#meet Blithe's crew!

[panzershrike-pretz]

Lanterns

Part 3

Disclaimer: i'm well aware that some of the characters mentioned (namely the peculiar bunch) are originally from another work, Miss Peregrine's Home For Peculiar Children. When I "made" them, I was only a child who didn't know how to do much besides very poorly made fanfic - but with time, I grew more attached to them and as I understood how to create characters, i just couldn't bring myself to abandon them; so I kept them. I changed a lot since then and they did too as mine. Please, do keep it in mind if you're familiar with the MPHFPC series - if I decided to put this as a disclaimer it's because I care. I won't stand being accused of stealing characters.

Summary: A Goddess who lost her faith, trying to get back to her senses so her family doesn't fall apart.

Warning: death threats and I think it's about it??

Taglist: @malarkgirlypop, @bucky32557038ww2, @xxluckystrike (if you want in or out, just tell me!)

-> Image below found here.

The chit chat tha filled Blithe was soothing. It was home, after all, with all it's peculiarity and strange inhabitants. The ship was old; when Athena first stole her, she was a decrept little thing, abandoned in a port somewhere along the Portuguese coast - and the Goddess made it her own.

She was the one who found every member of the crew. The one who kept them together in the beginning, before everyone truly got along - instead of wanting to kill each other.

The first members of her crew were Sirius, Hydra and Rodion. The three of them lived together in a small house; two siblings and their cousin. She didn't have a hard time convincing them to join - they eagerly wanted to leave their old lives behind. Just like that, Athena found herself with an extremely talented navigator, Sirius; a loyal boatswain, Rodion; and a good wanna-be doctor and potion expert, Hydra.

Somewhere along the line, she found Michael, a sweet Lycanthrope eager to be accepted somewhere, for once in his life. He wasn't able to turn down the position of cook.

After him, came Darty. They were a massive sight to behold; with long wavy hair and pretty eyes, a beautiful smile. They liked to sit around and play music, to keep spirits up during long days lost at sea, under the scorching sun. At night, the crew likes to sit around them, hearing their songs and dancing about, to pass time.

After that, Athena came across an interesting bunch; they called themselves Peculiars. She remembered how her crew was captured and schedule to meet the gallows - and then those kids came out of nowhere, causing a rockus that let them escape the hands (and guns) of the Royal Navy. She gadly took them in; cabin boys and girls that would bring Blithe even more life with their energy - it was different from how the Gods acted, they were mortal after all and wouldn't mind living each day to their fullest.

Hugh and Fiona where inseparable; the bee boy and flower girl. They were always together, like shadows; he was the only person with whom she'd speak, in german, and he'd gladly translate it out. Nothing could stand between them.

Then Emma, a withy, red-headed pyrocinetic girl, full of stupid courage and a big ego. She was a leader and it showed; the person who kept them together and pushed them forward during hard times.

Brownyn was like a mom. She had strenght - no, really, that was her whole thing. She prided herself in helping or protecting others and keeping her eyes on the two youngest: Claire and Olive.

Then Millard, the invisible boy, who initially followed Hydra's every step. He was a joke, really, being a walking Encyclopedia of knowledge. Sometimes, he could be found near Natasha, the light-eater, and Juni, who had an amazing hearing.

After then, came Seamus, Dean and Pangey (who dragged Peggy along, much for the dogs delight). They were somewhere in the army during World War 2 - but Athena couldn't care less for what they did.

The two last of that bunch where Horace and Enoch. Two boys who would not stop bitchin' about everything; especially cranky ol' En, who found himself adopting Olive as a younger sister and then being both adopted by Rodion as his children.

There was Wolfgang, a quiet man who ran away from prison and made his home in the middle of that strange bunch. The crew met him around the same tine they met Theodore, Archie and Toby - the trio almost never came along with the ship, but they were a part of Blithe all the same.

She only knew that when Sam stepped away from his Captain deal, he immediately found himself being the ship's Master Gunner - no one would be better suited to take care of Blithe's artillery anyway. Sometimes the crew fells like he's the one truly in charge.

Dean, Sam's own personal shadow, prided himself on his vision and precision; the man was a sniper and kept his own title when he became part of the crew. Athena felt like if the man had enough beers and guns, he could rip through basically everything - courage and dumbassery were two things he had too much of.

Last of the three, Pangey or Pangea. She kept to herself, most of the time, rarely comming out of her shell - but always there to help. When she came, Hydra wasn't all that happy to share her medical position, but the two quickly got along, like mother and daughter.

Finally, Jeremy. The Captain. The man that once tried to hang Athena was now the one who leaded her ship. She lived for the drama. Which was all she was about to get.

"ENOCH JAMES O'CONNOR, MAKE THAT THING PUT MY DOG DOWN, WILL YA?", Pangey snapped, making the First Mate look down from her crow's nest, curious, both wings open at her side; if things got out of hand, she could just sweep down and shove one of them into the icy water.

Peggy was hanging in the air, smilling and wagging her whole body, not smart enough to get that she was dangling just above the ocean. In the mouth of a monster, no less.

"Wha'? They're playin'! Look at 'er, she's lovin' it!"

"Don't you make me shove your face down a barrell of rum! Make your... thing... get off of her!" The woman was angry. Actually, it looked like it was the angrier she's ever been. And it amused Enoch. "Lis'en here, ye bri'ish shmuck, release my fucking dog or I'll gadly put a hole through your brain!"

"He doesn't have one!", Hugh laughed, getting a death glare from the boy. "What? Am I lying, Enoch?"

Enoch scoffed, trying to make it look like he wasn't offended. The thing Pangey was mad about was Pax, his not-so-little companion. It was a big monster, to be fair, whith dozens of tongues and sharp teeth, loads of eyes and a not really friendly face either - he resembled somewhat a two-headed calf. And, to make things worse, he was invisible to most people aboard Blithe, safe from Enoch himself and Athena.

It was typically a monster that'd gladly kill everyone on that ship, but Enoch was certain he had that thing under control; looking at it now, with Peggy dangling in the air, Pangey couldn't bring herself to believe him.

"Speak to it. Make it put my dog back on the ship."

"Whyyyy? He isn't hurting her!"

"ENOCH, I WILL HURT YOU!" And she was yelling again, fighting the thought of grabbing her pistol and ending him here and now. She usually hated using firearms, but carried one anyway for self-defense since the war. And she usually refrained from hirting people, but Enoch was getting on her nerves and playing with her precious baby. She was about to go ballistic.

"Enoch, listen to Pangea", Seamus said, standing against the main mast. "Don't you think you got enough threats by now, emo bitch?"

He looked over at the man, startled. He didn't think he was watching and, well, Enoch usually kept his annoyance to himself near the guy. Seamus frightened him. Finally, he decided to stop Pax's plan of maybe dumping Peggy in the ocean.

Stop. Down., was really all he needed to do for the beast to let go of Pegs, who looked very happy to be on her feet again. She looked behind her, to where she knew was her big and scary friend. Why am I back? Weren't we playing?

Pax growled, sitting and letting his tongues wander off again, messing with the dogs fur. She quickly got in a playfull stance and both of them ran off - obviously, every one of Pax's steps felt like the ship was gonna break in two.

Pangey crossed her arms, staring down at Enoch. "Don't you have anything to tell me?"

"Like what?", he shook his shoulders. "I'm not sorry for anything, it's not my fault they were playing!"

"Oh, really? Because I think that not doin' anything about my dog being held up above the icy ocean by a killing machine that only you can give instructions to is something you should be really sorry for!"

"Cut it, you two", Sam interveined again, putting himself between the two. "Enoch, fuck off, please?"

"Ugh... fine!", he stomped his way onto one of the lower decks, fumming as he went. Like a spoilled little brat.

"I can't stand him anymore", Pan let out, now focused on her friend. "We've been stuck together for too long."

"No one can stand him", corrected Sam, a little more playful. "Cheer up, it's almost Holiday season. Maybe we can light him on fire."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

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

It didn't take more than one or two days for Dean, sitting on watch, to yell about land. No one besides him could see it yet, but Sirius was happy to keep Blithe's course. She creaked as the waves hit her side, being compelled forward by the wind on her sails. She was a good ship - or, and everyone would die on this hill, the best one to ever set sail.

The bay in which she sled to was awfully familiar and as she anchored beside some small fishing boats, her crew made all the needed preparations to step on land and finally acess the damage on her side, which slowly but surely was letting enough water in that she was even more tilted to the side.

"Hmmm, this place smells so good!", Hydra was jumping up and down in place, looking at the town in front of her. It was a fishing village somewhere along the state of Amapá, just south of the French Guiana. Hydra was right about the smell; it came from the foodstands along the shore - and she was happily one of the first to make her way towards it when the gangplank was lowered.

"Alright, there's a hole on the bow and it'll need fixing. Rodion, you come with me so we can find some locals and get materials. Athena, you'll come too; we need a good enough translator", Jeremy was firm, eyeing her up so she wouldn't sneak away. "Sam, you're in charge. Get these guys working on gathering more food and water. Remember, no stealing this time; or the locals won't be of any help."

"Yes, sir!", Seamus was quick and went right to work as the three went in search of some help. He gathered the crew, assigning each of them with their tasks for the day - some would get food, others water, medicine, new blankets and cloth. He figured Fiona would be of use gathering fruits and vegetables, seeing as they were on land.

With everything sorted, he turned to supervising the deeds - apart from going up the mast to see if Brownyn was doing alright with the sails. He wasn't exactly fond of the altitude.

Lady Blithe was enormous in comparision to the other ships in the bay - and her black sails and pirate flag, with a crow's skull engraved on it, made a lot of heads turn her way, curious. That village was probably never visited by pirates, as they didn't sound any church bells to warn the people of incoming danger. Still, whatever authorities in the town where alert; it could be a trap, for all they knew.

Blithe and her crew didn't mind the stares. They were indeed strangers who didn't speak the native language, for Gods' sake. The stories told talk of bloodthirsty monsters firing cannonballs all over, burning whole cities to the ground in search of goods soon-to-be stolen. What the locals found was nothing like that.

Hydra couldn't help but notice the small little decorations here and there as she walked, not knowing anymore what was her original task. The houses had vases filled with red roses, orchids, horehounds, fire lilies and arum lilies. She smiled. Those were her flowers.

A few years ago she came to conclude that most people didn't really believe in her anymore - or on the other Gods, for that matter. They had newer, better ones. She spent so long drifting away on the sea that she was disconnected from the mortals; it was with it in mind that she made her way inside a little temple made for her.

Hydra hated her role when she was a kid. She always wanted to be normal, like her cousins - which child would like to have their career all planned out? She cursed Imbatwa, Ozymandias and all the Gods she could muster the name off. She didn't want to be know, to be important or to be some kind of role model.

What kind of Family Goddess she would be, if hers was a comically large mess? What kind of Marriage Goddess was she, if every one of her relationships ended badly? Her own child didn't really like her, so how could she be the symbol of motherhood and childbirth? It was only right for her to run away from all that and live amongst a crew of other people just as broken as her.

Some of them were also Gods who had rotten in their own minds. That was the thing that got them together in the first place. If the Goddess of Death and Feeedom, of all things, wasn't cursed to be forever chained to the ocean, nothing would be the same.

"Your Highness came to pay us a visit...? Give us your blessing...?", some old woman stood beside one of the back doors, wearing the garments of a priest. She didn't seem impressed in seeing the Goddess herself stand in the middle of her church.

She felt strange staring at the depiction of herself at the back of the temple. It was a scarlet ibis with open wings, to gladly take in those in need.

Some people would go all their lives without a single bit of recognition, while she had temples and statues and holidays made for her just because... she was born. It always felt wrong. The Godhood thing. Like it was a piece of clothing that didn't quite fit.

"Oh. I didn't see you there..." Hydra was saying, ready to go away, but she simply couldn't bring herself to.

"You are a troubled one, child"

Child? Granted that woman looked like she had some good 70 years, but Hydra was older. Why was she being called a child?

"I heard your steps and thought it was one of the villagers, not the One for whom this temple was built". She still stood there, curious as to what in the world was Hydra doing. "People usually come to me for help. What can I do for you, my Goddess?"

"Hydra. My name is Hydra. Please... please, use it."

"As you wish."

Both of them stared into each others eyes. Hydra felt compelled to start talking, but she didn't. Originally, when she was in a temple, it was to listen to others and not herself.

"We missed you, dear", the elder said as she got closer, leaning on a cane to help her stand. "We've been having a couple of rough years since you left".

Since I left to sea and started ignoring you, Hydra couldn't stop that train of thought, feeling some kind of guilt. She couldn't lie to anyone: she ran away so she didn't need to heed to her responsabilities.

"We won't blame you", the elder added, as if reading Hydra's mind. "Gods are trapped in their jobs, liking it or not. The ship in the harbor is what brings peace to you lot, isn't it?"

"Hum... yeah. She does."

"Then you shouldn't feel guilty for how us, mortals, handle ourselves."

"Are you giving me a life lesson?", Hydra inclined her head a bit.

"It depends. Do you need one?"

She didn't immediately answer, caught off guard by that priest. "How may I call you?"

"Maria de Lurdes", was the answer. "But I won't mind anything you desire to call me, my Godde- uh... Hydra."

Hydra made her way to the stained glass, depicting amazing stories that run wild. She could only make up Blithe's blurry sillouete from afar. "Why didn't you ring the bells?"

"You weren't gonna hurt us."

"How could you be so sure?" Hydra turned her head a bit, just enough to see the woman from the side of her eye. "We had sails full dressed and the flag blowing."

"Yes. The black flag, not a red one." Maria sat on one of the benches, tired. "The black Jolly Roger means lives will be spared if there's surrender... the red one, well..."

She was right. And both of them also knew that a ship so tilted it was almost rolling over was not exactly a good enough vessel to raid a village.

"Anyway, I just felt you wouldn't attack."

"What?"

"I could feel it. I'm a old woman, Miss Hydra, my gut doesn't lie." Maria smiled. "You aren't like normal pirates, are you? I can see it on your face. You guys are just like Robin Hood, right?"

Hydra liked the woman; she was quick to guess things and was almost always right. The Goddess nodded. "Yeah... just like Robin Hood... mostly."

"What will you be doing during your Holiday?"

Hydra stopped. It's been years since she last took part on any celebrations; her friends usually stayed alone partying while she took refuge anywhere quiet. This year she thought would be the same - yes, she celebrated with them the other Holidays, but her own? It was off her schedule.

Apart from her and Sirius' birthday, which she always took part - even if against her will, just for her brother -, the Night of Libero Sanctis was the only other Holiday in her name and she couldn't bring herself to participate. She had lied to herself just enough so she believed that it was a waste of her time. The New Year was better anyway and it was only some days later.

December 28th could be absolutely scrapped off of her calendar.

"I'll stay in bed. Probably reading, I don't have anything else to do", she finally said, the words hung heavy in her tongue.

"Pardon me, but that's bullshit."

"Excuse me?", Hydra turned to Maria, confused. "How so?"

"Not hoving anything else to do. That is bullshit."

The Goddess simply waited, perplexed. That woman had some guts, she had to admit. And, to be fair, Hydra really needed to be beaten with a dead cat 'till it started meowing, so she could come to her senses.

"What about your family?" Maria asked.

"I don't really think they appreciate me being alive, if I may be honest", she spoke carefully, still processing. "Actually, I believe they would be more than happy to receive a letter declaring my death on the 28th."

"Not your blood family, darling. The ship's one."

"Oh."

Hydra felt her wings become tense. Right. Maria was talking about Blithe. She felt so stupid.

"Won't you stay with them?", the elder asked. "My grandkids will come visit me. We'll have a whole celebration here in the temple... what about you?"

"Uh... I guess... it doesn't really matter...?"

"Matters, yes. It should, at the very least."

Hydra kept still as the old woman stood and very slowly made her way to the back of the temple, just to come back some time later holding something.

It was a lantern. One of those that floats when you light it on fire. It had little flame engravings on the side, along with a pretty depiction of a flower. Hydra felt a chill down her spine as she understood - Maria was giving that to her.

"My Goddess, would you be so kind as to light this lantern on your night..?", she asked, bowing her head. "If not for you, then maybe for us?"

Hydra was left speechless for a moment. Then accepted the gift.

"I'll think about it, miss Lurdes."

She turned to go, feeling like it was already late - and soon enough someone would be at her tail nagging her about not doing her assigned tasks. As she went, she heard the woman pray:

"May all the Gods stand by you."

Hydra smiled a little. They already stood - or at least the ones that really mattered to her did.

"Same for you, lady."

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

[blithesrps]

Act I Scene V

“Now we’re talking! Finally some good shit.”

