clapped her hands together, and Emma jumped with a giggle. “Part of their collection. The magic would catch the human, and they’d dance forever - you’d see these Fae with humans following falling apart, cursed to dance until they were dust.” She wiggled her fingers for added emphasis, and Emma laughed along with her, imagining a skeleton trying to dance.

Here in this otherworldly place, humans, creatures, and Fae came to dance under the lights, surrounded by walls painted in strange runes; they came like flies to a glittering spider’s web, eager to be trapped. Dancing without end in pure pleasure, extending their lives as their bodies rotted then renewed again. Forever lost, Lost Boys and Girls for eternity.

Emma could still feel sensation, but as if through layers of thick wool. Something sticky and wet touched her as she spun, and she felt bony fingers grab her wrist. As if commanded, she looked out to see a skeletal figure gripping her, both of them swaying to the beat. It downed a passed martini glass, becoming a heart faced brunette with glazed eyes, her fingers once again soft on Emma’s wrist. She mumbled quietly, and Emma strained to hear what her own voice repeated back.

"Have a drink. Have a drink. Just one. Have a drink.”

Pann’s laughter was all around, almost overpowering the sensation of Killian’s arms dragging her away and fighting to free her from the throng. Nails were sharp, blows against them both coming from all sides as Killian pulled her to a door, her purse tight against her, spilling hair pins that he picked up and bent with his mouth. Jamming the pin inside the door’s lock, it took a few wiggles before the door knob turned, the crowd pressing the door closed as Killian held her in the darkened stairwell that lay behind it.

Emma willed her body to move, only to feel sharp zaps of electric fire race through her, making her shake from the exertion. The only thing she wanted was to go back to the crowd, to drink and dance, her mind fuzzy and warm like a favorite blanket. She couldn’t hear Killian’s frustrated yelling, or feel how he had to grip her shoulders; she only saw his eyes staring at hers in sharp focus as if she had woken from the deepest sleep.

His hair was askew and his suit was ripped on the shoulder, the sleeve dangling slightly, but Emma could only fixate on the blood that dribbled from his lip. Another long rivulet trailed from his forehead and fell between his eyes. It was closer to the right side as he faced her, one of her trembling hands twitching up to smooth the lines of worry away -

Emma fell back, her body convulsing violently with the same electrical shocks of pain she had felt before, closing her eyes in an attempt to keep the voice out of her head.

“Now now, don’t make a fuss, Princess. You are such a prize, I’m so happy you could join my collection instead of someone else’s. The whole United Realms is looking for you! It seems that the Goblin prince is quite taken by your beauty.”

It was like nails on a chalkboard, someone screaming and clawing at her face while Pann laughed. Behind it, Emma felt her weight being pulled, a voice she begrudgingly trusted whispering not to panic.

“Let go. Let go, I’ve got you. Don’t fight it, just rest,” Killian repeated, dragging her body upwards.

Pann’s laugh quieted while Emma faded away, her eyes open and glassy, the world going golden for a brief moment, then dark.

#Hallow #Courtorderedcake #CSSNS #CSSNS 2019 #Captain Swan #Captain Swan Supernatural Summer

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omgkatsudonplease · 5 years

Text

rainfall confessions

for @wangxianweek day 7 “promises”: a completely and utterly self-indulgent au set to jay chou’s rhythm of the rain. im so sorry. no i’m not

“Let’s make a wish, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, looking up at the stars.

Beside him in this moonlit field, Lan Wangji hums in agreement. “What do you wish for?” he asks.

Wei Wuxian considers it, tucking himself closer to Lan Wangji with a small smile. “Forever,” he says, his fingers seeking out Lan Wangji’s and holding on tight. “Just think — the two of us, waking each day to one another. Spending the rest of our lives together.”

“Mm.” Lan Wangji’s expression is placid when Wei Wuxian looks over at him. There’s going to be mud and grass stains all over his designer coat, and there’s no doubt his stuck-up of an uncle is going to give him a verbal lashing for it. But the slight upturn of Lan Wangji’s lips makes this moment of rebelliousness all worth it.

Wei Wuxian sighs dreamily, squeezing his fingers. “Let’s make it happen, shall we?” he asks.

Lan Wangji squeezes back. “Mm,” he repeats, and turns to kiss Wei Wuxian’s cheek.

From a translation of Rainfall Confessions: Collected Poems by Lan Wangji:

on books

love is not in books, I know; I’ve read each one cover-to-cover, and there are still no words to describe the way you make me feel.

From the very beginning, Wei Wuxian had known he was out of Lan Wangji’s league. The man’s every move speaks of refined upbringing; every article of clothing speaks of money and prestige. Wei Wuxian’s just a kid waiting tables and manning the bar at his shijie’s restaurant to get by for grad school; he really doesn’t bring much to the table in comparison.

Lan Wangji still shows up during his shifts anyway, ordering him drinks once in a while yet never nursing anything stronger than an Arnold Palmer. He tips handsomely, too, and completely in cash, folded into napkins with little poems or drawings. The first napkin Wei Wuxian had returned to him had his number on the back. Lan Wangji had texted him an invitation to coffee shortly after.

With every meeting, Wei Wuxian cracks through more of the ice to find the heart within. Lan Wangji writes poems, plays piano, draws still lifes and landscapes. He’s the quiet second son of a media mogul family, chock-full of entertainers and influencers all around the world. He’s won awards for his art; his chapbooks are bestsellers.

Wei Wuxian has nothing to offer, but Lan Wangji takes what he gives anyway — his heart.

Tonight, however, Lan Wangji is already at the restaurant when Wei Wuxian enters. His austere grump of an uncle sits beside him. They’re not in Wei Wuxian’s section, but he tries to go over and bring them water anyway.

“Three,” says the uncle. “We are waiting on one more.”

Lan Wangji looks down at his napkin, refusing to meet Wei Wuxian’s eyes.

Wei Wuxian has just returned with the water when he sees why. A young woman has arrived, her coat draped over the chair beside her. She sits across from Lan Wangji, arrayed in pale pink.