John Rocket slammed his mug down on their makeshift table, wiping the foam from his stubble with a massive forearm before sliding the cup over the table into the waiting hands of Kite Wisterly. She giggled, taking the mug and spinning on her heels to pour another ale out of the cask they’d swiped as a reward for their fifth successful intel mission complete. They’d just set up camp for the night, crates and logs forming their furniture around a crackling fire. It had been almost a little anticlimactic, how smoothly everything had gone, but perhaps that was just a sign of their team beginning to click. 

They were certainly an odd bunch, but then again, so had been everyone recruited by Styx for the Nyx Initiative. It had taken some adjusting to get to know one another’s strengths and weaknesses, but after almost a year of training together as a team they were finally moving like a well oiled machine. 

“What about you, Z?” Kite asked as Rocket took his now full mug back with a rumble of thanks.

“Nope,” the stoic woman replied, not opening her eyes from where she leaned back in a tilted chair, cigar lazily rolling between her lips. 

“If you’re offering, love, I’ll take another,” piped up a fox beastman tapping away at an encrypted tablet beside Z. Kite rolled her eyes but acquiesced, miming spitting in his mug and making Rocket laugh. With Caesar Cotter served, Kite poured herself a mug. Generally her tastes preferred a more delicate brew, but hey, when in the field one couldn’t get picky, could they? As her ale pulled to a head, she tilted the cask, judging what remained inside. 

“We’re just about finished. Where’s the captain?” Kite asked. 

“Ara doesn’t drink,” Caesar replied, flicking his gaze up from the tablet.

“Does sometimes,” Z interjected, flicking her ash onto Caesar’s tail and getting the chair beneath her kicked as a result. 

“Very well, she doesn’t drink on missions,” Caesar amended as he dodged a retributionary swat, putting the tablet down and stretching. Still…it was unusual for her to disappear without saying something. 

“She’s a big girl, don’t worry about it,” Rocket grunted, “Cotter, pass those cards over and stop working. Reports can wait until extraction tomorrow.”

“Can they? We’re still in enemy territory, you know. If our throats are slit in the night however will Styx get their intelligence? I hear those soldier slaves they breed here are no joke.” Caesar obeyed nonetheless, grabbing the cards and coming over as Kite cheered happily. She flashed hopeful eyes at Z until the woman groaned and stubbed out her cigar, coming over to join as well. 

“One game, then we track down the boss,” she said, settling on her seat and picking up the cards Rocket dealt her. 

“Yeah, yeah. Kite, slide that keg over so we can top off.” 

Soon a jumble of coins, gum, cigarettes and other detritus had filled the center of the table, Rocket was dealing the third game, and Ara still had not returned.

She was in the belly of the beast.

Her every sense was on fire, screaming at her to flee. The smell of the cold tunnel walls, the sound of creatures skittering in the dark, the taste of her own fear on her tongue…it was all Ara could do to keep moving forward. 

Because she had to. She had to. It had already been so long. There was as good a chance that Rat was dead as alive. In fact, Ara had been trying the whole mission to convince herself he was dead. If she believed it first, she might fool herself into thinking the despair would hurt less when it was confirmed. 

The hive tunnels were still. She had passed only three hivechildren since entering her old hive, two busy rutting in a corner and one skittering down a tight tunnel with blood on his hands. Few hivechildren roamed at night, knowing the dangers that awaited them if they did. The guards, Ara found, followed the same pattern they had when she’d been there. There was no reason to change them, she supposed.

Hivechildren did not escape. 

As she tread deeper, Ara was heavy with the knowledge that she too had never technically escaped. She’d been dragged away by the underground river, half drowned and rescued only by magic. That had been luck, perhaps a blessing, but no escape. The further Ara walked in, the louder hissed the voice that said she would not be able to claw her way back out again.

The voice sounded like Thorn. 

If she met him, Ara knew she’d have to kill him. If Rat was dead, she would kill Thorn regardless. A part of her wanted to hunt him down first, see the look on his face when he realized she had lived and come to claim retribution. But Ara also knew it would not be an easy fight, and she wouldn’t risk blowing her cover unless she could accept that it might be the last thing she’d do. 

She was coming up to the central barracks, a curling room with hundreds of cells that housed the hivechildren. Their whispers and soft breathing echoed like waves lapping on a pebbled shore. Somewhere, someone was sobbing. Ara felt her chest tighten, and she had to stop until she could breathe again.

She had left most of her clothing at the mouth of the air shaft she’d used to break back into the hives. Stripped to her underthings, barefoot and rubbed with dirt, Ara knew she would still stand out from her kin if anyone looked closely at her. Over her time at Night Raven College, she had gained weight and muscle, too healthy to pass as a hivechild. She only hoped her slim disguise  would get her far enough. 

On silent feet, Ara moved through the shadows. Slowly she climbed the spiraling walkway, passing the open mouths of cells with a carefully confident gate. She belonged here, Ara told herself, she was one of them. 

At last, Ara reached Rat’s cell. She hesitated, hovering beside the edge. She could hear breathing from inside, but not well enough to know if it was Rat. Fear of what she would find kept her frozen, unable to step forward and face the truth. Then, from the cell, came a whispered voice.

“G-g-go away…I d-d-don’t have any m-more t-t-tokens…I d-d-don’t have anything…” 

Ara let out a long breath, then without moving into sight, she whispered back.

“Rat. It’s me.” 

–

It was silent in the Styx extraction sub. They’d made the pick up effortlessly, filing their gear and bodies into the waiting mouth in less than ten minutes. There were no witnesses, no evidence left behind. All things considered, their mission had gone seamlessly. 

But they were leaving with one more body than they had come with. 

The boy’s name was Rat, which Caesar had countered was not much of a name at all before Ara silenced him with a sharp glare. None of them understood where he had come from. Ara did not talk about her past, beyond that she had come from this continent and that she was something called a ‘hivechild’. Presumably so was this boy, though he and Ara could not have been more different. 

If they had questions or protests, none were voiced. Ara rarely demanded the obedience she was entitled to as lead of their small team, but when she did, it was absolute. Caesar could only assume that the boy had been a secret part of their mission only divulged to Ara, though Rocket suspected she had gone for him without the permission of their benefactors. 

Regardless, none of them were about to argue against taking him with. The kid looked like shit. He had one bruised and swollen eye and was favoring his right leg, the bones in his arms jutting out around lean muscle. Before arriving at camp he must have washed in a river, because he had shown up dripping and shivering, very much indeed like a rat that had leapt from a sinking ship. Ara had forced him to pace himself, but he hadn’t stopped eating since she’d introduced him, slowly working his way through Ara’s remaining rations and one of Kite’s that the girl had offered him. They may have been skeptical, but they weren’t monsters. 

“Hey. Do you need a sweater? Cold?” Caesar was presently trying to mime to the boy, rubbing his hands over his arms and speaking slowly. 

“He can understand you,” Ara answered coolly, Rat flicking his gaze up to her before back to Caesar’s feet. 

“And how should I know that?” Caesar huffed poutily, even as he dug into his bag for his spare sweater. He held it out, giving it a shake when Rat didn’t reach for it. He waited for Ara to nod and only then took it, quickly pulling it over his head and giving a soft gasp of relief at the warmth. Kite watched his all from where she was curled against Z’s thigh, eyes slightly narrowed in a catlike contentment. 

“Almost home kids,” Rocket called back from the pilot’s seat, where he was lazily watching the auto-pilot guide them back to Styx. Caesar noted Ara’s shoulder’s falling in the slightest betrayal of relief. He tutted his tongue, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. 

That was trouble he wanted no part of.

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

I was surprised when rewatching both seasons today to notice how little worth everyone assigned to their lives at the beginning of the show.

It's obvious with Stede "Do I want to live? I dunno, probably" Bonnet and Edward "haven't tried dying yet, maybe we should do that" Teach over there, but once I started looking for it, I was shocked how often it turns up.

Talk of death is ever-present throughout s1. The very first thing we hear is Frenchie singing about how a pirate's life is short. One of Olu's reasons he gives to Lucius for not mutinying on Stede at the end of the pilot is "we'll all be dead soon, might as well enjoy it while it lasts." The indigenous people they meet in ep 2 remind Olu multiple times that Stede's gonna get them all killed. Jim talks blithely about killing the man who killed their family - "we live in a state of nature, grow up!" We get the sense life is fuckin' cheap -

But over the first season, there's a shift. Pete started out talking in the pilot about how he "should have 20 kills by now" and says killing "is like breathing" to his fantasy version of Blackbeard in s1e2, but by s1e6 he's visibly deeply shaken when Lucius almost dies. "I'm used to death...but not your death." Stede screaming that he doesn't want to die in s1e9 is such a huge marker of that shift, because he's finally living a life where he feels happy and loved and valued.

Take all of that, and put it into contrast with Jim saying in s2e2 that "there used to be a time when life meant something on this ship." It sets up such a nice contrast, because all the death Ed's crew have to deal with at the beginning of s2 isn't weird by pirate standards, but suddenly it's become weird for these pirates. Ed's suicidal behavior and Frenchie saying that "we've been living moment to moment for a while now, it's kinda nice to have a deadline" are terribly sad to us, because these pirates had a time when they learned to value their lives.

Stede Bonnet, being his cringefail, bitchy, unceasingly kind little self, built a community where life was allowed to mean something. It's about queer joy, about queer love, about finding community and finding reasons to love being alive with one another as we try to become the versions of ourselves we want to be. Fucking beautiful.

[minustwofingers]

love is a laserquest p.1

masterlist

pairing: rockstar!ellie williams x reader

request: @thatgiraffefromtlou so kindly included me on a post about writing something inspired by these beautiful edits :) thank you !

summary: after a serious of unfortunate events, columbia grad y/n y/l/n finds herself using her hard-earned journalism degree interviewing vapid stars and writing articles that she's convinced are rotting her mind. ellie williams has just dropped the album of the year and it's all anyone is talking about, but all she wants is to be off the press train. a certain interview with a certain interviewer might change this.

warnings: no cws, but i will say that i don't know anything about this career path so i apologize if i'm totally butchering it!

a/n: see ? see? i promise i haven't forgotten about you guys/this blog/this request. this is admittedly a short installment, but you've all been so good about waiting and i had a little itch to write tonight. hopefully more of this will be posted soon. i hope you enjoy!

tags :) @intrnetdoll @dazedshoon @lovecaraya @pctcr @sariyaflowr @loser-keiji @prettyplant0 @666findgod @sawaagyapong @rystarkov @buzzybuzzsposts @addisonnie @galacticstxrdust @elliesbabygirl​ @pinkazelma @ariianelle @lu002 @blairfox04 @sparkleswonderland @elliesflower @muthafuckingstargirl @elliewilliamsissubermommyoml @eviestevie-14 @quicksilversg1rl @guacala @crtcrp @overtrred28

wc: 1.8k

enjoy!

“Hi. I’m Y/N.” 

You sit and extend your hand, smiling as diplomatically as you can manage to the girl sitting across from you. 

She ignores you.

“I said hi,” you repeat.

One painted eyebrow arches the slightest, but she doesn’t look your way. 

You grit your teeth. A question list that you’ve meticulously prepared is memorized and tucked away in your mind, but now you’re just furious that you spent so much time preparing for an interview with someone who wouldn’t even look you in the eye. 

While you wait for the camera crew to get ready, you sit and observe the room—movie posters behind both you and Lina, bright lights that are already making you sweat shone down from above, and a homey oak wood coffee table between you two to give the air of casualness. 

God, you hate this. All you want to do is go home. 

“Ready?” a cameraman says from the side. 

You send a game smile his way. “Ready.”

“We’re rolling.”

“Hi!” said the girl across from you, suddenly laser-focusing her attention on you with so much bubbly energy that it made you feel like you’d gotten whiplash. “It’s so good to meet you. I’m so glad that we were able to do this.”

“Me too,” you respond, saccharine sweet. “You have no idea how excited we are to have you, Lina! It seems like all anyone wants to talk about nowadays is your role in Ontario.”

The interview’s length is oppressive and mind-numbing. By the time you ask your last question and Lina sends you her last dazzling smile, you’re already on the brink of offing yourself on the camera for all to see.

“And cut,” said someone over your shoulder.

You relax, letting out a long breath. That was the last one for the day. You got to go home now.

But since you were a normal human being, you give Lina one last try to redeem herself.

“It was great having you,” you say in a way that you hope reads as genuine. “Thank you for coming in.” 

Lina doesn’t respond—she’s already back on her phone, intent on ignoring you. 

The drive home is awful and long and full of LA traffic. It was something you’d never quite forgive your younger self for—not advocating for yourself sooner. If you had, maybe you would’ve already been taking the subway alongside all the other New Yorkers, surrounded by serious people wearing serious clothes and carrying serious things around in their briefcase.

Instead you got the quirkiness of Southern California, all arid air full of cigarette smoke and lost aspirations. When you first came to LA, naive and blithely optimistic about your prospects as a journalist, you thought that living near Hollywood would be exciting, all the energy and dreams like firecrackers to the social scene. 

Then you got off the plane and realized it’d all been a lie. There’s no hope in a place like Hollywood. It’s the most hopeless place in the world, knowing that all your servers and Uber drivers and retail employees are all working 3 other jobs to make up their rent as they chase a dream that will never happen. 

Because no one ever makes it big. Well—no one really. One year into your life at PopNow! has made you interact with more people who have, you suppose, “made it big”, and each interaction is dependably more absurd than the last. Like Lina. God, you hate Lina. 

You reach your apartment right when the sun is kissing the horizon, the royal purple of the night descending upon the sky. That was another thing you missed—the stars. You’d missed them when you were at Columbia, but that was when you knew you went back home to the midwestern countryside. Now you’re stuck in the light-polluted hell of California, and there’s no way to know when you’re going to get out. 

You should have turned the job down, you think to yourself as you get ready for bed. The face wash you rub into your skin obediently forms into silky little bubbles. You should have just done whatever you’d had to do to stay in New York, even if it meant being unemployed and living in a broom closet with 3 other people. 

But you’re a writer. And you’re getting published, and that’s all that matters.

Or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

~

The assignment is in your inbox when you wake up the next morning at a prompt 5:30am. As you go about your normal routine, you let the words in the message sink in.

Alyssa’s in the hospital. Emergency appendectomy. 

Alyssa’s the most senior writer at PopNow!, regularly netting the juiciest recorded interviews. 

…interview today that needs to be completed…

You angrily beat your legs back into scissor kicks as you run through the motions of your favorite apartment-friendly pilates routine. Today was supposed to be your day off.

…musician Ellie Williams…

…2pm…

…great opportunity…

You have no fucking clue who Ellie Williams is. She’s never been mentioned on NPR or the New York Times, the only two news sources you bother to follow, so she can’t be that relevant. Or at least not relevant enough to warrant you losing your one day off. But that’s what it’s like to be working in showbiz. Your days don’t belong to you anymore. 

By the time that you’re in the studio, hands folded and question list memorized, you feel like you know all you need to know about Ellie. 

She’s got everything you need to be a world-wide sensation. Humble, small-town beginnings? Check. Sympathetic backstory that makes even the most hardened viewer’s heart soften? Check. Conveniently conventionally attractive features, well-placed tattoos, and a certain swagger that seems so natural it has to be somehow hard-coded into her genes? Check, check, and check.

You’ve interviewed hundreds of Ellie Williams. You’re ready for this. 

Jan from production sets out glasses of water on the table in front of you, one for you and another poised in front of the empty chair.

“You ready?” she asks, not unkindly. “Don’t be nervous. I know that this might be a bigger one than you’re used to, but there’s a reason why Stephen asked you to fill in for Alyssa. You’ve got this, honey.”

“Thank you,” you say. The smile you send her back is tense, because as much as you hate to admit it, you are nervous. It’s ridiculous how something you don’t even care about for an industry you think is bullshit is capable of getting under your skin, but you’d done very few recorded interviews. When you imagined what kind of hard-hitting journalism you’d be doing back when you were at Columbia, it was nothing like this. 

You sit and wait, bouncing your leg and hoping the rest of you looks at ease. The set is as corny and soulless as always, one tall houseplant shoved half-heartedly between the two blue cushioned chairs like an afterthought. There’s a stack of magazines on the coffee table between you two, as if you’d crack open People mid-shot.

You hate your job so much. You always feel so bad thinking this way—there are people out there who would probably actually kill for the chance to be rubbing elbows with the celebrities you did on a regular basis—but whenever you start feeling too guilty, you think of how you ended up here, your dream internship getting whisked away by fucking nepo baby Becca, and then you let yourself be angry again. 