Wei Wuxian’s hands tremble when he sets down the glasses, and then he immediately finds the section’s server and shoves her towards them for the rest of the night.

He’d known Lan Wangji was out of his league, but even after candlelit dinners, and stargazing out in the park, and all the other clandestine meetings they’d shared, it still stings a little to see proof of just how impossible their forever is.

Lan Wangji texts him an hour later. It was a business meeting, he says. It means nothing.

Wei Wuxian suspects he’s lying, but he sends a heart anyway.

From a translation of Rainfall Confessions: Collected Poems by Lan Wangji:

qixi

in this last rainstorm, I wished you were beside me, stranded like a maiden for whom the magpies could not fly.

The next meeting is repentance. Lan Wangji worships him the instant the doors to his bedroom closes, sinking to his knees in penitence before a deity. Somewhere far off in Wei Wuxian’s heart, a storm slowly gathers.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian murmurs, brushing his lips against Lan Wangji’s ears. “Please be honest with me: a business meeting?”

“Mm,” replies Lan Wangji, his voice steady, his fingers shaking as he unbuttons Wei Wuxian’s shirt.

“I suppose it’s not weird if your uncle is there. But it did seem a bit… I don’t know. I just know your uncle hates me.”

Lan Wangji’s lips pause just above Wei Wuxian’s collarbone. “She has a publishing empire. We are an entertainment company. The merger is logical.”

“Is a wedding logical, too?” wonders Wei Wuxian.

Lan Wangji kisses him silent. In spite of himself, Wei Wuxian swallows down his remaining misgivings. He flips their positions, fingers tangling themselves into his boyfriend’s hair. Lan Wangji arches into him, and the world falls away.

Hours later, as Lan Wangji sleeps silver and beautiful beside him, Wei Wuxian lies awake and traces the curve of his face. Perhaps this is the last time Lan Wangji’s dark hair will fan across his pillows. Perhaps this is the last time Wei Wuxian will be able to kiss those soft lips.

He commits Lan Wangji to memory with fingers and lips, and wishes he couldn’t see where this is going.

From a translation of Rainfall Confessions: Collected Poems by Lan Wangji:

in bed

you tap a rhythm against my skin that matches the pattern of the rain, the erratic breaths drawn from my lungs, and the frantic dancing of my heart.

Wei Wuxian first sees the ring in a windowsill.

It’s the stupidest impulse purchase he’s ever made. It’s a gamble on the possibility of forever, a hopeful investment in the business of love. Despite all his misgivings, all his fears, there’s still the possibility Lan Wangji is his forever.

The ring is a happy weight in his pockets from there on, a box of possibility waiting to be presented. He spends weeks trying to figure out the timing — it can’t be during work, as much as he’d love to slip it into one of Lan Wangji’s drinks. They’re both so busy it’s hard to find time after, and no place in the city feels like the right place to go.

Until he remembers the field where they had watched the stars, and he resolves to invite Lan Wangji there that night.

He’s just pulled out his mobile to text him when he sees a crowd gathered in the park. Curious, he joins them, pushed forward by the brisk pre-storm breeze. It stabs at him, but the bitterness isn’t half as acute as what he sees in the centre of the crowd.

For there stands Lan Wangji, staring down at a bouquet of roses offered to him by that woman in pastel pink. Amid the roses, there’s the faintest glint of a golden ring.

The ring in Wei Wuxian’s own pocket now sinks like his heart. Without a second thought, he turns and runs. “Wei Ying!” he hears from behind as he pushes back out of the crowd, the first hints of drizzle streaking across his vision. “Wei Ying — wait!”

But Wei Wuxian’s heartbeat is echoing too hard in his ears for him stop and listen now.

From a translation of Rainfall Confessions: Collected Poems by Lan Wangji:

for want of envy

dear reader, i lost you — the sheets are cold where you used to lie, the rain obscures you from my sight, and the heart within me is stretched for want of you.

dear reader, i was never taught how quickly someone can become your world and how quickly you can lose them.

“What’s your poison, handsome?” the young man behind the bar had teased, and in that fateful moment Lan Wangji’s world had tilted on the axis of his smile. Wei Wuxian was sunlight and warmth, a happy contrast against the spring rain thundering against the windowpane outside the store.

He’d remembered his manners just in time, choking out a request for water in between heartbeats. Wei Wuxian had remarked something about it being strange he’d sit at the bar to order water, but Lan Wangji wasn’t nearly stupid enough to confess it was him that drew him there.

As the second son, he’d never been expected to inherit the family business. Still, his every connection was scrutinised, every friend carefully vetted. Uncle Qiren’s adherence to tradition had protected him all his life, considering the scandals raised by his parents’ marriage, but the minute Wei Wuxian stepped into his life, Lan Wangji had never wanted to rebel so badly.

The instant Uncle Qiren noticed Wei Wuxian in his life, he’d pushed Luo Qingyang at him. The merger was transparent. But then, so was her distaste.

“I cannot accept this,” Lan Wangji tells her now, even after he takes the bouquet.

She looks almost relieved. “I know there is someone else,” she says. The crowd had vanished with the oncoming storm, but neither of them have moved from their spot. Lan Wangji opens his umbrella, hands it to her with the flowers and the ring.

“There is someone else for you, too,” he says.

“Good luck,” she replies. Lan Wangji nods, as the rain slowly seeps into his white suit.

Its rhythm is a metronome for the beating of his heart as he turns and races out of the park.

From a translation of Rainfall Confessions: Collected Poems by Lan Wangji:

promises

he promised me forever and a day, and all the years to come in lifetimes after. “with you beside me, come whatever may I’ll face it all in sadness and in laughter.”

Wei Wuxian lets his feet take them to the field where he’d first made his wish for forever. The rain blurs his vision; splashes mud across his shoes and clothes as he digs out the ring he’d bought, preparing to throw it down the bank towards the rushing river below.

“Wei Ying!” he hears. Then there’s the solid warmth of Lan Wangji’s body, the familiar scent of his sandalwood aftershave. He closes his eyes, letting Lan Wangji bring him close.