A door slams shut, and suddenly you’re all business again. 

The first thing you notice about Ellie Williams is that she’s actually very tiny, especially in comparison to the burly camera man that she squeezes by to make her way on set. She’s looking a little preppier than she does on stage, donning a pair of wide-legged black trousers, chunky black docs, and a haphazardly buttoned forest green shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough for you to see the entirety of her arm tattoo. 

“Hi.” You rise from your chair to offer a hand, feel the pressure of her fingers gently gripping yours. “I’m Y/N.”

Ellie blinks. “Uh, hi. I’m Ellie.” 

“Is everything alright?” 

“I thought Alyssa was going to be interviewing me,” says Ellie. She drops into the chair opposite of you, crossing a leg over the other thigh.

“Emergency appendectomy,” you supply.

The way Ellie reacts makes you regret this immediately. 

“Oh,” she says, cringing. “Shit—oh, can I swear in here?”

“We’re not rolling yet,” you say gently. 

“That’s, uh, really too bad,” she says. Her tattooed hand reaches up to scrub the back of her neck. “I’m so sorry.”

Now it’s your turn to blink and stare at her blankly. “Um, thanks? I don’t really know her.”

“Right, right.” Ellie lets out a long sigh that you take as an offense. The interview hasn’t even started, and the languid way she reclines back in the chair reads as already bored with you. “So, do we just go ahead and…”

“Yes,” you say, feeling the heat rise in your cheeks. “Uh, yeah, we’re ready.”

Brilliant start.

The interview begins in earnest, and for once in your life, you’re actually rattled by this girl, by the way she tilts her head at your questions, tongue running over the flat of her front teeth. She has freckles sprinkled across her nose that didn’t show up in any of the photos you’ve seen of her on stage. The ones where she’s awash in blue light, guitar slung over her shoulder and hair sticking to her forehead. It’s disquieting, honestly, how she could just spring a surprise like that on you. 

By some miracle, you manage to get through your list of questions without forgetting anything, but sometimes you stutter on your delivery and have to fight to keep yourself from grimacing. Nothing that she tells you is ground-breaking, nothing you don’t already know. In other interviews, you’re normally able to slip into a sort of conspiratorial voice, prying out information and digging a little deeper than your interviewees intend. But with Ellie, you’re paralyzed, stuck straight to the script that had been sent over to Ellie’s publicist for approval. 

Not like you’d get away with anything when it came to Ellie, either. She has bags under her eyes that you can see concealer creasing in. It’ll wash out post-production under the bright studio lights, but up close it’s obvious that she’s not interested in entertaining any bullshit. 

When it’s over, you’re sure your face is on fire with how hot your cheeks feel. Ellie looks just as nonplussed as ever. 

“It was nice to meet you,” you squeak out. 

She takes her time answering you, busy with draining the glass of water Jan had set out in front of you both and, once it’s empty, fiddling with the buttons on her sleeves. 

“Likewise,” she says, and then before you can think to say anything else, she’s gone. 

[pure-garbage]

Battle With The Navy Admiral! A Kitten With No Claws?

Zoro discovered that, rather irrationally, he wasn't unhappy to be given an excuse to draw his blades against the admiral. The clash was short and it ended devastatingly. The rest of the crew watched in horror as Aokiji threatened to shatter Robin. Lana and Luffy moved together while Zoro and Sanji struggled with their own injuries and the others stood paralyzed by shock and terror.

Lana intercepted Aokiji's strike with her body, bracing hard in an attempt to avoid being pushed back into Robin's frozen figure. She grunted in pain and grit her teeth, sliding back from the force of the blow, but Luffy seized Robin and pulled her away before Lana gave out. Pain vibrated through her as she panted and lowered her stance in preparation for the fight that would inevitably follow.

'Damn a hit like that hurts more if you don't fall back to absorb the force!' she noted, flexing her arm. His strike had connected with her already weakened shoulder, still not fully healed from their ill-fated treasure hunt. She thanked her lucky stars he hadn't been using his devil fruit powers when he hit her. The blow had been intended for Robin, already frozen, and Lana knew this was the only thing that had saved her from suffering the same fate as her friends. 'I can't let him touch me again.'

"You hit hard," she groaned, righting herself quickly. "But if you think I'm gonna let you hurt my friend, you've got another thing coming."

"I gotta say, I'm surprised such a little lady's still standing after taking a hit like that," Aokiji replied with a cocked eyebrow. His gaze swept over her one more time, taking a reassessment of the pirate he'd spent the evening objectifying.

"You're strong, but I've taken worse," Lana informed him blithely.

"Now, don't think I'll go easy on you 'cause you've got a good figure and a smart mouth," Aokiji warned her.

"I wouldn't forgive you if you let this fight bore me," Lana shot back.

"Lana, what are you doing?!" Sanji demanded from a few paces back. "Get out of there! Let me and Zoro handle this!"

Lana and the admiral were already locked in a deadly dance, deaf to Sanji's interventionism.

"Stow it, you crappy chef! She's gonna do what she wants!" Zoro snapped, still clutching the part of his arm Aokiji had frozen with his touch. The frosted flesh was completely numb, but agony coursed through the connecting tissues of his shoulder and forearm. He was just finding his bearings after taking such an unexpected, horrifying injury. Briefly, he wondered it he would lose the limb.

'I'll worry about that later. For now, I have to focus on this battle.'

"She has no weapons!" Sanji protested. "She's gonna get herself killed!"

"She's buying time for the others to get Robin back to the ship!" Zoro growled. "You wanna help her, or keep standing here hopping on one leg like an idiot?!"

Lana knew the incredibly one-sided fight with Aokiji would be over in an instant if he managed to lay a finger on her.

'Right hook!'

She dodged, taking advantage of her intuition and weaving in a complex series of evasions that left her winded, but still standing. She hadn't been able to land a single hit on the admiral.

'How can I? Even if he gives me an opening, I'm as good as dead if I touch him!'

Aokiji's focus was intense and Lana got the distinct feeling that the admiral was just getting warmed up.

'He's gonna drop... what is that?!'

Lana saw the attack coming, but she couldn't run fast enough. Aokiji struck the ground with his palm and a sheet of ice raced toward Lana, catching her ankle mid-stride. She kept her balance, but cried out at the sudden cold and the alarm of being unable to move.

'This is it. I'm boned. Damn, I suck,' she thought dejectedly. 'What a lame way to die.'

"Lana! Catch!" Zoro called.

Yubashiri sliced through the air, launched clean over her shoulder. She snatched the hilt at the last second, bringing the blade around just in time to meet the icy fists flying at her. Frost crept along the blade, Aokiji's chilly breath clouding the air around his mouth as he gave a lazy smirk, clenched knuckles resting against the flat of the blade.

"I was wondering if you'd show me your claws, kitten," he drawled, sounding pleased.

Lana took advantage of his talkativeness, yanking his cozily quilted sleep eye-mask down to obscure his vision. He grunted with surprise and she brought her foot up to his chest, kicking hard enough to force him back a few steps. Zoro assaulted the fumbling admiral from behind, giving Lana enough time to use Yubashiri's pommel to break the ice around her foot. Aokiji had already regained his vision and engaged Zoro fully.

'He'll grab his shoulder!'

"Zoro, left!" Lana yelled.

The swordsman rolled away from Aokiji's grasp, successfully avoiding the sting of his powers. Lana didn't miss the way Zoro clutched his right arm, teeth clenched in pain as he leapt upright again. Lana distracted the admiral to give him time to get back on his feet. Aokiji avoided a few slashes, but satisfaction thrilled through Lana as she managed to land a strike to his throat that should have killed him. Yubashiri screeched, sliding on solid ice that re-formed instantly once the blade was gone.

"The hell... you're a logia type!" Lana cursed, falling back to orbit Aokiji opposite Zoro.

"Don't tell me you don't know how to hurt a logia?" Aokiji asked, sounding surprised. "And here I thought you were using... huh. Guess you kids have a lot left to learn. Maybe you're a bit too young for me after all, kitten."

Lana met Zoro's eyes past the gabbing admiral. He nodded slightly with grim resolve.

'We'll fight here until he's dead or we are.'

Lana flashed him a toothy, savage grin that caught him pleasantly by surprise. She was just as ready to die here as he was.

'Let's do it then!'

Sanji joined the circle, hands buried in his pockets and pain etched onto his features. Smoke from his cigarette drifted languidly to dissipate over his head.

"I know that stupid look," he sighed heavily. "Don't you morons think for one minute I'll let you get away with hogging all the fun."

He was limping so badly Lana wasn't sure he could walk, let alone fight.

'That ice on his ankle... it'd be terrible if his foot snapped clean off. I wish he would sit this one out, but... he's such a stubborn bastard, there's no way he'll go for it!'

"Everyone stop!"

Luffy's voice rang out, his order freezing his subordinates in place as effectively as Aokiji's power.

"You three go back to the ship. Aokiji, you and me are gonna settle this. Just the two of us."

"Oh? That so?"

"Don't be stupid, Luffy!" Sanji protested. "You can't take this guy alone!"

'Sanji might not be wrong this time... but there's no guarantee we can take him down together either,' Lana realized. Luffy's gambit wasn't entirely based on his victory and that fact wasn't lost on the lockbreaker.

Across from her, Zoro was working through the same logic.

"Cook! The captain gave us an order!" Zoro barked, sheathing his swords. "Let's go!"

"But-"

"Come on, Sanji," Lana urged, tugging his elbow. "Don't act like we have a choice in this. Luffy won't change his mind. You know that, so don't waste your breath. Let's have some faith in his plan."

"We'll make a run back to the ship and check on the others," Zoro decided. "Then we'll come back for Luffy."

"Chopper can take a look at this ice," Lana added.

"Well I can at least walk on my own!" Sanji protested as Lana pulled his arm over her shoulders.

"Shut up and let us help you," Zoro insisted, taking Sanji's other arm.

Lana and Zoro all but hauled Sanji away from the battlefield, grumbling the entire way at the affront to his autonomy.

_____________________________________________________

<== Previous Chapter

Next Chapter ==>

== First Chapter ==

[lucan-multiverse]

shoreleave interlude

(somewhere near the beginning)

The alien club in an alien city on an alien planet is loud and colourful and teeming with the crush of warm bodies writhing on the dance floor yet Luca has no difficulty locating his pilot in the crowd.

Ryan is in a darkened corner, leaning against the edge of the bar and he’s nursing a drink of amber liquid. His eyes glow with warmth as Luca finds his gaze through the crowd and Luca pushes forward, ducking around the celebrating patrons to fall against his chest, wrapping his arms around the older man’s neck and planting a sloppy kiss to his bearded cheek.

“Hi,” Luca yells over the music, somewhere in the vicinity of Ryan’s ear. It’s some alien beat he knows will get stuck on repeat in his brain later but it’s at least easy to talk over. “I found you.”

Ryan chuckles, his arm heavy around Luca’s waist. “Aye, yer found me. Where have you been, bonny boy?”

Luca preens a little at the endearment and presses himself closer. Shore leave for the crew had technically started the moment they stepped of the ship, but Luca’s had been delayed before meeting Ryan at the club. There was one official Alliance business pick up he’d had to do, just some tools and parts… but there had also been another small, little pickup that was more private but no less important in his eyes.

“Just had to run a few errands for Cap,” Luca says blithely, hoping Ryan doesn’t notice his blush under the pulsing purple and blue lights of the club as he thinks about the small collection of lace and shimmering silks he had sent back to their quarters. His stomach flutters slightly with anticipation. He's almost positive Ryan will approve but while he isn’t entirely sure if there is some kind of pipeline for boys to become wives, he really hopes there is... and that somehow, this will help.

He cups his pilot’s face and presses a kiss to his mouth, chasing the taste of whatever spiced, sweet notes of the latest whiskey Ryan had been drinking.

Ryan kisses him back.

He would have been happy enough to stay in the club. It had been far too long since he’d had a chance to really let loose, but as Ryan’s heavy hands settle on his hips and he feels the hot, heavy throb of Ryan’s aroused state pressed against his side, he realizes there is nothing in the club he wants that he can’t enjoy alone in the rented hotel room he’d found for them.

He whispers in Ryan’s ear. “Wanna get out of here, LT?”

“I’d thought ye’d never ask.”

--

The hotel room is at the closer end of fancy, just shy of being out of Luca’s Alliance credit’s reach but Luca doesn’t tell Ryan that. Ryan has already given him so much and while this seems like a shift in their usual dynamic, Luca nervously hopes Ryan doesn’t mind.

It’s important for Luca to do this. It’s always been Ryan taking him places, showing him things, spoiling him… worshipping him. It’s high time Luca flips the narrative, even if it’s only for the next few hours.

He watches anxiously as Ryan prowls the room, taking in the expansive and colourful city skyline beyond the glass, the wide bed, the plush sheets and dim lighting. It’s a room clearly designed for seduction and a far cry from their small slice of paradise back on the Berlin.

“Is… Is it okay?”

Ryan doesn’t answer straight away, continuing his inspection. Luca almost wrings his hands where he waits by the door but forces himself to dispose of his boots instead. When he looks up, Ryan is watching him, eyes dark with heat.

Luca shivers at that look.

“Yer really finished with the job for the captain then?” Ryan demands gruffly. He’s found the bar and pours himself a glass. There’s almost a sulky note to his tone and Luca has to hide his grin at the pilot’s annoyance. The lingering animosity between the captain and the pilot is mostly faded now, but Luca feels a little guilty for dredging it up to complete his personal mission.

Luca slinks close, one grabby hand reaching for the glass because he’s nervous as fuck and could use a shot of liquid courage himself. As usual, Ryan has only poured one glass. No sense in wasting glassware when they shared spit and cum and everything else happily anyway.

He takes a gulp, hissing as the burn hits his throat and flushing at Ryan’s low, disapproving tsk as he takes the glass back. “Easy, boy. Dun waste it like that.”

“Not wasted,” Luca wheezes. “Needed the boost.”

“And why,” Ryan cocks his head, the lines across his face deepening as he studies Luca, “would ye be needing that?”

Luca swallows, his words failing him as a sudden roar fills the space between his ears. All his nerves fall over themselves, a chorus of voices in his brain suddenly screaming that this is a stupid plan, to abort and run away before Ryan realizes he’s really nothing worth keeping and discards him away.

His throat has almost closed over by the time the pilot hooks a finger through the loop of Luca’s uniform and yanks Luca to him. Luca is startled enough he doesn’t resist, and like bugs scattering in the light, so do his nerves. This is Ryan, for fuck's sake. There’s nothing to be nervous about here.

He lands against Ryan with a breathless giggle, delighting in the older pilots rough hands as they roam over his body and remind him exactly who he is and who he belongs to. They’re both still in their Alliance BDU’s but underneath, Luca is secretly wrapped in silk like a gift.

He can't wait to be unwrapped.

--

The bulge of Ryan’s arousal is unmistakable as the pilot sprawls on the wide couch by the window. His uniform shirt is untucked and the top button of his pants are undone. There’s a wet patch forming and Luca’s mouth starts to water in anticipation.

“Take yer uniform off, boy,” Ryan orders, motioning Luca to stand on the square patch of carpet in front of the couch. Luca obeys, ducking his head to hide his smile. This is it, he thinks and his heartrate goes so thunderous that his hands start to tremble as he begins to undo the buttons and buckles of his clothes.

Ryan settles back, ready to watch the show and beyond him, the dark glow of the alien cityscape throws a wash of silver and amethyst into the room.

After the initial fumble, Luca yanks apart his buttons with his usual urgency, but then turns his back to look coyly over his shoulder as he reminds himself to slow down. His skin is on fire, super sensitive to the foreign sensations of the lace scratching against his chest and lining the crack of his ass. He couldn’t have guessed such tiny scraps of material could alter the way he feels so much.

His nipples peak unbidden despite the warm room but surprisingly, the lace against them feels so soft and sensual. He closes his eyes and slowly peels his shirt from his body and unclips his pants, sliding them down his legs and stepping out of them with a deliberate effort to bend in a way that offers Ryan a perfect view of his ass. He’s left in nothing but a few thin straps of black lace and he holds his breath, ears straining for any hint of Ryan’s reaction, and then he gets one – a sharp inhalation, a low growl, the sound of a zipper that isn’t his own. A low, grunted, “Fook, yer so pretty boy.”

“Is this… okay?” Luca turns slowly, his face hot. He’s somehow aroused and terrified and exhilarated all at once. Too many emotions for his dick to get too hard, but that was a good thing when it came to the thin lace and silk that covered his crotch.

Ryan stares up at him, one inked hand grasping his thick cock jutting out proudly from the confines of his pants, the other clenched tight on the armrest of the couch. He stares at Luca for a long moment, hot eyes travelling the length of him and Luca feels his skin come alight in a whole new way. He’s virtually naked, save for some small strip of nonfunctional lace, and Ryan is still mostly dressed. Even his boots are still on.

There’s something about that that has Luca’s knees weak. He feels exposed, vulnerable, and vividly conscious of the power balance it mimics yet somehow doesn’t. The way Ryan watches him makes him feel brave and he shifts his stance slightly, raising dark brown to meet blue..

“Wanna be a pretty, bonny boy for you, daddy,” Luca murmurs, turning it into a purr when he spies a bead of precum already forming against the purpled tip of Ryan's head. He’s ready to go to his knees, ready to lap up every salty drop of the man he needs so much. “Wanna be so good for you. Wanna give you everything. I love you.”

Ryan’s voice is as deep and as hoarse as Luca has ever heard it. “Come here.”

[onelungmcclung]

do you have examples of some of the british acting mannerisms you notice in hbo war? that's fascinating

ohh I’d probably need to rewatch BoB and MotA (too few british or irish actors in TP) but:

spina swinging his lil shovel up on his shoulder while he’s asking roe about med supplies. nash going from suave flirting to undignifiedly smitten the next morning. doug’s “you are the only girl for me … I hope :/”. cobb and demarco basically all the time. the one-two of babe and mcclung finding out they’ve been picked for the patrol. blakely when doug is saying nice things about his flying. popeye when he shows up after getting shot. chick being whatever the fuck chick is. red’s face whenever chick is being whatever tf chick is. doug allen is definitely a working class english lad who plays local football. welsh’s “flash”/“thunder” exchange with martin. hoobler’s death scene. maybe this first or fourth gif of biddick and snyder. peacock getting verklempt when he says goodbye to easy company. vest when jackson is hit. quinn during the card game. dike and dukeman but I can’t remember any precise moments now. blithe, frequently. kidd, frequently. meehan in the tent scene with winters, maybe. grant's impressive sideeye. brady in the scene when blakely's crew gets back alive. tipper when luz is imitating horton. liebgott when sobel knocks him on the helmet. bubbles saying, “I can fly,” while shivering under a blanket. hambone “weird energy in here” hamilton. brock in this scene. smokey in the hospital. tab in this scene. pappy when he meets egan and cleven. bailey (of rosie's riveters) when he's talking about his wife. that other bailey guy when he tosses the salt. shoens when he gets out of his plane or when he's drunk. norman (I think?) when he's being carried off at the end of ep 3. crank when he sees bucky in the camp. I don’t know for sure yet but I reckon the “best years of your wives” pow is british/irish.

[iironwreath]

Fancy [Ada]

Ada leaned against the rail on the upper deck by the wheel, cheek in her palm, overlooking the Neverending Wave’s passengers clustered below. Roshanak stood among them. She was easily the tallest, her hair a burning candle in the wind and her face alight with a genial smile as she spoke. The crash and slap of waves, whistle of the breeze, groan of the ship, and caterwaul of gulls drowned out her voice, but Ada was content to observe only on sight.

Normally Ada’s attention was reserved for the crew or the oceanic view; she was vain, she freely admitted that, and enjoyed a horizon that matched the hue of her skin. She felt the innate calling of the sea in her blood, like a pair of hands waiting to catch her. She revelled in the way it altered based on mood—how it could be a vindictive, destructive force as much as a soothing one. With Roshanak on board, she found it less attention-grabbing. Genasi were rare; she always jumped at the chance to meet another.

“Ada? With us?” A hand flagged in front of her face—black nail polish and fingers smattered with thin scars. Ada snapped out of it, gaze locking onto Redback.

“Breathing, aren’t I?” she asked. 

“Yeah, but your head was a mile away.” Red twisted to stand shoulder to shoulder and followed Ada’s line of sight, face splitting into a grin. Red was taller than Ada, but she slouched sometimes, so Ada could beat her in a battle of heights if she straightened up—which she did, determined not to let Red hold anything over her. 

“You’re smitten!” Red announced, too loudly. Ada elbowed her as hard as Red’d been loud, causing her to sink over with a sharp ‘oof.’

“Don’t start with me, Red.” 

“You fancy her,” Redback emphasized once she’d recovered, sucking in her cheeks and making obnoxious kissy noises. Ada shoved a hand at her face. Red cackled, fending her off. 

“You’re too young to know the meaning of the word,” Ada said. 

“Really? I’m not sure you do, if you’re denying it.” Red circled around her to descend the stairs to the main deck.

“Don’t you say anything,” Ada called after her, cinching the rail in her hands. “I don’t want you making trouble for me where there is none, I can do that well enough on my own.”

“I don’t have to say anything,” Red said over her shoulder, sticking out her tongue. “You’re a study in lovestruck.”

“Get back to work!”

“I was already on my way!” 

Ada watched the broad shape of her meld back into the bustle on the ship, then returned her attention to the passengers. Roshanak was looking up at her, a glimmer in her eyes like sunlight catching waves. Ada didn’t blush for getting caught, but instead tossed her a confident, blithe smile.

[blueikeproductions]

Still kind of conflicted on what the Pokémon anime is doing. I still feel strongly that after 20+ years, it’s too late to change the main cast of the primary anime. It’s better to just stick with Ash and Team Rocket at this stage than try to reinvent the wheel now with Liko and co.

Again I think Liko and co will be just fine, but I can’t say I feel much of an interest like I would with Digimon (and to a lesser extent Bakugan) when they have new characters. It’s actually kinda ironic that Digimon is returning to Davis and Veemon this fall, while Bakugan’s upcoming G3 incarnation features Dan and Dragonoid again, while Ash and Pikachu steps aside in favor of new leads.

I do have other concerns though. Everything about Horizons so far feels like it’s Journeys 2, only they get to ride in an airship this time. While there’s clearly more of a tangible end goal this time with the pendant and ancient PokeBall, old GS Ball and Meteoroid PTSD makes me reluctant they’ll actually pull this story off without any hitches. Journeys also had a lot of scrutiny for feeling kinda directionless, not fully taking advantage of what they could do with a globe trotting adventure, and a common complaint I’ve seen: lack of reuniting with Ash’s older friends, team rotations and just questionable writing on Goh and Chloe. In a way, it does feel like Goh and Chloe were prototypes for Roy and Liko, but it didn’t take because it never felt like they fully knew what they wanted to do with either of them. Roy in particular feels like he’s just a Goh replacement, having the lofty goal of meeting legendary Pokémon (a clearly more vague version of Goh wanting to meet Mew), and while Goh has fans, he never felt particularly well liked in my orbit… Hopefully Roy takes off better. I think this also extends to the anime having now having a bigger cast in the professor’s airship crew. Journeys struggled with its new main characters and a lot of them didn’t appear much, so what are these guys gonna go through? I like the Dranpa fisherman guy but I don’t see him being much more than an off and on quirky guest character at best as of typing.

There’s also the setting. Why are we still doing a globe trotting thing? Is this a course correction from what people felt was wrong with Journeys? Having more of a purpose than just blithely wandering around? People were upset at the lack of Galar in Journeys, but brushed it aside, but not taking place in Paldea seems to be a final straw for some. Why can’t it take place in Paldea? Is that not a requirement by the anime anymore? I can’t speak for all of us, but it seems most do want a return to a regional adventure, not a globetrotting one. It’s why I’m VERY concerned what they’ll do for the next anime three+ years later, if it’s another globe trotting story I think I might just skip that one entirely.

I’m also concerned how kids will take to the anime. I hear it’s actually hotly debated on if kids still like Pokémon, but they do. Kids still love Pokémon going by frequently checked out Pokémon books at the library and Pokémon toys and games I’ve gotten for toy drives. I don’t think kids will be too bothered by a cast switch, but there’s also the tone. This show seems to have an XYZ vibe to it. Apparently, in Japan at the time, XY and XYZ were said to have done poorly with kids, which is part of the reason why Sun & Moon went for more of a comedic theme that Japanese kids responded to better. Will that repeat itself again I wonder.

It’s why I’m convinced this is far from the end of Ash, Pikachu and Team Rocket. I legitimately hate how everyone is acting like they died… The only way to “end” their Neverending Story is just have them continue it off screen, and that’s what Mesaze did. However because of doing it this way, it also feels like a back door to bring them back, both as guest stars in Horizons and as a possible in to revive their story on the off chance Horizons doesn’t stick.

At the very least, I can see another miniseries being commissioned that stars Ash & Team Rocket doing… something while Liko’s group is doing their thing. Preferably this would be a short Paldea adventure of some sort since I’m not sure as of typing if Horizons will use anything from Scarlet and Violet aside from select Pokémon. Some friends are very concerned Horizons won’t use characters like Penny and the like, and if this is gonna be like Journeys, it … probably won’t.

Atm I’m figuring Horizons’ story will lead to the discovery of Terapagos and/or the land Kitakami. The timing of the DLC announcements and the ramping up of Horizons info all but point as this being the end goal of the Volt Tekkars. Does such a plot require three years worth of episodes? No, but Pokémon’s anime has always been about the journey not the destination, and that’s the one thing I don’t see changing here.

[amjustagirl]

Chapter 9: rebuild from the ashes

chapters: 9/15

pairing: miya osamu x f! reader

genre: romance, angst, fluff, inarizaki shenanigans

word count: 4.6k

summary: miya osamu does not dare set fire to his heart. it burns anyway.

(prev / next)

It ends before it even begins. 

Smoke without fire. Clouds without the ensuing snowstorm. All your daydreams constructed  beneath the yellow forsythia shrub in Kita’s farm collapse into shrivelled twigs and burnt out husks. 

It’s no fault of anyone’s but your own. 

Osamu’s within his right not to find you worthy, to find that you’re not good enough for his love. You saw that as a very real possibility. You’d already tried your best to soften the blow from the rejection you saw coming from a mile away (as much as you hate it, Suna Rintaro was right, you owe him an apology) by telling yourself again and again that Osamu won’t see you that way, and that it’d all be alright, you’d move past this embarrassing blip, smile at him blithely and continue your friendship as if nothing ever happened. 

But when it actually happens and you’re staring rejection in the face, you can’t.

Like a coward, you rewind your life back to the way it was pre-Osamu. You revert to your hermit-like existence to lick your fresh wounds, hiding away on your snow-capped mountain, hunkering down as a blizzard rages outside. You leave the apartment only for work, avoiding any street that might conceivably bring you even close to Onigiri Miya. He doesn’t reach out to you either - not that you’re checking your phone every few minutes to see if it buzzes with a message from him, so you stamp down your cravings for onigiris, trying your best to satisfy yourself with inferior substitutes from the combini instead. 

You wish you could set loose all the ugly emotions clawing at your insides but really, you’re just numb. Unable to cry, unable to scream, anguish just trapped in your throat, threatening to cut your airflow off. You can’t even take a deep breath to clear your lungs, on the verge of choking at all times - 

Your phone lights up. 

“Show yourself or I’m gonna do a wellness check.”

A text from Suzuki-san. When you don’t reply, an avalanche of messages from everyone jams your phone. Morita and Ishida start flooding your inbox with jokes and memes and half-meant threats to keep delivering onigiris to your apartment until you’re sick of them. A sweet text from Miyamura-kun, who offers a listening ear, a brief text from Murata-san, who just wishes you well. 

Kombu-chan looks at you like you’re dumb when you tell her you’re surprised people care about you. Her sentiment is echoed by Suzuki-san when you’re bugged into agreeing to meet for dinner (not at Onigiri Miya). 

“Why would you even think that?”, she scolds, before flagging down the waiter in a bid to stuff you full of food. “Just cos the boss is blind doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t see with our two eyes.” 

You don’t have an answer to that (or at least one that isn’t self-flagatory) so you shut up and eat fried chicken. If you end up crying into your beer when she passes you the little gifts from the crew (scribbles and stick figure drawings from Ishida and Morita, pastries from Miyamura-kun, a bottle of ginseng from Murata’s grandma), Suzuki-san and the bartender are kind enough not to remark on it, patting your back and calling for another round of drinks (since yours is contaminated with salt). 

The blizzard starts to die. Your wounds start to scab over.

You realise you do not regret meeting Miya Osamu. 

If he didn’t choose to barge into your life, you wouldn’t have left your cave, hidden from the world. If he didn’t insist on being your friend, you would never have met Suzuki-san, Ishida and Morita, Miyamura-kun and Murata-san. You wouldn’t be fast friends with Kaiyo (who’s caught up in some family emergency but darkly promises some consequences to you know who when it’s cleared up - she doesn’t respond when you ask if she’s okay), you wouldn’t have opened your heart to Kombu-chan, watched sunrises in a little seaside town nor sunsets on a mountain farm. 

You look back. It’s clear how far you’ve come from before. You’ve moved forward with your life, you have friends now, adopted a cat (or rather, she’s adopted you). Being in the kitchen no longer spooks you, the ghosts that haunted you are exorcised, your inner demons caged up, unable to claw you down. 

There’s progress. 

There’s nothing stopping you from moving further on. Or moving in a different direction. 

You call your property agent. You put your apartment up for rent, quit your job and book plane tickets immediately after the lease. It’s a mad rush to get things in order, pack up or disposing of decades worth of your parents’ belongings that you never threw away, arranging Kombu-chan’s care with your neighbour, notifying your friends that you’ll be away for a while (be safe, they all chorus, shoving charcoal pills and neck pillows your way). By your calculations, you should be able to rely on the rent from Osamu’s shop and your apartment to be away for at least half a year without digging into your savings, so everything should be okay - it should be -

You fret until your feet touch the tarmac. 

It’s freeing to explore a new land, thrusting yourself amongst people who don’t speak the same language as you. You land in Bangkok first, disembarking off a budget flight since it was the cheapest out of Osaka, and you’re immediately overwhelmed. Scooters honk at you. Tangled wires hang overhead. You trip when trying to climb into a cab, scraping your knees and dropping your phone in a puddle where it dies a watery death, wiping your contact list clean, leaving you with no way of contacting anyone back home in one clean swoop.

You don’t cry over it. You don’t cry over easily over the cards life deals to you (because if you did - well, you’d never get anything done) so you just buy a cheap phone in a combini - a convenience store here, and just put the numbers that you remember by heart into its address book -  your neighbour, so you can check on kombu-chan, your property agent (thankfully she’s called you enough times to know her number) and there’s another number that your fingers itch to type but you don’t, because that’s exactly who you’re trying to leave behind.

This trip is already starting on a terrible note. But then you check into a little inn owned by an older woman who reminds you of both Suzuki-san’s kindliness and Ichika’s effusiveness. It’s an unassuming little bed and breakfast with peeling walls, sitting atop a simple diner that the innkeeper and her daughters run. You can’t seem to help yourself, but you’re drawn towards the kitchen, full of bustling, good natured women singing to Thai songs, and you’re invited in without hesitation when you peek into the diner’s kitchen one hot, humid afternoon, gesturing an offer to help her prepare food. 

At first, just like in Onigiri Miya, they feed you instead of letting you help, but once you arm yourself with a knife and start chopping fine, uniform pieces of garlic, they relent. The innkeeper obviously has no formal training in the kitchen, but she has years and years of experience cooking for the constant stream of guests, so she opens your eyes and tastebuds to new techniques and ingredients - you soak it all like a sponge, entranced. Lemongrass, galangal, curry powder (you’ve burnt your tongue, greedily slurping down a bowl of green curry), a variety of dangerously spicy chilis, dried and fresh, red, yellow and green, plump and large to tiny, like peppercorns (the smaller they are, the spicier - they remind you of Kaiyo), cilantro, pandan - you have so much fun just experimenting and learning new things in the kitchen under the tutelage of your innkeeper (she asks you to call her mâem, your smile doesn’t falter when you learn it means ‘mother’).

You learn even more when she insists on sending you to her sister who has a homestay of her own up north in Chiang Mai, though you have to put up a fight to insist on paying the going rate for your accommodation. The children in particular are fascinated when you willingly squat on the kitchen floor to pound herbs and spices for the salads - pomelo, papaya, green mango, and they all gang up to teach you how to ride a scooter, screaming with laughter when you topple over, landing unharmed on soft grass. 

After spending three months in Thailand, you startle when you hear a smattering of Japanese, spoken by a stranger, short and slim with wild hair and bright eyes. “Konichiwa”, you bow, the words suddenly foreign in your mouth but he lights up, barrelling towards you with a warm wave and a wide grin. He introduces himself as Noya, and chuckles when you insist on calling him Noya-san, saying that it reminds him of his friends back home. 