“What are you doing here?” he asks nonetheless, his voice as bitter as he feels. He’s tired of this uncertainty, tired of untruths. Lan Wangji cups his cheek.

“I told her no.”

The ring is warm in Wei Wuxian’s hand. “But I thought —” he begins, but Lan Wangji puts a finger to his lips.

“It has always been you,” he says. “Even when I did not know… I was writing for you.”

The rain clears, almost as if on cue. The faintest hint of the sun peeks out behind the clouds. Wei Wuxian’s eyes go wide, as Lan Wangji kneels in the muddied field at his feet.

“I have no ring to give just yet,” he says, “but I do have my promise.”

“I have a ring,” says Wei Wuxian, sinking down with him. Lan Wangji’s white suit is utterly ruined, and it’s the best thing he’s ever seen. “Forever, Lan Zhan. Please?” he asks, already leaning in.

“Yes,” breathes Lan Wangji, and meets him halfway.

From a translation of Rainfall Confessions: Collected Poems by Lan Wangji:

rainfall confessions

the frost has gathered forests on the sill; the rainstorm beats a rhythm in my heart; against the lake, a dragonfly’s wings are as fragile as this new-spun promise.

in every wound i dealt, you bled out love, until my hands ran crimson with your devotion. in every word, i heard your longing for forever, unenvious of the world around us.

hereafter only strengthens every promise, as we wake to one another every morn. run into my arms, out of the rain, and let the shelter of magpie wings protect us.

#魔道祖师 #mo dao zu shi #mdzs #wangxian #wangxianweek #lily's dabbles #modern au #yes they eventually get out of the rain omg #both of them come down with colds and are useless for a week #but they elope as soon as they feel better lol

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harry-leroy · 5 years

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Top 5 soliloquies? Could be from Shakespeare or whatever else :)

Thank you so much for this ask! I appreciate it! I’ll do some from Shakespeare (and probably some from Oscar Wilde let’s be real about ourselves tonight >-

1) I AM STRAIGHT UP NOT HAVING A GOOD TIME (The Tempest)

All the infections that the sun sucks upFrom bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall and make himBy inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear meAnd yet I needs must curse. But they’ll nor pinch,Fright me with urchin—shows, pitch me i’ the mire,Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the darkOut of my way, unless he bid ’em; butFor every trifle are they set upon me;Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at meAnd after bite me, then like hedgehogs whichLie tumbling in my barefoot way and mountTheir pricks at my footfall; sometime am IAll wound with adders who with cloven tonguesDo hiss me into madness.

- Caliban; The Tempest (2.2.)

Okay I love everything about the language in this play, but some of Caliban’s speeches are the best places to find these fantastic descriptions of the island that we’re on. Better yet, the way that he describes Ariel and the other spirits is so fascinating to me - it makes me wonder about where Ariel comes from, it makes me want to dive into the psychology (which is exactly what I’m doing for #ProjectTempest which is now #ProjectAriel). There’s a sense of militarism that comes from the spirits. They organize themselves into a hierarchy, with Ariel captaining the whole brigade, and not to mention, some of the things that they do are seen, at least in my eyes, as incredibly violent. In my project concerning Ariel, I am trying to dig into why we see Ariel as morally better than Caliban, even though he does some rather tortuous things, and this speech is full of them. I’m currently reading W.H. Auden’s The Sea and the Mirror, which is a poem that explores duality in The Tempest, using primarily Caliban (who represents the earth) and Ariel (who represents the sky). Auden made this incredible chart using these two ideas as ends of a spectrum, and he calls them both “HELL” (I’ll see if I can find the chart somewhere and upload it eventually because it is fascinating). Ahh, I just love this play so much.

2) #EXPOSED (Love’s Labour’s Lost)

Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me!Good heart, what grace hast thou, thus to reproveThese worms for loving, that art most in love?Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tearsThere is no certain princess that appears;You’ll not be perjured, ‘tis a hateful thing;Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting!But are you not ashamed? nay, are you not,All three of you, to be thus much o'ershot?You found his mote; the king your mote did see;But I a beam do find in each of three.O, what a scene of foolery have I seen,Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow and of teen!O me, with what strict patience have I sat,To see a king transformed to a gnat!To see great Hercules whipping a gig,And profound Solomon to tune a jig,And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!Where lies thy grief, O, tell me, good Dumain?And gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain?And where my liege’s? all about the breast:A caudle, ho!

- Berowne; Love’s Labour’s Lost (4.3.)

THIS SCENE. It will always make me laugh, and cry, and feel every human emotion in the book. God, I love it so much. Can we talk about how ridiculous these boys are? Berowne has such a superiority complex - he’s always off by himself, probably musing to himself, even when he isn’t trying to keep secrets from his three best friends. So when he’s found his chance to have a laugh, he takes it. And can we talk about the language in this play? So fun, absolute joy to read. It makes me cry sometimes I won’t lie. I adore these boys, and I adore how everyone gangs up on Dumaine because Dumaine is the baby (and of course he goes after Katharine because why shouldn’t he?) and I will die on this hill. I love this play so much.

3) DOUBT COMES IN (Lady Windermere’s Fan)

How horrible! I understand now what Lord Darlington meant by the imaginary instance of the couple not two years married. Oh! it can’t be true—she spoke of enormous sums of money paid to this woman. I know where Arthur keeps his bank book—in one of the drawers of that desk. I might find out by that. I will find out. [Opens drawer.] No, it is some hideous mistake. [Rises and goes C.] Some silly scandal! He loves me! He loves me! But why should I not look? I am his wife, I have a right to look! [Returns to bureau, takes out book and examines it page by page, smiles and gives a sigh of relief.] I knew it! there is not a word of truth in this stupid story. [Puts book back in drawer. As she does so, starts and takes out another book.] A second book—private—locked! [Tries to open it, but fails. Sees paper knife on bureau, and with it cuts cover from book. Begins to start at the first page.] ‘Mrs. Erlynne—£600—Mrs. Erlynne—£700—Mrs. Erlynne—£400.’ Oh! it is true! It is true! How horrible! [Throws book on floor.]