“I’m gonna ride through the Mae Hong Soon loop, wanna join me? It’ll be great having someone who can speak Thai.”

You speak rudimentary Thai at best, enough to order food perhaps, but he seems convinced you'll be an asset, so a call to a bike rental shop later, you bid your landlady a temporary farewell, and set off on the windy roads from Chiang Mai to the northernmost frontier of Thailand. 

Noya-san runs a travel-related blog and youtube channel for a living, you learn. 

“To fund my endless travelling!” he crows, and though you’re camera shy at first, you eventually pop in and out of his vlog, waving hi to his viewers. 

Fortunately, the weather is pleasantly cool in the winter months, and riding a scooter around the mountainous towns and cities isn’t as scary as it initially seemed - even the roads in Chiang Mai are a million times less chaotic than the traffic in Bangkok where it seems anything goes. Noya-san whoops and laughs and chatters about the things he’s seen, the people he’s met, and you enjoy his company as much as he claims to appreciate yours. 

“What makes you travel permanently?” you ask on a trek up Doi Inthanon, Thailand’s highest peak, aptly nicknamed the roof of Thailand. “Don’t you miss home?” 

“I miss my family and friends sometimes”, he admits, leaping over rocks, dancing lightly over fallen twigs. “But I go where life leads me, and I’m always looking forward to what’s next! It’s exciting that way. I like it!” 

Doesn’t it scare you, not knowing what comes next, you want to ask next, the words on the tip of your tongue though you hold yourself back, fearing you might overstep. 

But he reads the doubt in your expression as clear as day. “I used to be a huge crybaby y'know”, he says conversationally, still grinning. “The coward. My grandpa shocked that out of me-I do not recommend his methods, but I see his point from him now. Life is too short for us to keep looking back. I'm gonna keep moving forward, keep doing the things that make me happy - that's all. It's as simple as that.” 

“Is that what you tell your followers online?” you ask drolly, though he laughs, taking no offence at your gentle retort. 

“It’s what I truly live by”, he declares just as you reach the peak. “C’mon - isn’t it a waste to hang back cos you’re scared of what life has to offer? Look at all of this!” 

(a waste, he says) 

This time, you take a look. Beyond the swarms of tourists and convoys of honking buses, past the royal pagodas that glint gold in the sun, you find yourself gazing at gauze-like clouds, peering into lush valleys and forested ridges. 

“It’s pretty”, you say. 

The terracotta steeped canyons, the leaf-green of the rainforest foliage, the clear blue of widening skies, the land before you humming with life. “It is, isn’t it?”, he exclaims, bouncing on his heels. “Don’t waste life when it has so much to offer!”

Yet - yet. You can’t help but look back. Even after you spend the rest of the afternoon trekking through waterfalls and admiring ancient trees, you can’t help but think of a little seaside town, with nothing more noteworthy than a little hill overlooking the vast blue sea. Though you’re sure there are prettier sunsets out there in the wider world, more colourful, more vibrant, but that particular sunset where the blue-silver world turned pink-gold, aflame with the light of the dying sun - 

You try your best not to, but you still think about Miya Osamu once in a moon.

You ruminate on him quite a lot at the start of your trip, wondering if he only befriended you because he pitied you, if you ever stood a chance with him or if it were all wishful thinking, if you’d perhaps been someone better - less of a waste, less of a burden. Maybe then he might’ve looked at you as more than just a friend. 

(a waste, he says) 

Loneliness sweeps over you, drowns you with longing, a cruel tidal wave. You’re soaked to the bone, cold and gasping for air. 

“Is something wrong?” Noya-san asks, when your gaze grows distant. 

You have no right to look back to what you've been running from when you have every opportunity to keep moving forward. Everyone you've met here is kind and generous and gentle, taking you into their hearth and home even though you barely speak their language. Thinking too much about Osamu slows you down ( not that you're sure of your next destination though that's something you're figuring out slowly, one day at a time ) so you redirect your thoughts to the adventure you've impulsively set out on . 

You pull yourself back together. “Nothing’s wrong”, you reply. 

Still, still. 

Once in a while, once in a moon, little things slip by your defences, reminding you of him. 

The discovery of onigiris in the combinis here, wrapped in fluorescent green and orange plastic. The silhouette of a broad-shouldered stranger makes you double take. The smell of cooking rice leaves you lightheaded sometimes. It’s not something to be surprised about. You let him graze the edges of your soul. That’s not easily forgotten. 

(It’s pretty, he says.)

(You thought he might’ve been looking at you.)

You think about the what-ifs and the could-have-beens a little less each passing day, a little less caught up in your dreams and fantasies. But once in a moon, you wallow in self pity for reaching out to someone who doesn’t dream of you. Sometimes you buy a postcard, sit yourself down at some cafe with a piping cup of tea. You put pen to paper, addressing letters to Osamu that you have no intention of sending, wringing out the jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings from your system. 

So when you reach northernmost city of Mae Hong Son, heading to the night market at Noya-san’s behest, because he claims that he has a craving for pad see ew and oyster omelette, you buy a hand drawn postcard depicting a snapshot of rural Thailand (with a marked resemblance to the Kita’s farm in Hyogo), laying on your bed on your belly to write ‘til it's past midnight. No one needs to know that you’re still embarrassingly lovelorn, so you tuck the postcard deep into your backpack with its cousins, stowed away from the light of day. 

But Noya-san seems to have an uncanny knack for seeing right through you. “What about you?” he cheerfully asks during a pitstop for coffee. 

“Where is life taking you?” 

Sunflowers dance in the field, waving at you. 

“Where is life taking me?”, you echo blankly before frowning. “I…don’t know?”  

He chuckles, sprite-like. “S’okay. I get it. I’m the same too! I just let the wind blow me to the next place, as long as it’s in the general direction of my goal to see the world and do things I haven’t done before. As long as I’m moving forward to my next destination, I figure I’m on the right track.” 

“Huh.”

“Yep!” you marvel at his ability to carry the weight of a conversation all by himself. “It’s what I admire most about my friends - something they all had in common besides volleyball, even in high school. They’re the best - Asahi and Ryu and Chikara and Hisahi and Kazuhito, cos’ even when they weren’t sure about stuff, even if they were scared or on the verge of defeat like coach said - volleyball is a sport where you’re always looking up! - and they’d get up, keep chasing the ball, moving forward even though everyone else counted us out. Super manly of them, y’know?”

“Uh huh”, you reply, confused. “I guess that’s how you guys made it to Nationals from nowhere?” 

“It’s not volleyball”, he says. “I mean - it is kinda about volleyball, but not volleyball - if you get what I mean. In hindsight, it’s so cool what volleyball ended up teaching us all about life. Like - there’s no point running away from things, you’ll just regret it. Or if you’re not moving forward, you’re just gonna get left behind. Volleyball’s just a game we all played in high school, but it’s so cool that it’s taught us so much.“

“It’s a waste I never played it in school”, you reply, your tone light. “Maybe I’d have learnt those lessons a little sooner.” 

“Never too late to start”, he cheers, smile bright. “I can teach you!”

He doubles over with laughter when you backtrack immediately, moaning about your back and the fact that you'll probably fall on your face in the dust if you even tried slapping a ball over the net ( we can just try passing, he chuckles ) and when he magicks a ball out of thin air when you reach your accommodation for the night in Pai, you make sure to hide until he's distracted teaching the village's children how to bump a ball high in the air. 

You sit in the shade of a banana tree, away from the gleeful squeals from both Noya and the children, your hidden postcards to Osamu spread out on the sundrenched grass. This trip is good for self-introspection, you think wryly. Not quite the cliche of an eat pray love journey, because strictly speaking you’ve only achieved the first of those goals, stuffing your belly full with exciting new foods, but it’s been good for you nonetheless.

Because you realise pre-Osamu, you’d been frozen in place, going into a deep hibernation alone in a dark, cold cave. All your life, you’ve been told by your parents who you are, what you must do yet you fail miserably at doing precisely that after they pass, leaving you alone in the world to the wolves. Critics ravage the restaurant once it’s in your hands, sneeringly writing how sad it is for a daughter to tarnish her family’s good name even though you were already steering the restaurant solo once your father took ill. A lone woman can’t take on the culinary establishment whilst struggling to keep afloat. 

It’s easier to bail. 

So you did. Rented out the shop (to Osamu, as it turns out, it’s better anyway in his hands), took up a job at the combini which isn’t too taxing, which was adjacent to what you’ve been trained for (everything but taking up your father’s knife). You hunker down, barely living life, not knowing how to step out of your prison cell even after the doors are unlocked and you’re free to go because you were never allowed to live for yourself before.  

It’s Osamu who tried his best to teach you. 

He taught you to be brave, to take the first baby steps out of your cave into the great, wide world. He taught you to bask in the sun’s warmth, to be comfortable and happy to be around people and accept that sometimes, surprisingly, people might like to be around you too. It’s because of him that you no longer shy away from the heat and fire of a kitchen stove despite your scars from the past. 

You have him to thank for all that. 

But now you also realise that even as you look forward, moving towards the horizon, you’re still keeping your scars under wraps, still running away from the skeletons in your cave, the ghosts of your past. It weighs you down even as you’re pushing to move inexorably forward, drags you back under the waves. 

It's time you learned to make peace with what you've been trying to leave behind. 

(a waste, he says) 

(he’s right)

You can cook. 

Good food, not mere sustenance but food that nourishes, nurtures. Onigiri Miya is testament that food binds a family together, brings a community close. It’s a skill that was a curse to learn, but it’s now a blessing you can share with others. 

After all, it’s a waste not to.   

“Noya-san, may I cook dinner for you?” you ask. It’s Noya’s last night in Thailand and you’re back in Chiang Mai, bunkering down in the homestay where you know the kitchen is always open to you. 

“You can cook?!” he exclaims, excited.“That’s so cool! Please! Of course!” 

He chatters at you as you bustle around your host’s kitchen. You’ve offered to cook for the entire family tonight, and though the matriarch of the family hovers around to keep a watchful eye over her domain (lest you burn the whole place down accidentally), everyone oohs and aahs when you present the fruit of your labour, slaving over charcoal fires, pounding away to create the fresh fruit salad, spicy curries and perfectly grilled meats that you’ve spent the last few months learning. 

“It’s still a work in progress, but I hope you enjoy it”, you tell everyone, because you would never dream of being presumptuous enough to claim you’ve learn a whole other culture’s cuisine in a mere matter of months, but you’re happy with what you’ve produced, almost proud even, especially when your host (you call her bpaa, or auntie) pats your arm and takes a second helping. 

“It’s so, so good, I can’t stop eating”, Noya says, looking like a demented chipmunk, cheeks bulging with food. “This sucks - I should’ve stayed longer here so I can eat more of your cooking.”  He stops to shovel another spoonful of curry and sticky rice into his mouth, laughing you off as you remind him to stop and swallow, or he’ll choke. “Gods, I’m gonna be dreaming of this for a long, long time - ”

“The next time you’re in Osaka, I’ll cook for you.” 

Impulse takes over before you realise you actually mean what you say, and he seals the deal by grabbing your hand, pumping it up and down enthusiastically, and he doesn’t even deny it when you lament that your short friendship seems now to be wholly based on food. 

When day breaks, your paths diverge. Noya-san he hops on a bus headed further north. “To infinity and beyond”, he cheers as you wave him off. You hunker down, returning back to Bangkok under the tutelage of mâem, who welcomes you back with open arms and you’re determined to learn as much as you can, formulating new recipes, new ideas, new concoctions with every passing day, returning to Osaka when she declares she has nothing left to teach you and shoos you off with the air of a mother bird shooing her offspring out of her nest. 

You return to Osaka in spring just as the cherry blossoms burst overripe, white and pink. You keep your return under wraps, picking Kombu-chan up from your old neighbour (she slinks around your ankles, sniffing you suspiciously until she decides you’re alright and she forgives you for not being around), renting a tiny studio apartment, reserving whatever scant courage you have to reach out to some of your father’s old associates - suppliers, vendors, fellow chefs, those who were friendly and kind to you before. You intend to start small with a home dining business where you’d venture out to people’s houses as a private chef, whipping up dishes inspired in equal parts by your childhood and your travels abroad. 

As it happens, people are kinder to you than you expect. 

Word of mouth spreads like wildfire once one of your father’s old friends drops your name with a food critic contact of his (dear, almost deaf old Masahiro-san), and you impress him with your sixteen-course omakase meal that featuring a hodge podge of perfectly marbled otoro and yellow curried soft shell crab handrolls, pearls of orange ikura served with fruit - and before you know it, you’re booked out for weekends on end. You barely even need a website, your phone number circulating through Osaka’s food aficionados. Your father’s knife in your hands, you make a splash in the local food scene. 

Before you know it, it’s summer. Hot and humid and muggy, the back of your shirt sticking to your skin uncomfortably, and you’re dreaming of leaving the city once more when your phone rings. 

“Hello!” Ichika sings. “It’s been a while!” 

She scolds you for being so hard to locate (I dropped my phone and it broke, you try to explain), and after exchanging pleasantries, it turns out she needs a well-trained chef to feed some exclusive guest that booked a week’s stay at her guesthouse (for whatever reason, they seem to want to get away from it all, but they’re so SO picky about food, and there’s no way obaa-san or I can cope with their demands, let alone satisfy them). You can’t turn down an offer to escape the searing heat, so you pack your bags and board a train for the cooler plains and ridges of Hyogo again. 

You come full circle by returning to Hyogo. 

Obaa-chan greets you with a pat to your cheek, more wrinkles in her weathered face. Ichika’s trio of daughters are older and no less shy, clustering about you when you give out candies and cakes. Kita-san seems almost taken aback when you arrive, though you later learn it’s because Ichika surprised him with your arrival. “Do first, ask permission later”, she says breezily. “Shinsuke doesn’t mind you coming one bit, though maybe he’s just a little surprised - but it doesn’t matter! We need your help anyway - c’mon, we can head to the market together to make sure you get what you need.”

You retrace your steps. Ichika puts you in the same bedroom you had last fall, facing the forsythia shrub you hid beneath though it’s now lush and green. The sunrises are just as glorious as you remember, the sunsets no less majestic. Though you’re here for work, spending hours prepping in the guesthouse’s kitchen, it almost feels like you’ve rewound time by almost a year back to the happiest week of your life. 

Osamu’s mixed up in those memories too, and you still think of him once in a moon. Sometimes you expect to see him sprawled out beneath the sun-yellow forsythia shrub, sometimes you still long to drink the honey in his eyes. But these thoughts no longer drag you beneath the waves, you savour the sweetness of them, like fresh summer plums, allowing the bitter tang of disappointment to fade. 

You’ll make fresh memories here of feeding your guests, nourishing them with the skill of your hands and delighting them with your flavour concocted with the power of your imagination. You’ll make friends with Ichika and Obaa-san and Shinsuke again, delight in the antics of their daughters, relearn how to watch the sun rise and set with a smile. 

Life can be good. Life is good. 

You’re happy. You’re okay. 

a/n: hello my bbs, i'm back!

[panzershrike-pretz]

more lanterns content?? yes PLEASE!! ✍🏻️

HEY BLU!!!

For you, I have: unhinged weird ass little man who may or may not be the head of a cult >:³

REGULUS SERPENS (a.k.a. Hydra and Sirius' brother, a.k.a Reggie), the main vilain in the story as of now

He was the Golden Child of the Serpens family and, just like his siblings, grew surrounded by money with everything he could dream of in the palm of his hands (paws?). He's just not a God. And that makes him PISSED

His role as the vilain started with him wanting power; he wasn't satisfied being a meek peculiar - he was jealous of his siblings. He wanted to be just like them. A God. And that is when everything went to shit :D

His goal was to be adored; first by his followers who, just like him, believed the whole world should be ruled by the magical people. He always felt like it was wrong (why should people with powers live in secrecy while the no-majs didn't?)