- Lady Windermere; Lady Windermere’s Fan (Act I)

“A wife should trust her husband” says Arthur, because it’s all he knows about marriage, that and that he would do anything for his wife. He would throw himself in front of the spear of society’s hatred for her, even though it is what he fears most. Arthur spends his entire life trying to be the model husband, the model son, the model father, the model man in society, he is so focused on perfection that Margaret can’t believe it when he’s fallen from grace. And it ruins Arthur just as much, maybe even more so. Everyone knows that Arthur is a perfectionist. He tries to match Margaret’s model, as Cecil would say “that is the worst of women. They always want one to be good. And if we are good, when they meet us, they don’t love us at all”. He feels like he needs someone to reform him, keep him from falling into the pit, but really he needs to relax. He needs to learn how to say “no”. And people have been waiting for him to slip up: Darlington because he wants Margaret, Cecil and George because they find it amusing. For Margaret, this is where the chips fall, where the imperfections finally come through. For the first time, she has reason to doubt him. And she lets it consume her.

Arthur finds himself in the same position at the end of Act III. He finds his wife’s fan in Darlington’s rooms, and you can feel the tension in his voice, he’s about ready to throw out his back and shoulders from how tense he gets. But he doesn’t blame his wife, he blames Darlington, or at least that’s what he couldn’t bring himself to say. “And if my wife’s here, I’ll -”: he can’t finish his sentence, because it can’t be true. She loves me! She loves me! Thank goodness for Darlington’s interruption. For the first time, he has reason to doubt her. And he can’t bring himself to do it.

4) HISTORY REPEATS ITSELF (Lady Windermere’s Fan)

Gone out of her house! A letter addressed to her husband! [Goes over to bureau and looks at letter. Takes it up and lays it down again with a shudder of fear.] No, no! It would be impossible! Life doesn’t repeat its tragedies like that! Oh, why does this horrible fancy come across me? Why do I remember now the one moment of my life I most wish to forget? Does life repeat its tragedies? [Tears letter open and reads it, then sinks down into a chair with a gesture of anguish.] Oh, how terrible! The same words that twenty years ago I wrote to her father! and how bitterly I have been punished for it! No; my punishment, my real punishment is to-night, is now!

- Mrs. Erlynne; Lady Windermere’s Fan (Act II)

- What did Margaret write on that fatal letter? “Arthur has never understood me” says Margaret, “but when he reads this, he will”. It’s a second-generation Nora, the woman who has never understood herself because she’s been smothered. That’s exactly what Margaret has been, losing her parents at a young age, she has been sheltered from every kind of horrible truth there is. She believes her mother died a saint, her father whose heart swelled too much in devotion for such a saintly figure. Lady Julia made sure of that. In reality, Mrs. Erlynne, while not a saint in any regard, threatens to outshine the golden girl of society, her own daughter. Mrs. Erlynne is the life of the party, not her daughter, and what is worse, her husband might love this woman, and now she thinks he has every reason to. “Cowards are always pale” - how can Margaret hope to compete with this woman? Darlington says ‘forget them, run away with me’ - she can’t bear to think that her husband has left her side. “Come back to me?” she asks the Duchess, hardly able to believe that her husband could have left, but it’s Arthur she wants. She tells Darlington, “my husband may return to me”. She would forgive him, because she loves him, but she can’t stand to think of herself as second rate in her husband’s eyes. It’s a feeling that Mrs. Erlynne knows far too well. There’s so much about motherhood in this play that I absolutely love. In my prequel play, The Selby Roses, I attempt to explore similar ideas about fatherhood. There is so much generational conflict in both plays - even seen in the men of this play. Look at Cecil Graham: there is nothing he holds in contempt more than the older generation, but he also fears them. He gets sheepish around Mrs. Erlynne, he loves to talk down to Lord Augustus. “You were never my age” he tells Augustus, almost as if to say “And I’ll never be yours”. Ah, it is such an interesting concept. Okay, stream-of-conscious rant over hehehe :’)

5) HE’S SOME KIND OF POET (King Lear)

When we our betters see bearing our woes,We scarcely think our miseries our foes.Who alone suffers suffers most i’ th’ mind,Leaving free things and happy shows behind.But then the mind much sufferance doth o’erskipWhen grief hath mates and bearing fellowship.How light and portable my pain seems nowWhen that which makes me bend makes the Kingbow!He childed as I fathered. Tom, away.Mark the high noises, and thyself bewrayWhen false opinion, whose wrong thoughts defilethee,In thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee.What will hap more tonight, safe ’scape the King!Lurk, lurk.

- Edgar; King Lear (3.6.)

Will I ever figure out why Edgar is speaking in rhyme here, even though he is alone? Probably not. Though, it does totally make me believe that Edgar knows he has an audience, and it haunts him to no end. There are so many elements to King Lear that make it absolutely absurd, which is why it’s (at least in my eyes) such a good play for 2019. Edgar is performing for self-preservation, but isn’t everyone? Up until this night, he’s refused such a thing. Honesty or I am nothing. The day he accepted playing the game was the day Cordelia refused and that will 5ever end me.

#thank you so much for this!#this was fun #i'm not as good at analysis as you are #i promise i'm way more articulate in papers #and of course i had to throw in some lady windermere's fan #am i like... the only person on tumblr who adores the heck out of that play?#probably #but it's fine #shakespeare #oscar wilde #theatre #enjoy some lwf analysis #and yes that ariel project is really vexing me #i gotta finish auden before i go any further #but it's all a work in progress #dustyprose #suits of woe #thank you so much!

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selfships-in-spanish · 5 years

Text

Spanish Civil War AU (with WW2 later on)

Hi! Yes so, this AU came to me after watching some movies with my grandfather, whom he himself is a Spanish Civil War survivor, as well as the WW2 shitshow. I’ve spent my entire life listening firsthand what happened, how he lived it, what he saw, what he felt... and I always had this little spine stuck in my heart. The things I could tell you... I always wanted to do some sort of story about those times but not only for the Spanish audience, but worldwide. So this AU came.