His answer to this problem? He should be the only God on Earth. Then it all would be just and fair for the magical people

Well, HE FUCKING FAILED

My man went insane somewhere along the way and now is absolutely deranged??? We exploded half of Siberia trying to engulf the world in a gigantic time-loop and created monsters- NOT ONLY did he drain his own powers, oh no, he did so with his followers and EVERYONE TURNED INTO FUCKING BEASTS WHO HUNT PECULIARS FOR SPORT

He was all like: "we should meet there and do the thing and all the world will be ours, we can exterminate every non-magical person and then I rule"

And then everyone turned into enormous invisible monsters who stink real bad. (Like Pax, who appeared in Lanterns part 3)

No worries tho, most of his followers went back to normal and now don't hunt peculiars to eat, just for sport because that is okay 👍

He was heavily inspired by both Voldemort from Harry Potter and Caul from MPHFPC

Yeah now he wants all of Blithe's crew dead because they ares professionals in fucking up his plans (can't do shit nowadays or those pirate bitches get in the way 🙄🙄🙄)

Yeha. Sorry this was not organized AT ALL, but I just can't organize my brain when i'm talking about this bitchy gremlin

He's smiling at you. He will not steal your soul (probably)

[cebwrites]

Risqué

Qu'il me parle tout bas, Je vois la vie en rose

law x oc, he/they pronouns for law creampies, cock warming, semi(?) public sex, slight poly word count: 1.3k

Law would sooner dissect themself without the use of his devil fruit than admit it in casual conversation but sex in inappropriate places, particularly with the use of the Op Op fruit, has become something that undeniably gets his motor running, much to Law’s slight chagrin.

Kirin was mildly surprised at the notion but found himself easily accommodating his usually blithe companion’s sudden streak of unorthodox appetite - if it was what made Law happy, then he was eager to please; though he’d be lying if Kirin said that this new avenue wasn’t inciting and exciting to him in its own rite.

It started out of an inconvenience, if anything; Kirin was needy that one night and Law hadn’t felt like exerting the energy for proper sex so they simply handed Kirin their disembodied dick and told him to run along while they finished their work.

This quickly proved to be a ‘mistake’ as Law spent the next two hours unable to focus in the slightest as sensations of the various ways that Kirin decided to utilize his newfound organic dildo plagued their accursed physical being.

They moved in increments, slowly but surely getting bolder with every “experiment” conducted; Law once again leaving their member in Kirin’s possession as he went about his day, whether it was even used or not was up to him, then vice versa, having Kirin’s sensitive nub just within reach of Law’s jean pocket, fucking in the crow’s nest while their crews enjoyed themselves just a meters below, etc.

Kirin even agreed to be underneath Law’s desk as he conducted a meeting between the Heart Pirates, none (most) of them any the wiser to their captain’s bordering extreme-proclivities while Law coolly dished out every order in his same, serious monotone despite that he had one hand in Kirin’s hair below waist-level, warning his cheeky partner not to try anything funny, even with their cock snugly down his throat.

All of this culminated in the captains being sat among their nakama, opposite each other in the little log cabin that both pirate crews had situated themselves in, barely holding their poker faces together in the cozy, homey environment.

Kirin sat with his arms crossed, vaguely paying attention to a conversation between Tetsu and Penguin about wildlife, trying his damnest to suppress the heat creeping high on his neck with every twitch and throb of his partner’s cock buried deep within him.

He was grateful for the wind and snow outside - it gave Kirin an excuse to put on a sweater, if only to hide how pert his nipples were, leaving his hair down also covered the issue of that blush.

And Law? Well, they’d hardly moved a muscle since making themselves comfortable in the sole armchair that living room hosted; remaining almost motionless with one leg over the other with the occasional grunt and reprimand whenever one of his own got too rowdy.

At some point Bepo had chimed in to ask if the captains were alright out of genuine, innocent concern, but Rio, knowing better, simply reassured him that the caps were probably tired from the trek up here and wanted to be left alone, Penguin corroborated this and the two of them agreed to get their captains back later for this favor, but for now they’d leave them to their own devices.

As the gathering winds down and crew members start turning in for the evening or have separated off into their own little clusters of people close to them, Kirin and Law slip away to the master bedroom - only being stopped once by Reiji giving them a questioning look, followed by pecks on the cheek and a slap on Kirin’s ass.

“I’ll have something warm ready when you’re done.”

Law felt sparks of heat bloom all the way to his ears at their mutual partner’s comment and Kirin snickered into the crook of his neck as they fumbled with the lock.

Once behind the privacy of closed doors, both captains were all over each other - inseparable. Kirin couldn’t do away with the confines of his pants any faster and Law worked away their jumper much in a similar fashion. They didn’t even make it to the bed before delicate, needy moans began rolling from their lips, filling the room with their sweet sounds of shared pleasure.

Law hoists Kirin up onto the desk, enjoying the fine view of his disembodied cock rearranging their lover’s insides without having to so much as lift a finger, courtesy of the Op Op fruit, of course. Kirin moans and groans at the mercy of his partner’s tact. Law smirks - tracing idle patterns into Kirin’s shapely thighs as they watch their lover’s heat trickle and pool onto the wooden material.

“Law-- Moonlight, please. I want you, I need you now.”

Kirin damn near begs, pleas tetter on the verge of sobs and, well, with him asking so nicely at that - who is Law to deny the needs of his helpless, affection-starved lover?

Law shambles both him and his co-captain onto the bed, positioning themselves right between his legs. They deactivate the room, too. No need for such things when Kirin’s this needy. Law pulls out his length to affix it properly to their body, he’s pleased enough by the thin string of slick connecting it to his partner’s pussy to ignore Kirin’s complaints about hurrying up.

Once they’re ready, though, Law doesn’t waste any time getting reacquainted with the yielding heat of his partner’s core. Kirin’s moans are loud and unfettered, calling their name out in hymns of unholy worship - Law’s certain that it’s not nearly late enough to be going at it this loudly, but really he doesn’t care. We’re all grown ups here, what’s a little tantric sex between passionate kinky lovers who’ve been deprived of each other for weeks?

At the very least, the master bedroom was furthest away from everyone else’s and the lounge. The Heart Captain takes a little solace in that.

Kirin’s groans climb high and loud enough that even he has the mind to attempt silencing them with a hand. Law rewards him with a quirked smile, marks a tender trail of kisses down Kirin’s neck to the ample mounds on his chest, making a point to enjoy himself as he captures the sensitive nubs between his fingers and teeth, watching his partner squirm and mewl with the prettiest little pout in his eyes.

Law catches a glimpse at his own jolly roger tattooed on the older man’s arm and a primal flame washes over him, licking over his very being before instantaneously molding into something different when he meets Kirin’s eyes again, something infinitely softer but with a vice around his heart - never in a bad way, though. Not ever.

They slowly remove the other captain’s hands from over his mouth, swallowing his wonderful voice with feverous open-mouthed kisses. Kirin hooks his legs around their back, relishing in the cute rumble of laughter Law produces even in the throes of their passion. Foreheads pressed together, they ride their peaks out together, murmuring sweet little sounds of affection to each other as they get closer and closer to that little slice of heaven.

Lover. Sweetheart. L' amour. Darling.

Soon enough, they’re nothing more than a tangle of limbs in the sheets, erratic hearts beating as one that gradually begin to slow as the co-captains gather their bearings. The look Kirin wears as Law pulls out, spilling excess seed onto their temporary sheets from his well-loved entrance, is nothing short of blissful. Law merely rolls his eyes at it when Kirin wrestles him down for more cuddles.

Sure, he’s in a good enough mood tonight to indulge, especially when Kirin looks at him as happily as he does despite their exhaustion.

Two knocks.

Oh, that should be Reiji, then.

[brian-in-finance]

Interview: MPB meets ‘Belfast’ stills photographer Rob Youngson

Written and directed by Kenneth Branagh, Belfast features stars including Dame Judi Dench and Jamie Dornan. We caught up with Rob Youngson @rob_youngson_photography, who worked as the unit stills photographer for the multi Oscar-nominated film, including best picture. In this interview, Rob tells us about his on-set experience and shares his advice for aspiring film still photographers. Over you to, Rob.

MPB: Could you tell us more about yourself and your creative background?

RY: I found photography as a teenager. I was hooked the moment I realised that a photo pass meant getting into gigs for free. University followed, where I studied lighting design for theatre. Modules covered art history, colour theory and how light can help tell stories. Useful stuff for a future photographer.

Rob Youngson/Focus Features

I realise now, how privileged I was to grow up in a home where my curiosity was encouraged. And a home that had cameras for me to pick up and use. I started on digital, I think it was a 1-megapixel Pentax. My photography practice took its biggest leap forward when I learned how to shoot on film in my early twenties. I went freelance as a unit stills photographer over five years ago. Before that, I worked in camera rentals. The job entailed cleaning filters and lenses, formatting cards and loading vans. It was like finishing school for being in the film industry. I learnt the kit, met great cinematographers and managed to get on set. I used my leave to work on short films and build my portfolio.

MPB: What advice would you have for aspiring film stills photographers? What makes a great film stills photographer?

RY: There are so many great stills photographers that I look up to. People such as Niko Tavernise @nikotavernise or Kimberley French @kimberleyfrench. They consistently take images that convey both emotion and story. These images almost always have a clear point of tension, be it between two actors or between the actor and their surroundings.

Rob Youngson/Focus Features

For aspiring film stills photographers, know that there’s not one route into this career. That's a strength. Every photographer has a different story. Don’t read about my journey, and think that because your starting place is different, it isn’t an achievable goal. It can be. To do well in this job, you have to be able to read the mood in the room, to read people and leave your ego at the door. Film sets are time-pressured. Hundreds of people are working long hours to make everything work. Sometimes that means the photographer’s job is to know when to step back and give the crew and actors space. You should try to have the technical skills of photography down to second nature. That way, you can focus your energy on everything else.

Rob Youngson/Focus Features

My main piece of advice is to treat every job you do as though it’s your dream job, however small it seems. Arrive early, with charged batteries, formatted memory cards and waterproofs and then enjoy yourself! There’ll be hard days, but every so often I take a step back and realise I’m part of something bigger. Creating something that may move people that I will never meet. Be amazed by that fact, because it is amazing.

MPB: Could you give us an insight into the day in the life of a film stills photographer? Is it as glamorous as it looks?

RY: Glamour isn't the first word that comes to mind! British filmmaking is more likely to find me on a night shoot, up to my knees in mud, in the Essex estuary for eight hours at -5°C [23°F] . There are rare occasions when I end up in a hot country, being served brilliant local food, working with fantastic actors surrounded by gorgeous scenery—those days feel a little more glamorous. A few summers ago, in the UK, we had a scorching day whilst filming Blithe Spirit. The shoot was out on a river, and the crew all jumped in at lunch for a swim. Catering set up on the riverbank and served us a BBQ, that was pretty special—not glamorous per se, but memorable.

A typical day might start with an 08:00 call time. But it could be 05:00 or 21:00, depending on the day. Say it’s 08:00, I’d arrive at where we are filming at 07:15, park, grab some breakfast from catering and find a spot for my kit to safely live. Peli Cases are a must for me! I’ll introduce myself to the 1st AD, the boom operators and the 1st AC, among other key people I need to work with. I'll get my bearings on set, and the day begins. Actors rehearse with the director, 1st AD, cinematographer and script supervisor. Then there is a ‘crew show’, we get to see the action for that scene. Lighting and all the other departments get to work.

Rob Youngson/Focus Features

During takes, I’ll place myself out of the actor's eye-lines, and out of the camera's line of sight. Sometimes, there’ll be three or more cameras shooting at once, which doesn't leave much choice as to where to go and may dictate much of the composition. I’ll shoot between takes as well. Photographing the sets, props and other details.

My day on set will finish around 19:30–19:00, and then I’ll get home or to where I’m staying and backup the images. On average, I’ll shoot between 400–600 images on a normal day, and 600+ on a day with stunts. I usually deliver between 150–250 images per day to publicity. I’ll straighten the horizon on images if necessary. Then I’ll pick my favourite 10–12 images to colour-grade properly and add those to a highlights folder.

Rob Youngson/Focus Features

RY: On the set of Belfast, my kitbag consisted of a Nikon Z7 and Nikon Z6, four 128GB XQD cards and Sony reader, ten spare batteries, plus two Nikon chargers, 70-200mm f/2.8 S lens, 24-70mm f/2.8 F Mount with FTZ Adaptor, Sigma Art 24mm f/1.4 with FTZ Adaptor, Nikon 85mm f/1.4 G lens, Leica 50mm f/2 Summicron with Z-mount adaptor (Non Apo), Hasselblad XPAN, Nikon FE2 with 50mm f/2.8, Nikon FM II with 28mm f/2.8, Gitzo Systematic Tripod, Spiderholster Twin system on a Panavision quick-release belt, NexttoDI NPS-10 Field Backup Drive, Peli Case Air 1535 and a Billingham 555.

The main quality an on-set camera needs is a silent shutter. A few years ago, before mirrorless cameras, I had to shoot with my DSLRs inside a foam and plastic case called a blimp to block out the sound of the shutter. I made my first blimp out of a small Peli Case, some foam and a remote shutter release. These were awkward and heavy. Having a silent shutter on mirrorless cameras makes life a lot easier. Banding and rolling shutter have been a problem until recently. The advent of the Nikon Z9 and the top tier Sony mirrorless cameras has pretty much solved both problems. Using a camera for 10+ hours a day, ergonomics are critical. That’s one of the reasons I favour Nikon over Sony, the big grip, good buttons and a familiar menu system all appeal to me.

Rob Youngson/Focus Features

MPB: Take us behind the scenes on the shoot—how long was the shoot? Where was it filmed? The film deals with a sensitive time in Northern Ireland’s history but in a beautifully uplifting way, did that have an effect on the mood on the set?

RY: The shoot was six weeks, in total. That’s short, a full-length feature is usually anything from 3–6+ months. A small film unit went to Belfast for a week of shooting exteriors. The rest of the film, all the acting, was filmed in Farnborough. Production designer Jim Clay led his team in a herculean effort to build beautiful sets, including a full-sized Belfast street.

Kenneth Branagh wrote the film during the first lockdown. He has spoken about how the feeling of life turning upside that we all experienced in the first lockdown threw him back to what he felt as a nine-year-old boy when he first experienced violence in Belfast. There were moments that were difficult to watch. Certain scenes left the crew reeling and needing a moment. But those scenes were interspersed with scenes that show the Belfast sense of humour. A wit and levity that has come to define the place and the people.

Rob Youngson/Focus Features

I felt a responsibility to do the best work possible, to do justice to the real people we were representing. I took great inspiration from the Magnum photographer Phillip Jones Griffiths. His work in Northern Ireland helped highlight the absurdity of normal life continuing under a strong military presence. One well-publicised image of Phillip’s shows a woman mowing the front lawn, while a soldier lies in wait in the same garden. During filming, I was able to capture a couple of images I felt paid homage to his work. In one, I lined myself up to photograph a tank coming down the street, but through a child’s pram. A second was capturing the moment the soldiers in the street helped the family move a sofa into the house.

The first day on set was jubilant, most of us hadn’t worked since lockdown. We were PCR tested every day, wore masks and visors, hand-washing stations, one way systems, temperature checks. There were big smiles behind the masks. Most of the team had worked together on previous films, so it was lovely to come together again. There was still a sense of focus and seriousness. We all had to be vigilant about Covid to see this film through to completion, and we all had to pull off our best work. That atmosphere pushed me to create work I was proud of.

MPB: You’ve worked for some iconic clients, including Netflix, Fox and Disney. What projects were these? What advice would you have for getting noticed by such iconic brands?

RY: For Netflix, there is a new series coming out this spring called Heartstopper. Based on the graphic novels by Alice Oseman, Heartstopper tells the story of two boys who meet at a British grammar school and develop feelings for each other. What follows is a beautiful and thoughtful story of love, life, and friendship. For Fox, I shot stills for Death On The Nile, released in cinemas in the UK on February the 11th. As the sequel to Murder on The Orient Express, it sees the return of Kenneth Branagh as Detective Hercule Point.

To be honest, the films I love working on the most are those with the best scripts, best casts and the loveliest crews. That might be for one of the big players, or it might be for a more indie company.

One of my favourite shows to work on last year was the UK adaptation of Call My Agent. That will be coming to your screens later in 2022.

My advice is to treat every job as though it’s important. Work on stories you believe in or with people you enjoy working with and persist. If you do that, and your work is good, then those brands will start to take notice.

People are leaving film school right now with stories to tell but without big budgets. In a few years’ time, some of those people will be Oscar-nominated and making films for these big brands. Go and meet your people, talk about film, art, life, experience everything you can. Try not to see a freelance career as though it’s a ladder, there isn’t usually a linear progression. In my experience, what can at first seem a setback often opens out into an opportunity.

MPB: Your work is split between capturing shots to be used as promotional material and behind the scenes shots, is there a type you prefer and why?

RY: Interesting question—behind-the-scenes shots only make up 5–10% of what I shoot in a day. I love capturing unique images from behind-the-scenes; incredible sets or one-off prosthetics. Growing up, I watched the behind-the-scenes featurettes of The Lord of the Rings constantly. That first switched me on to the world behind the camera. I know that capturing the hard work of people behind the camera holds a certain fascination for many of us. In general, though, it’s the interaction between actors in a scene that tells the most compelling story as to why someone should go and see a film.