I want to thank @tinmiss1939 for being the most amazing human being on earth and jumping on board of this AU and helping me out polishing it and adding so much detail and info. You’re such an amazing writer and person and sjdfskdsf I’ve been blessed by your friendship, truly.

Here’s the whole idea for now!!

Ona and Cel were sisters in Barcelona and they both knew that 1939 would be the year that shattered their lives. Any fool could see it coming, except the fools destroying Spain didn’t care how many lives were shattered along the way. Their father, a Republican freedom fighter, was killed by the Fascist forces. Their mother dragged them away from their father’s still-cooling corpse, so the soldiers wouldn’t find them and kill them or do something worse.

They survived how they could and somehow ended up in a refugee camp in southern France, waiting to immigrate to England or Canada as Ona knew some English. Their mother died two weeks after they crossed the border. Ona always believed that their mother died of a broken heart, finally giving up after she knew her daughters were safe. Cel believed their mother contracted typhus from a blanket and died of brain fever.

Cel and Ona were alone and scared, but at least they had each other.

The women’s refugee camp helped some women find jobs in France and helped others emigrate. Ona and Cel’s first choice was for them both to leave the Continent forever, to finally be safe and escape from this hell. Someone from England was interested in a nanny and the selection committee chose Ona for her teaching experience before the war. They only chose Ona. Cel’s few years of nursing school were considered too valuable. It was painful and heart breaking. They had always been together and they never wanted to be separated. They needed each other; they were the only family they had left. Cel knew, however, that another chance might never come. Ona was almost dragged away, kicking and screaming, and Cel only asked her to please write letters.

Ona was sent to England, to a country manor house. She became a housemaid and also nanny for a young boy named Cole. Her employer was a wealthy man named Henry Anderson, also called Hank, whose textile business had skyrocketed in recent months. He was not able to be much at home and wanted more help for the maids and someone with more experience to care for Cole. He had adopted two sons, Connor and Richard. Connor, the eldest, helped him run the family business and manage the estate, while Richard studied foreign affairs in London. Hank had adopted the boys from one of his factories at a very young age, appalled that the foreman was employing children so young in such brutal conditions. He simply had not been able to walk away from their tear-streaked faces. He fired the foreman, adopted the boys, and instituted company wide reforms on labor conditions.

Connor took an immediate liking to Ona, although there was a huge language barrier. She was charming and intelligent and cared so much for Cole. Ona knew very basic English and had no clue what she was being told most of the time but somehow managed to do her job and more. One of the other maids knew Spanish and translated for her, but Flora could not be there all the time. After some thinking, Connor spent his spare hours teaching English to the new hire. Something intimate grew between them. He didn’t miss how her cheeks reddened when he got closer, how she lowered her gaze, embarrassed, when they brushed their hands accidentally. He definitely didn’t miss how absolutely cute her frown was when he stole an apple from her basket when she was returning to the kitchen. She reprimanded him in Spanish because her English wasn’t that good yet and Connor refused to teach her bad words. She eventually learned them from Hank.

Connor discovered more of her, little by little. She always had that sad gaze and was constantly writing letters to someone he didn’t know. He didn’t want to pry; it was her privacy, after all, but deep inside he feared she left a paramour behind on the Continent. Connor couldn’t deny he wanted to kiss that sadness away and wrap his arms around her and make her feel secure and loved.

Cole LOVED her and she always spoke Spanish to him. One day, he surprised all of them by replying to Ona in Spanish and everyone stared at him as if he grew a second head. Cole was like “whatever” and kept replying in Spanish, then English, then Spanish when Ona didn’t know that word yet… Their jaws hung open and no one else said a word. Ona became scared that she had done something wrong. But Hank was a practical man and was actually very pleased about the fact that Cole learned another language just like that and didn’t chastise any of them.

Ona’s English lessons with Connor continued, more in the open now. Ona’s affection for the reserved young man grew and she started to see flashes of his sardonic sense of humor. She knew she was developing a crush, but she was just the hired help here. Surely, Connor will be obligated to marry for money or position? By now, Connor had realized he didn’t care about who he was supposed to love, but he had also seen his ‘friends’ take advantage of house staff. He was wracked with guilt but could not resist her sweet smiles and good heart.

It was a summer evening in the library. The windows were open but it was still warm, so Connor had removed his jacket and his waistcoat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He was so oblivious to propriety that he didn’t even realize his level of undress was scandalous; Ona had shut the door so the other maids wouldn’t wander in. They were looking for a certain book of poetry, laughing at just how many sappy romance poems Richard had bookmarked. Ona could not reach a book in the top shelf, so Connor reached over her head to retrieve it. His smile was full of such warmth and affection, and Ona could not take it anymore. She dragged him in for a kiss by his shirt, praying that later she can blame it on the heat and the brandy. It was only a kiss—only a soul shattering kiss, full of months of longing that Connor returned so eagerly. He grabbed her waist and pinned her to the bookshelf. She moaned into his mouth, high pitched and needy, and let her hands slide up to his face. Her small hands were on his neck, threading through his hair, and Connor knew he was dreaming so he pushed in closer, clinging to this moment that could not be happening. Thunder crashed outside and they jumped apart, chests heaving and lips swollen, red. Mortified by her lust, terrified by her surging emotions, Ona fled the library. Neither of them could bear to bring up the moment the next day, or the day after that...

Weeks went by. Ona kept sending letters until one day the replies stopped. She panicked. Cole found her clutching a piece of paper and crying, and he ran to Connor because he had a feeling this is something big, something for grownups, and that he really couldn’t help much. Connor was dragged from his study to where Ona was hiding and Connor was completely heartbroken at the sight.