Rob Youngson/Focus Features

MPB: Belfast features some royalty of British cinema, including Jamie Dorran and Judi Dench, and is directed by Kenneth Branagh. What is it like to work with stars like these? Did you ever find it intimidating?

RY: An important part of my job is to not get starstruck. Or, at least, not change how I behave around people based on preconceptions of their celebrity. I'm privileged to work with these people, I have massive respect for their work. I’ve been lucky enough to work with Judi Dench several times now. Judi has a fervent wit and an effervescence, she is unlike anyone else I’ve ever met. The first time I worked with Judi, I thought “this is it, my career peaks here, I can’t beat this moment”. I found out, through good luck, that the only way to top that was to work with her again and again. Executing the images, I apply the same pressure to myself whoever is in front of the camera. It's important to respect the vulnerability that an actor has to go through to perform a scene. Watching Ken direct is a masterclass every single day. One of the greatest things about my job is being an observer. I love to see the ways in which different directors get the best from those around them. On Belfast, Ken worked with his long-term collaborator, cinematographer Haris Zambarloukos. They communicate with an effective shorthand that's built out of trust. They are also both very well researched before arriving to set. I hope I get to work with them again because there's still so much I have to learn.

MPB: With the vast majority of the film being in black-and-white, it has meant your work has followed the same style. Are you pleased with the outcome?

RY: I wish I could shoot in black-and-white more often! I love it. I shot rolls of Ilford FP4 and HP5 during the first week. I took scans of those images as references to create a series of presets/styles within capture one and within Nik Efex Silver Efex Pro 4. Likewise, I created a custom black and white preset in the Nikon Z6 and Z7 so that I could compose in the digital viewfinder in black and white—another win for mirrorless! I would drop in to the DIT on set to see screen-grabs from the film. I’d be noting whether the shadows were going all the way to black, or whether the greys were more silver or flatter.

I shot everything in RAW, and I did a colour edit of all the images as well. The costumes and hair and makeup by Charlotte Walter charlottewaltercostume.com and Wakana Yoshihara @wakana_yoshihara were incredible. The colours and textures translated beautifully to black-and-white. Though I hope that some more of the colour images might one day get released. If I did another project with a lot of black-and-white, then I’d consider hiring a Leica M Monochrom to see where that would take my work because I love rangefinders.

MPB: Working on a project this size means your work gets huge exposure, any film nominated for an Oscar becomes one of the most talked-about films of the year—what does it feel like to see your work on billboards or the side of buses?

RY: It’s remarkable. I always get a buzz from friends and family sending me pictures of themselves showing where in the world they are seeing my work. It’s special, knowing that for many people their first moment interacting with the story of Belfast, or any other project, is my work. That means I’ve done justice to the script and the film in helping bring an audience to it. Seeing a billboard or a magazine cover always reminds me how incredible the marketing teams are. The graphic designers, who take my images and elevate them into something more, definitely don’t get enough praise.

MPB: What are your plans for the future?

RY: I plan to keep working on stories I love. Keep improving and keep a firm lid on my ‘gear acquisition syndrome’. More and more, I’m approached with questions about how to do what I do. I want to be able to give useful and clear insights—I don’t always have time to respond in detail whilst out on shoots though. That’s why I am planning to launch a YouTube channel and a Patreon this spring. I’ll be able to offer more insights, gear reviews from on the road, and more opportunities for Q&As.

Thanks, Rob. You can see more of Rob Youngson’s work on Instagram @rob_youngson_photography and at robyoungsonphotography.com. Or, read more interviews on the MPB blog.

Note: links to various names and to photographic equipment mentioned in this story ⬇️

https://www.mpb.com/en-uk/blog/article/12863/

Remember… I realise now, how privileged I was to grow up in a home where my curiosity was encouraged. And a home that had cameras for me to pick up and use. — Rob Youngson

[shimmersing]

Constellation

Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

Rating: General Audiences Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: F/M, Gen Relationships: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Male Republic Trooper, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor/Republic Trooper Characters: Female Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Jedi Consular | Barsen'thor, Qyzen Fess, Yuon Par, Parkanas Tark-Lord Vivicar Additional Tags: Angst, Tython, Emotional, Mentioned Mutual Pining, Fluffy, Sad, Melancholy

Returning to Tython after shielding the last master suffering from Vivicar's Force plague, Aitahea is faced with more struggle in her efforts to heal the Order and keep the Force in balance. Tired, injured, and longing for someone she can't have, perhaps ever, the lines of her responsibility as a Jedi and her own convictions begin to blur. As Aitahea nears the end of her quest to save Yuon Par and the other Jedi Masters, she’s confronted with painful revelations and answers that only give rise to more questions. Shouldering the lives and minds of Jedi across the galaxy – alone – may prove to be more than Aitahea can bear. AN: Welcome back! This story follows shortly after the events in Best Intentions and closes out Chapter One of the Consular storyline for Aitahea (and Erithon, peripherally). The one-shot, first-person piece Impending occurs in the interim between Parts 2 and 3. Thank you and enjoy! *Now with paragraphs in proper order!*

Part One

Aitahea trembled next to Satele Shan on the bridge of the transport, fingers pressed to her lips while starlines streaked past.

“What troubles you, little one?”

The girl dropped her hands to her sides without looking at Master Satele, keeping her gaze focused on the soothing radiance of hyperspace. “Nothing, Master. How long until we reach Alderaan?”

“Soon now, Aitahea.” Satele dropped to one knee and placed a hand on the child’s shoulder. “You’ll be safe there. Your training will continue. We need you to be strong for the Order. For our future.”

She drew in a deep breath. “I know, Master Satele. I am strong.” But beneath her robes, her stomach flipped and flopped.

Aitahea trembled next to pilot Prelsiava Tern on the bridge of the Luminous, fingers pressed to her lips while they slipped from the grasp of Alderaan’s gravity.

“What’s got your head turned around, Jedi?”

The Jedi dropped her hands to her sides without looking at her friend, watching as the once-familiar constellations blurred out of sight. “Nothing, Sia. How long until we’re underway?”

As usual, her pilot’s concern was genuine, attending in a gently cavalier way that often left Aitahea feeling uplifted. “As soon as we clear the gravity well; just a few more minutes.”

Qyzen had no such compunction, his words blunt as a training saber. “Soldier remains forefront in your thoughts, but past also. Put these away so we may focus on Yuon. Both mate and memories will wait until dark thing is vanquished.”

“I have every int-” Aitahea choked at the sudden comprehension of Qyzen’s words, face flushing a bright rose. Sia craned her head around the pilot’s seat to grin at Aitahea with unabashed glee. Aitahea shrugged at the Mirialan woman and turned to Qyzen. “Excuse me… mate?”

“Herald’s Republic lieutenant, met on Taris. Thought perhaps you’d accepted as mate on Alderaan,” Qyzen mused. Sia whistled low and turned back to the pilot’s console, doing an impromptu and quite thorough safety check of the seat’s crash webbing.

The Jedi took a deep, calming breath, the carefully measured motion keeping her from bursting into terribly unsuitable laughter.

If Qyzen noticed her discomfiture, he gave no sign. “Human emotions strange; sad one moment, amused next.”

Aitahea primly lifted her chin, focusing seriously on her friend. “Forgive me; I apologize for the, ah, unexpected level of emotion. But no, Erithon-” She paused to frown and clear her throat. “The lieutenant and I don’t have… we aren’t what you’re presuming.”

Qyzen squinted in what she had learned to recognize as wry skepticism, usually reserved for someone they were facing in conflict.

Aitahea swallowed, nodded. “We have work to do.”

Sia waved over a shoulder. “Hey, call from Tython on the holo.”

Grateful for the diversion, Aitahea swiftly moved to escape the bridge. “Thank you, Sia. I’ll take it in the common room, please.”

After a few moments, Master Syo flickered into view, looking pleased when Aitahea entered the shared space.

“Master Sidonie just checked in. She seems well but very frustrated with herself.” Aitahea briefly wondered if her own demeanor was similar, though for distinctly different reasons. “She reports that you were able to prevent war from breaking out on Alderaan, however. You’ve once again done exceptional work in a tense situation, Aitahea.”

Despite the obvious praise, Aitahea winced. She had been painfully unsettled by Master Sidonie’s baseless accusations, despite their depraved falsity. They’d sounded conspicuously familiar, another voice confirming all the cynical criticisms Aitahea most dreaded. Unspeakable consequences lurked behind every failure, and Aitahea was certain she would fracture under the burden of responsibility, despite everyone’s blithe confidence. All so certain of her, save Aitahea herself.

And she would never breathe a syllable of it to the people depending on her. She couldn’t. Instead, she slid into a default stillness and bowed her head. “I relied on the teachings of the Jedi,” she insisted, voice trembling through the half-truth.

Master Syo beamed. “A mark of a true Jedi – being able to trust in the Force in all circumstances.”

Aitahea shuddered and hoped the motion wouldn’t be seen in the grainy holo.

Oblivious to her struggle, Master Syo continued. “Tell me, did you learn anything about the plaguemaster, Lord Vivicar?”

“I’m sorry. No new intel came from Master Sidonie.”

“She was the last of the lost Masters, and yet Vivicar still eludes us,” he mused, then waved a hand and refocused on Aitahea. “Return to us here on Tython immediately, and we will discuss what you have learned. Lord Vivicar cannot remain hidden forever.”

Aitahea’s heart leapt. She’d longed for the comfort of Tython for months; now, the call seemed almost too good to be true. Unable to trust her voice, she bowed, lifting her eyes again in time to see Master Syo’s benevolent smile. “Come home, Jedi.”

When her boots touched Tython’s sacred ground – even the metallic plates of the Temple’s shuttle pad – Aitahea felt suffused with new hope. The home of the Jedi never failed to welcome her, making her role in the galaxy apparent and her relationship to the Force simple and effortless. Even breathing felt easier.

Master Syo Bakarn, Master Jaric Kaedan, and Grand Master Satele Shan were waiting when Aitahea arrived at the Council chamber with Qyzen. The rest of the crew had opted to stay in orbit while the Jedi and Trandoshan shuttled to the surface.

“Welcome home,” said Master Syo, leaning forward to offer the greeting. Aitahea bowed low to her mentor, wondering silently if Yuon would be join the meeting as well.

Master Jaric was quicker to the point. “I wish we could greet you with better news.”

Master Satele nodded her own welcome. “Despite using every resource available to us, we’re no closer to finding Lord Vivicar.”

Aitahea, buoyant on the glory of Tython, took a bold step forward and offered her final, horrible theory. “Actually, I believe we are. A common thread binds all the plague victims: the loss of Parkanas Tark at Malachor Three. Vivicar’s influence forced the infected Masters to relive their failures on Malachor.”

The Council’s Force signatures and facial expressions were meticulously shielded with more years of experience than Aitahea could rightly grasp, but even so, emotion in the room spiked, rattling her earnest calm. She continued, her voice hushed. “This is revenge, personal revenge. Only one man would have that much anger and pain. The man who was left behind.”

She hesitated; her next words could unravel everything else she’d accomplished, but unless she spoke the truth, the plague would never end. “I believe Lord Vivicar is Parkanas Tark.”

Master Jaric shook his head in disbelief. “Jedi.” He pinned Aitahea with a steely gaze, and she was certain that her suggestion had indeed gone too far. “Parkanas Tark is dead.” Aitahea took a breath -

“Far from it, Jaric.” Yuon strode into the council chamber, feisty as ever. On the edge of panic, Aitahea broke into an enormous smile that her Master returned with a gracious nod. Even Qyzen, silent until now, uttered a brief growl of approval and welcome.

“Yuon?” Satele demanded, half-rising to address the other Master, exasperation coloring her words. “I told those Padawans to keep an eye on you. You must rest!”

“No. My pupil -” Yuon paused at Aitahea’s side, placing a hand on her last Padawan’s shoulder, “My fellow Jedi deserves to hear the truth about Malachor.”

Aitahea winced, noting the dark shadows under Yuon’s eyes; only one of the victims could explain the twisted path that lay both behind and before them. They all needed the truth. “Don’t speak more than you must.”

Yuon gave Aitahea a wan smile, then continued, turning to address the Council. “Malachor Three isn’t just strong in the dark side; the planet is the resting place of Terrak Morrhage. Our work on Malachor woke Morrhage’s spirit. One by one, we fell under his power. The things we did… still haunt me.”

Yuon shuddered; Aitahea reached for her in concern. Realization clicked into place, and she paused before laying a comforting hand on Yuon’s shoulder. “Somehow, you broke free of Morrhage’s power.”

The Master composed herself and nodded to her Padawan. “Yes. Together, we managed to break his control, but at a terrible cost.” Yuon’s voice grew soft, then broke over the last few syllables. She kept her gaze to the side, as if afraid to look into Aitahea’s eyes. “Parkanas was the youngest and weakest. We had to abandon him to Malachor’s darkness. His sacrifice allowed the rest of us to escape. But it seems he survived and took Morrhage’s dark path.”

“You couldn’t have predicted this,” Aitahea insisted in a pained whisper.

With fierce determination, Yuon shook her head. “I must make amends.” She seemed more vulnerable than ever, perhaps even more so than in the worst throes of her affliction. “I have a plan to help you find Vivicar.”

The Council looked worriedly at each other, and even Aitahea shook her head, uncertain how to respond. “How?”

“If the plague created a link between my mind and his, your shielding ability may allow me to use that link to find him.”

Master Syo stood, his disapproval and worry dimming the Force in the room. “No. You’re already weak from the plague, Yuon. This could kill you.”

But Yuon’s eyes, finally meeting Aitahea’s, were pleading. Aitahea wondered, had her Master’s suffering truly begun with the plague, or had it been long before that? She wasn’t certain she was ready for dealing with either answer, but her path, her role, was to serve. Releasing her Master, her teacher, her friend from this plague surely was of equal importance with stopping Morrhage.

If the work served both purposes, it would be worth it, more than worth it. “Vivicar won’t get the chance,” she said to both Yuon and the stunned Council. “I will stand between him and my Master.”

Yuon’s gratitude was palpable. She turned to the Council, earnest and energized. “It’s our best chance to find Vivicar.”

Qyzen spoke up. “Yuon is fearless and wise – a true hunter, like Herald.”

Aitahea wasn’t certain she agreed, but the Trandoshan’s support could only bolster their position.

Syo eased back into his seat. “Very well,” he said, sighing. “But we will monitor the ritual, and your former Padawan must stay at your side.”

“Of course, Master,” Aitahea said, and offered Yuon an encouraging smile.

“Thank you, Syo,” Yuon said, punctuating with a bow to the entire Council before turning back to Aitahea. “I will go to the meditation chamber to prepare. Please meet me there when you are ready.”

“I’ll be fine, Qyzen; it’s just a short way from the Temple. There’s no safer place in the galaxy.”

“Even from own thoughts, Herald?”

“Let her go, just as you always did for me,” said Yuon, smiling impishly at Aitahea as she approached. “This Jedi knows her own mind.”

“Master, I know you have much to prepare. I don’t intend to go far to meditate, just a little away from the temple, so I might not be disturbed.” Aitahea couldn’t quite raise her eyes to meet Yuon’s, glancing instead toward the tree-lined paths of the outer grounds. Since Aitahea had first arrived on Tython, the issues of refugees, Flesh Raiders, and rogue Force users had been mostly resolved. The forests surrounding the temple were secure, if not precisely safe. Aitahea had played no small part in several of those events and recalled them as experiences of tremendous growth as a Padawan. Yuon seemed to agree.

“Off with you now! I’ve enough for this old friend to help me with; you must make your own preparations,” she stated, ushering Qyzen ahead in a way only Yuon Par was capable of, while waving Aitahea away from the temple grounds. “Go!”

Yuon seemed uncharacteristically upbeat, perhaps even giddy. It’s just that we’re so close to the end of this journey. I’d feel the same, if I weren’t so… her thoughts trailed off as Qyzen and Yuon turned back toward the temple, good-naturedly chiding each other on the perception of stuffy behavior.

Aitahea chanced a smile and wave in reply, inhaling sharply to keep tears from spilling from her stinging eyes. She turned to one of the well-worn paths, tread smooth by the growing residents of the Jedi Temple, their minders and masters, and visitors such as herself.

No, this is home, she thought urgently. Master Syo welcomed me home. I am home. She raised her hood and quickened her pace, rushing by several curious initiates.

Aitahea dashed across the bridge and toward the stream just beyond the grounds. There was a spur of rock suspended over one of the smaller falls. She hadn’t been there in years, her training with Yuon so often off-world or in remote areas. There were usually a few uxibeast grazing in the shade, unbothered so long as they could eat in peace.