When he managed to calm her down just a bit, he took her into the parlor and prepared a cup of tea, just in time for Hank and Richard to come back from the city. They asked what was wrong, what happened, and Ona just spilled her entire life story. The war, their father dying while protecting them, her mother dying soon after, her sister still trapped and Cel hadn’t replied to any of her letters in weeks. and now the news that the refugee hospital was bombed and she was afraid, she was so afraid. She cannot lose her sister, too! She had to take her out of there and had to know she was alright and alive and—

It was devastating to the Andersons. They didn’t know the full magnitude of the horror show that was the Spain and France. They didn’t even know that Ona had a sister. She was relieved from her duties for the evening and taken by the other maids to her chambers so she was not alone. Hank sent a bottle of his best brandy after them. Hank, Connor, Richard and Cole stared at the empty chair with their insides frozen.

It was Cole who spoke first.

“Papa, you have to rescue her.”

It was dangerous. It was crazy. It was pure madness, but Hank would be a heartless monster if he didn’t even try. He had some calls to make.

The final plan was, indeed, absolute madness. Connor would go with Ona to the Continent to find Cel and bring her home. It had to be Connor. He spoke a little French and had learned some Spanish from Ona and he could also use the family business as an excuse if they got into trouble. Richard had contacts in the Home Office who could supply papers for Cel and those contacts could also get them into France, but after that Connor and Ona would be on their own. Richard had one last suggestion…

“You need to marry Ona before you leave.”

Connor almost fainted on the floor of the study. How could Richard know?! How could Richard reveal his secret love, just like that? Did Father know before this? (He certainly knew now!) Connor waited for the Earth to swallow him, but Richard was still talking. Richard proposed that Connor should marry Ona now to get her British citizenship and ensure her safety while traveling. They could annul the marriage later and bind the story in so much red tape it would never see daylight.

They left within the week; it was a frantic week that passed in a blur of paperwork, signatures, new clothes for Ona, a crash course review in French for Connor, and finally, a tiny secret wedding in London. After exchanging vows in front of a magistrate, Connor kissed Ona on the side of her mouth. It was short and featherlight, but Connor's lips still burned with the taste of her.

Mr. and Mrs. Connor Anderson traveled across the Channel that same day, and took a train to Toulouse. To all the world they looked like a young couple on a honeymoon, oblivious to the brewing storm in the rest of Europe. In private, Ona cried herself to sleep and Connor finally understood all of Richard's warnings to keep his head down and stay out of trouble. Never had it seemed more true that a person could be kind but people were a mob. Ona's translations seemed to leave out half of what was said. It took days to convince her that censoring the casual slurs did not do him any favors.

Their plan almost fell apart in Perpignan. Cel had changed her last name out of fear of Fascist repercussions, but the paperwork got mixed up with her application for a nursing certificate. They were meeting with a foreign affairs clerk, trying to describe Cel's appearance to sort through a database of displaced persons with special skills.

Connor's patience had worn thin hours ago. "We are looking for a girl who looks EXACTLY like this one, but her beauty mark is on her left cheek instead of her right."

The officer was growing bored with the whole conversation. In a fantastic display of French humor he asked, "Why do you want another one who looks the same? I can set you up with a very pretty redhead."

Connor dived over the desk and punched the man the jaw, followed by a right cross to the nose. Security guards appeared out of nowhere, hauling Connor off to a holding cell. Ona's rapid pleading and a hefty bribe kept Connor out of jail. The officer actually apologized and gave her a lead in Montpelier, but then added a crack about stuffy British men with no sense of humor and offered to buy Ona a glass of wine or a coffee or maybe breakfast?

They left quickly.

That night at the hotel, Ona was bandaging Connor's knuckles when he asked how she got him free. He knew about the bribe but it would not have been enough.

"I…told them I was…eh…encinta? I don't know how to say it in English. I said, 'Je suis s'attendant.'" She got up to put away the first aid kit, not wanting to see Connor's face. It was such a thing to say and if word got out, it would ruin his reputation.

Connor stood and followed her to the dresser. She expected anger or disappointment. She did not expect his voice to be so soft as he said, "You told them you were expecting? That you were carrying my child?"

"I couldn't think of anything else to say.” She screwed up her courage and turned to face him, saying, “After we find Cel and get her papers fixed in England, we'll leave immediately, I promise. We'll go to Canada or America or somewhere." Hot tears burned her eyes.

"Ona, I don’t want you to leave," he whispered. His hands cradled her face as he wiped away her tears. "I don't want you to ever leave." He leaned his forehead against hers, his breath soft on her cheek. "I don't think I could live without you. Please stay with me. I'm yours, if you'll have me. Please, don't go." His heart overflowed with desperation and hope. Maybe, just maybe, she could feel the same way. She hadn't pushed him away yet. She hadn't refused him. He needed her, he wanted her, he—

"I love you, Connor." She lifted her mouth to his, the words brushing across his lips. "I love you." The tiny brush of her lips became the sweet press of a gentle kiss. His mouth pressed back immediately, soft and warm. Connor tilted her head so he could angle his lips across hers. Each nip and graze spiked her desire for more. She needed more of his touch, more of his taste, more of him.

Connor begged entrance into her mouth with the brush of his tongue. She welcomed him with a high pitched moan. Ona's arms wrapped around his waist. Her soft curves pressed against the entire length of his body and Connor gasped for air. It was overwhelming after so many weeks of longing for her. His dreams had never been this good. She was pulling him towards the bed and he followed her so willingly.

Connor fell on top of her, mindful of not crushing Ona under his weight. He couldn’t stop kissing her, he wouldn’t; now that he had her lips, he wouldn’t let them go. But they did need to breathe. Connor and Ona took a moment to look at each other in silence but their gazes were speaking so loud. Connor placed one of his hands on Ona’s leg, going up until it grazed the hem of her skirt. Ona bit her lip and nodded, so Connor’s hand renewed its journey, taking the skirt up along with his hand. Her skin was smooth and warm, begging to be touched and cherished. Ona brought their lips back together, wrapping her arms around his neck and pushing him down. She hooked her free leg around his hip, pulling him flush to her body, feeling everything he had to offer.

He was burning. So was she.

They made love to each other, desire surging between them with each thrust and moan. He whispered his love for her when she came beneath him. After he had found his own pleasure inside her, she held him tight until his trembling stopped. That night she fell asleep without tears.

The next day, Connor and Ona continued their search but the days became easier as they found strength in each other. The nights became sweeter.

They ended up finding Cel in Orléans. The hospital staff had been moved so many places and Cel was unable to send or receive anything. Their reunion was filled with tears and bone-crushing hugs. They were in each other’s arms, alive, well. They spoke in both Spanish and Catalan so fast that they barely understood each other. On the journey home they were never apart and spent the nights cuddled to each other like they used to when they were kids. Their joy in each other was so sweet that Connor didn’t even mind losing Ona’s company (well, he didn’t mind much). Both of the sisters were afraid to wake up in the morning and not see the their other half. They were afraid to wake up alone and realise it was a dream.

When they finally it make it to their new home in England, Hank knows he made the right choice. That feeling is reinforced when Richard’s jaw drops the first time Cel’s tears him to pieces in a debate at the dinner table. Ona hides her smug smile with her glass of wine; Cel is insanely good with words and has seen more than one foolish man perish under her wit.

He did make the right choice. There was enough misery in the world and if he could help? He would. Maybe Richard’s contacts at the Home Office could help him to do more.

But honestly? Nobody fucking told him they were twins.

#detroit become human #detroit: bh #dbh #rk800 #rk900 #connor x oc #rk800 x oc #rk800 x reader #rk900 x oc #spanish civil war au #WW2 au #there's a shitton of angst and drama

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queakenstein · 6 years

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Can you write a fic where mute Link wants to surprise Zelda (for her birthday) that he's learned how to finally speak by reading to her a poem that he wrote? But here's the catch; some nobleman surpasses Link in giving gifts to Zelda (y'know, like flowers, dresses and jewelry) and Link feels discouraged/ashamed of his gift, so he tears up the poem and tries to throw it away until a certain someone *coughzeldacough* finds the torn parchment pieces and asks Link about it. ;)

WELP, I hope ya’ll like the poem because I haven’t written one in forever and I didn’t proof this one bit so sorry if there’s like tons of errors. I just wanna get some requests done! I missed you guys!! Lemme know if I need to put a read more in... probably do....

Zelda likes puzzles, sonnets, the smell of lavender and early mornings with tea. She likes perusing through the schedule brought forth earlier in the week so she can get the gears in her head turning about this and that. What she does not like is the “meetings” ever present since she was over marriageable age. She has learned how to slip out of such a duty but at the rip age of twenty-two, she finds that her father manages to always wrangle her back into sitting stiffly in chairs across from some would-be bachelor come for her hand.

She fights the urge to click her tongue in distaste and reminisces about how her old nursemaid used to scold her for unladylike behaviors as she curls her legs up into her chair while nibbling, mouse-like on a small sweet wafer. It’s a habit she refuses to give up in her lonesome and she giggles despite the ill mood creeping up on her at the thought she’d have to make small-talk for a near hour later in the day.

A knock is heard from where she sits on her private balcony and she calls loud enough for the person to hear. “Enter!” It takes a moment before a familiar face pops into view from within her bedroom. She spies him through her window and raises her cup. “I had the ladies bring a spare cup for you!”

Link smiles, gently, and joins her at the small table but not before checking the soil in the plants spread about in pots around them. He pours himself a drink and tops Zelda’s off with a hum.

“Has your morning gone well for you?” Her voice sounds odd bouncing back at her while she drinks. Link slumps and rubs a spot on his jaw. Zelda’s eyes spy a bruise forming. “One of the other’s landed a hit on you?” She laughs, suddenly, not trying to hide the amusement in her voice even as Link scowls at her. “What’s his name? I think he may need a promotion!”

Link drops his elbow on the table and stabs a finger at her with a look that very clearly reads, ‘Now,see here!’ He grins and rolls his eyes after a moment. Using his hands, he signs something about the soldier being a good hit but his balance is never on point. His excitement is apparent with the flurrying way his fingers move.

“So, training is going well then?”

He nods, sees the parchment resting in front of her, and taps it. “What’s this?”

Zelda groans. “Lord Eury’s son wants to meet with me.”

‘Again?’ Link frowns and cross his arms. ‘That’s the fourth time in just this month’ His signing becomes slow, precious and Zelda notices it’s not as fluid as it normally comes… almost as if– Link stands. ‘Speaking of meetings, the Commander asked that I meet with him.’

“Link!” Zelda stands but her hands miss his arm. “It can wait, can’t it? I’d like us to catch up some more. You– You didn’t even finish your tea.” She doesn’t mean to sound like a child pouting but she has missed him. He’s been odd ever since Tobias has become one of her “regulars.”

Link makes a fist, thumb resting to the side rather in front, and makes a quick clock-wise circle in front of his chest. It means ‘sorry’ and he leaves. He carries with him the rest of Zelda’s good mood.

She makes it all the way to her meeting with the young Lord Tobias Eury before anyone dares comment on the fact she’s been a little snippy and a little distracted. To be honest, she’s a little surprised that it’s actually him that mentions it.

“Is all well with you, Princess?” He sits up perfectly proper with his clothes all arranged just-so. Zelda couldn’t deny that he was handsome but there was hardly any attraction felt for the man except that his ideas to help the economy were rather impressive.

Zelda blinks and attempts to drag herself out of the bratty aura she is trapped in. “I have had a frustrating morning.” She fidgets with pulling her glove off her fingers. “I am sorry, I have not been very good at paying attention today. Would you mind repeating yourself?”

Tobias chuckles. “I merely said that it was a shame you weren’t wearing the necklace I gifted you yesterday. It would have matched rather stunningly to the dress you wear.”

“Ah.” There’s a pause, Zelda does it intentionally to let the atmosphere grow stale and then she smiles. “Forgive me. I do not dare flash a gift from a suitor until I feel it would be appropriate to do so.”

“And when would it be appropriate?” He asks and, boldly, reaches to take her fingers in his.

Zelda looks at their hands and doesn’t register that someone has opened the door. She waits to hear a voice tell her that it is time for dinner but nothing comes… She glances up to inquire what the messenger may want but, instead, finds her gaze locked with an ever familiar face.

Link turns on his heel and marches straight out the door with a face of stone.

Zelda feels her feet move of their own accord but something tugs her back. Tobias’ fingers are now interlocked with hers. Something cold slithers down her spine then settles into her gut. She doesn’t intend for the force from with she wrenches her fingers away to be so violent and there’s a shake to her voice that she’s not familiar with when she says, “Gifts from my intended shall be the only ones that I wear, sir Lord. None other.”

It’s only when she gets into the hallway that she realizes her glove came off in the Lord’s fingers. Zelda’s mind is whirring too fast for her to really wonder about how scandalous it will be when a suitor shows up with a missing article of clothing. She’s too busy trying to figure out why it felt so wrong to be seen holding hands with a man. Not that she cares being seen holding hands with a man. Suitors have taken her hand before and she’s brushed them off with a gentle smile or pat… But, to be seen… by Link…

She stops when a loud crinkle is heard and frowns. It’s spring. She’s made it to the garden, her mind supplies. The gears turn some more and her brow furrows in confusion as to way there would be crunchy leaves in the garden during spring time. Lifting her dress, she finds that it isn’t leaves.

It’s parchment torn in what looks like a moment of passion. It’s Link handwriting. She picks up the largest piece and reads what she can in the light of the dying day.

You are the morning,

your smile

Zelda swallows. “Did he write… a poem?” Her breath comes out slow and uneven as the implication sets in. She snatches up what remains on the ground, kicks off her shoes and gathers up her skirts. A servant leans out a window to shout something about dinner but it’s lost in the wind that rushes by her ears. Her bare heels pound into the ground. She ignores the sting of loose gravel digging into her feet and manages to slow down before rounding the corner into the soldiers’ barracks. Link’s a commanding officer and has been given a small room for his own private use though he has been looking for a proper residence for some time. Zelda stops before his door and knocks.

No answer.

A passing guard clears his throat. “He’s in the stable.” He bows and offers to escort her there. She agrees and ignores the odd look the man gives her bare feet. He stops at the door. “Would you like me to wait outside?”

“That won’t be necessary.” She thanks him and slips in, quietly. It’s not hard to find Link. He’s got his back turned but his head is pressed against his horse’s. Zelda finds she doesn’t know what to say. That she’s confused about his reaction… her own reaction. All she can figure out is that something hurts. Something doesn’t feel right and she wants it fixed. So, she just starts talking. “How old is she now?”

Link is good at hiding his surprise if he didn’t hear her come in. He doesn’t make a move to answer.

“She’d have to be… fifteen, by now?” She swallows, stepping closer despite her brain suddenly telling her to flee. “I remember, your father teaching us to ride on her when we were children.” Zelda stops several feet away. Close enough that she could embrace him in just a few strides. She takes a breath. “You… Link, I…” She remembers all the torn pieces of parchment in her hand and holds them out. “Did you write this? I found it in the garden… is it a poem? I haven’t put the pieces together yet but, y-you know, how I like poems. Still, I hope this isn’t the only copy.” Zelda stops. She knows she’s rambling and that feeling of flight turns to frustration. “Look at me!” Her shout sets the animals on edge and she winces at the volume

Link turns and signs, ‘Don’t scare the horses.’

Zelda’s face flushes in anger and she signs, violently, back. ‘Then talk to me, you jerk.’ She hates the terrible sad look in his eyes but manages to hold his gaze while continuing, ‘Why did you run away like that?”

‘I didn’t want to interrupt.’ His expression betrays the lazy way he signs.

“Interrupt?” She blurts and rolls her eyes. “Tobias was being a flirt. There wasn’t anything going on.”

Link frowns. “You were holding hands.”

“He was holding my hand.” Zelda punctuates the statement by signing as she speaks. “A–And what’s this about?” She tosses the torn poem at him. “Why did you rip it up…?” She crosses her arms. “I like poetry… I…” The emotional whirlwind finally catches up with her and tears threaten to escape her attempts to blink them away. “I’m very confused.”

Link’s warm hand startles her as it reaches up to thumb away an escaped tear. He smiles gently and lets his palm rest against her cheek. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have overreacted.” He sighs. “I wrote that poem.” A pause. “For you.”

Zelda blinks at him. “Me?” She glances at the largest piece on the ground. “You are the Morning… seems awfully romantic, Link.” She’s blushing and, slowly, the world starts to feel right again.

“I know.” He signs with a smirk. “That was the point.” Link frowns then and steps away from her. His shoulders slump and he shakes his head. “I don’t even know if you feel…”

“You know.” Zelda breathes, moving back into his space. “I have never had a suitor recite something he made… from his heart.” She smiles and, carefully, places her hand on his chest. “Especially from a heart so dear to me.” Link takes both her hands in his own. “Could you remember it? Could you tell me what it said?”Link nods. She moves to let go of his hands and gives him a confused look when he tightens his hold. “You need your hands, sil–” He places her hands on his chest and keeps his above them.

“You are the morning,” His voice is soft, deep and she can feel it rumble in his chest when he speaks. Zelda feels her legs go weak but he manages to hold her there despite looking like he might collapse himself. Link takes a deep, shaky breath and continues.

“You are the Morning,

your smiles reaches the darkest places

that I thought the light could no longer reach.

Your laughter chases away those traces

of night hidden and, now, I beseech–

You.

To listen, for once, let me save your breath

and tell you all these things hidden

beneath my silent depths…

I have few things to offer

the daughter of a King

no titles, no land,

no pauper’s ring.

Yet, here I stand

A man

bathing in the Morning’s rays

without gifts of jewels or gold…

Just an offer.

And my hands…

My heart and my soul.”

He takes a deep breath. “I love you.”

#queaky writes #zelink #legend of zelda #fanfiction #zelink fanfiction #zelda fanfic #tloz #legend of zelda fanfiction #zeldaxlink #zelda

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