She was obligated to ford the shallows to the opposite bank of the stream in order to reach the outcropping. Aitahea considered a simple leap over the stream; a nudge of the Force would keep her robes and boots dry.

Instead, she left her boots with her outer robe folded carefully beside them and now stood at the water’s edge considering the communicator in her hand. She shouldn’t be needed for the brief hour she had to prepare for Yuon’s desperate ritual; who in the galaxy would need to contact her who wasn’t planetside? Was there anyone she needed to talk to privately? Tember? Her parents?

Aitahea fiercely dismissed the memory of Erithon’s smiling face that clamored for her attention, fingers trembling as she thumbed through her contacts to his entry. The hard lump lodged in her throat was the only thing that kept her from pressing the call button.

Cold water splashed over her toes; the nearest uxibeast lowed. Shaking her head, Aitahea unceremoniously shoved the commlink into one of her boots and waded into the water, gasping at the freezing temperature.  She splashed across, only slightly questioning her sanity, and padded gingerly up the rock spur on icy toes.

The perch afforded a stunning view of the Temple and grounds, but distance allowed a certain privacy. Aitahea sat at the edge of the outcropping, watching the practiced motions of lightsaber training, but the clashing sounds of those sparring were lost beneath the roar of water. Some in groups, others in isolation, all went about their various practices: meditating, channeling, seeking to understand more of the Force in myriad ways.

Everything will be fine, Aitahea assured herself, bringing her knees up to her chest and closing her eyes. We’re so close to finishing this. Maybe even saving Parkanas Tark if he can just be released from Morrhage’s dark control. Victory is close. Just a little longer.

Aitahea dropped her head into her arms and sobbed, the cries lost in the rush of the waterfall below.

Constellation: Part One | Part Two | Interlude | Part Three

[sabraeal]

House of Stone (Preview)

The fourth and final fic of the Holiday Rare Pair series...or is it? The vote originally selected a full chapter of this fic, but unfortunately...there’s a prequel fic I have to write to really nail down what I want to do. There’s no Zihal in this preview, just some HINTS...and so post-bingo (maybe even post-obiyukiweek?) I’ll be writing an ACTUAL Zihal fic. But until then...enjoy this little sneak peek of a fic series that should be upcoming next year...

In the annals of the kingdom’s histories, before they become the North’s warden, it is said the House of Bergatt once served as its kings; a long uninterrupted line from Dai the Iron-Handed to Kenzo Bent-Knee. Zen would never doubt the words of the court historians-- not where his tutors could hear, at least-- but Tomo classified dolphins as fish, and Kohi was notoriously beneath the thumb of the Wisteria king of his age, and by extension, his Bergatt wife. A little embellishment went a long way over a few centuries.

But he believes every word of it now.

Tariga glares at the boat with such icy derision, Zen half expects the rail to rime over, no matter how humid the sea air. “I don’t understand. Yuris has to have a port. It’s a major part of our trading routes outside the continent.”

“It does.” It sits in the distance, a gentle mound bristling with trees, hunched on the horizon. Kihal told him that from the air it looked like a bird nested in sleep, but on the map it’s just another craggy oval, larger than the others in its chain. “But that’s on the other side of the island.”

“Then why aren’t we going there?” The row boat rattles on the winch, and Tariga’s face blanches a shade whiter, like the snows of Wilant themselves. “It’s better to dock than leave the ship anchored out at sea, isn’t it? The crew would probably appreciate--”

“The crew will be heading back to the port city as soon as we’re off.” By the new shade of pale Tariga discovers, this is not the sort of assurance he’d been hoping for. “The port is on Brecker’s side of the island. Who I’d like to avoid, otherwise he’ll have to invite us to dinner.”

Tariga casts him a dubious glance. “Would that be so terrible?”

“No,” Zen allows, “but then we’d have to go.”

It’s the sort of joke that, in his humble opinion. merits at least a chuckle. Obi might have delivered the line with more aplomb, a little more colorful sarcasm, but his timing was at least solid. At least worth more than the crickets it gets. And it certainly didn’t earn the wide-eyed wariness Tariga aims at him now, as if--

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Mitsuhide says, so mild, from just above his shoulder. “But I was under the impression that Izana asked you specifically to dine with the viscount while we were here. As a courtesy.”

“Ah...” Mitsuhide might never get really, truly angry, but the weight of his disappointment has smothered better men than him. “Yes, he did. But he didn’t say we had to do it right away...”

Even with nearly a decade of service, it will never cease to surprise him how easily his aide can move. A head taller than nearly any man besides his brother and twice as wide in the shoulders, Mitsuhide still springs to his side with a cat’s grace, catching his shoulder before he can slink away.

“But you won’t forget, I hope?” His hand might as well be a yoke for how heavy it sits on him. “Zen?”

“Ah...” If he doesn’t look at him, then there’s no possible way Mitsuhide can see him sweat. “Of course. I would never disappoint my esteemed brother. I just think...it’s better to meet with the Yuris first. You know, for...diplomacy.”

Tariga’s mouth bent into a stubborn frown. “Protocol dictates that you are to introduce yourself formally to the lord of a land before taking up residence.”

If Obi were here, he’d have some choice remarks to make about that. I wouldn’t expect you to know about that one, your grace, he’d probably say, all limbs and sly smiles, considering how easily your brother forgot that little bit of politesse.

He would have had to scold him of course-- one didn’t spout truths with such blithe impunity in the company of lords-- but that would at least save him the trouble of these impromptu etiquette lessons.

“And since you’re the prince royal,” Tariga continues, warming to the subject, “wouldn’t it would be rude if the viscount didn’t also offer to house you and your--?”

“Right, but this is different.” He’s not quite sure how, but surely he’ll be able to invent a reason between the start of his next sentence and the end of it. “The Yuris are a, ah, sovereign tribe, who provide a vital service to the crown, and they would take it as a personal insult if we were to meet with Brecker before coming to greet them.”

Tariga’s pale brows draw tight over his nose. “Sovereign tribe? I thought Yuris as a whole was beneath the viscount, not foreign allies...?”

Mitsuhide’s dark eyes pin him with the sort of look that says, now how do you plan to get out of this one? Zen bites his cheeks to keep from scowling back. Of all the things he’d like Kiki to answer for, leaving him with a suddenly pedantic and intently rules-abiding aide would be at the top.

“Semi-sovereign,” he corrects. “They handle themselves on the whole, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the interests of Clarines.”

His aide shifts, the sternness in his expression turning to the fainest ghost of humor. “I don’t think many of the Yuris would appreciate the insinuation they owed anything to the viscount besides what he earns.”

Tariga, guileless, asks, “And that would be...?”

“Why don’t you ask them when you get there?” Zen suggests. He could use the entertainment after the last few months cooped up in Wilant. “I’m sure the chieftain’s granddaughter would be happy to give her opinion.”

It is a herculean effort not to grin, especially under Mitsuhide’s warning gaze. He keeps it down to a twitch of his lips, easily buried beneath his hand. Kihal would certainly have a long list of ideas, starting with a swift kick in the posterior and possibly ending with being tossed out his own tower, this time not sea-side.

“And all this,” Tariga says after a long moment, “is why we have to go ashore in...these?”

The wind knocks the row boat against the ship’s side, earning a dubious glare from Tariga, the sort that only a lord born land-locked and frozen could.

“Yes.” Zen gives it a pat for good measure, biting back a grin as his aide’s knees quiver. “Don’t worry, you’ll love it.”

No matter how many times he makes he trip to Yuris, Zen can never remember how long the actually crossing takes. In his memory, they are hanging from the ship’s deck one moment, Yuris a hunched, jade shell in the distance, and the next they are at the dock, the tribesmen clapping them on the back. But in truth, well--

“Two hours,” Tariga reports to him as they arrive, salt-soaked and pink, at the dock. “We’ve been rowing for two hours.”

“The crew has,” Mitsuhide corrects, so gentle. “It’s not a short trip.”

“No,” Tariga agrees, “just long enough to boil us for dinner.”

Ah, and that had been another thing he’d forgotten-- as nice as the sun felt on the ship’s deck, wind ruffling through his hair, on the open waters it was no better than a mirror, reflecting the heat a thousand ways. When the wind wound to a lull, cooking seemed an apt description for what occurred in the confines of their vessel.

Zen leaned back in his seat, letting his fingers trail in the bay. The water is clear this close the the islands, like looking through glass.

“Do you see them?” he asks, smiling down at the colorful shapes swimming below. “All those fish, off on their own business, not even aware we’re here. A whole world beneath our feet, and not an inch of it explored by man.”

His newest aide tilts, just slightly, head turning to gaze out mildly across the water. It is the only concession he makes before saying, “Were you bringing that to some point?”

Zen’s mouth twitches; he hides it in the crook of his arm. “It feels like freedom, doesn’t it?”

Tariga sits quietly as the boat bumps the pier, mouth pressed to a thin, white line.

“I’m not sure how to break this to you, Highness,” Tariga says finally, trembling wretchedly in his seat. “I know you believed I would enjoy this excursion, but--” his mouth wrinkles with displeasure-- “I do not love it.”

“But it’s an adventure.” Zen gives him a wide grin. “More fun than sitting up in that old, drafty castle in the middle of the winter snows, at least.”

Tariga lets out a sniff. “I think that perhaps you and I do not see eye to eye on what makes a good time.”

“Oh.” He casts a long glance back at Mitsuhide, who is making a valiant effort to stay sober and stalwart even as his mouth twitches. “I think you’ll come around.”

[elizabeethan]

I’ll Be Your Light

A follow-up to On This Night

Also on Ao3

Inspired by this prompt 

Killian and Emma travel the realms together happily, but when they’re drawn back to Misthaven, they must avoid the thing that sent them away in the first place.

A/N: All of the warning that applied to the first story are mentioned very briefly here, although no details are given. Very mild descriptions of violence and gore

Rated: a hard T, soft M, somewhere in there?

Tagging the usuals but if you want me to remove you (or add you) please tell me!! I will never not feel annoying doing this

@courtorderedcake @kmomof4 @stahlop @klynn-stormz @laschatzi @emelizabeth88 @lfh1226-linda @kday426 @profdanglaisstuff @elisethewritingbeast @timeless-love-story @captain-emmajones @gingerpolyglot @ebcaver @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @tiganasummertree @gingerchangeling @jrob64 @onceratheart18 @xhookswenchx @winterbaby89 @swampmedusa @ultraluckycatnd @dancingnancyy @love-with-you-i-have-everything @shireness-says @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @ouatpost @daxx04 @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook​

Captain Killian Jones has led a tortured life. He watched his mother die, was sold by his own father, and held his brother in his arms as he drew his last breath. He’s lost countless crewmen at sea. He’s seen the horrors of war. But one of the worst nights of his life was seeing Emma Swan bleeding and delirious, nearly raped on the streets outside of the seedy tavern. He couldn’t have told her then, but he had been in love with her from the moment he met her. When he saw her crumpled on the ground, he couldn't stop himself. He knew he probably should have taken her back to Granny’s tavern for her medical attention, should have insisted when she refused, but he was a weak man. A man with a code, a man of honor, but a weak one, all the same.

He could have tried harder to insist that she find her way into the tavern to sleep, rather than offering her a place in his bed. But she had been abused and battered and attacked all in one night and she needed someone to be there for her. She needed reminding that the whole world isn’t out to get her. He hated himself the next morning, feeling as though he’d coerced her, but he still couldn't help but to check in on her at the tavern later that evening.

When she told him she wanted to leave, he jumped at the opportunity to help her. If nothing else, he could at least ensure that she was safely away from her beast of a husband. If she chose to stay with him, that would be an added bonus of which he would happily reap the benefits. When he told her, foolishly, that he would drop her off wherever she wanted, thinking he was being helpful in not pressuring her to stay, she became so saddened that he knew immediately how badly he’d befouled. He thought that she would surely leave him, and he would let her. But when she called him a dullard and said that she loved him, he knew he would be content for the rest of his days.

She loved him. He loved her too. And so they ran away together.

They find themselves lounging in the sand, just two years after leaving port and never looking back. He continues traveling the realms and obtaining treasures, but she’s changed him in that he no longer feels the need to take out his anger and acrimony through pillaging and plundering. Instead, she encourages him to use his skills in bartering to make a living, and he must say, they’re doing quite well for themselves. Some of the men disliked the changes they saw in their captain and abandoned the crew, but many stayed behind and now continue to earn an honest living through trading exotic spices and jewels.

Emma liked Agrabah quite a lot, but she says her favorite location thus far is the tropical island they find themselves on now. He likes it too; he especially likes the little dresses she wears as she traipses along the beach and the fact that she takes them off when she wants to go swimming, and insists that he remove his trousers as well.

This afternoon was the only occasion during which they ended up in the warm waves with their clothes still on. They had been on a walk at high noon when the sun was at its brightest, enjoying the bright blue skies and the scorching white sand against their bare feet, when he knelt before her and presented her with a diamond he procured in Agrabah. She shouted excitedly, squealing and laughing and saying yes, yes, yes! before knocking him to the ground into the water and kissing the holy hell out of him. He thought they may have drowned if she’d held him under the water any longer, but he probably wouldn’t have minded.

“I can’t stop looking at it,” she says happily, grinning as she holds her hand out in front of her.

He hums and smiles back at her, rolling to his side to press a kiss to her temple. “I can’t stop looking at you.”

She blushes, just as she does every time he speaks to her this way, but he can’t help it. He has so much love for her in his heart that it hurts.

“I’d like to be married straight away, I think,” she says.

“Is that so?”

“Aye, it’s so,” she says with a laugh. “Who does the officiating when it’s the captain who wants to get married?”

He hums again thoughtfully , leaning closer so that he can press her into the sand and roll on top of her. He kisses her soft lips gently once, twice, three times, before saying, “I suppose I’ll have to make Mr. Smee do it.”

“Make him? He’ll do it for me,” she says sweetly, kissing him again.

He laughs. “That’s only because he’s afraid of you.”

She gasps in genuine outrage and pushes his shoulders until she can roll over and sit atop his hips. “He is not afraid of me!”

“My love, the entire crew is terrified of you.”

“Take that back!”

“Having a woman on board a ship is considered bad luck. They shiver at the thought of upsetting you and causing torrential weather, or a run in with a mermaid, or—”

She cuts him off with her mouth, kissing him fiercely to shut him up and only further proving his point that she is a cunning and unforgiving fire of a woman. He loves her so damn much.

“Your crew loves me, and they would do anything for me,” she insists, giving him a look that says he had best agree with her.

He smiles up lovingly at her and tilts his head to the side, completely in awe of his fiancé, then says, “of course, my darling. Whatever you say.”

She rolls her eyes, likely in annoyance at how easily he backed down, then presses on his shoulders so that she can stand before him and give him an expectant look. “Come now, then,” she says as he stands as well. “I need to marry you now.”

“Now?” he asks, raising a brow and taking her hand in his so he can lead her back to where the ship is anchored.

“Yes. Despite your rudeness, I find I can’t stand to spend another moment not being your wife.”

He laughs aloud, releasing her hand in favor of wrapping his arm around her shoulder. “Do you not want to discuss your marital needs first?”

She pauses, pursing her lips in thought, then says, “I have but one need.”

“And what’s that?”

“You.”

~~~~

They’re married at sunset on the helm of the Jolly Roger, the entirety of the crew looking on as they exchange words of love and promises to grow old beside each other. She’s a vision in red, her extravagant gown one that he procured for her in Camelot last summer. When he asked why she wasn’t wearing one of her cream colored dresses, she told him that she’s far from a virtuous and unsullied virgin; he couldn’t agree more, and he couldn’t be happier for it.

They have a view of the endless sea on one side of them, and the lush jungle on the other. The sky is pink and the crew cheers raucously as they seal their vows with a kiss, and they watch as the sun sneaks just below the horizon before some of the crew begin playing their instruments.

He holds her close as they drift in the shallow water, her head resting against his collarbone and his against her soft hair. The salty sea air has done wonders for her tresses— they’ve become longer and thicker in the two years since they’ve left, as if the happiness she’s felt has done more than nourish her soul alone. She has them styled hastily in billowing loose curls, surrounded by some flowers that the chef, Will, found for her on the island while he was foraging for dinner.

“Are you happy, my darling?” Killian asks against her hair, and she sighs into his skin and nods softly.

“Happier than I’ve ever been, I’d say.” Her breath tickles the hair on his chest and he squeezes her closer to him.

“I have to agree,” he whispers as the sky darkens and the lanterns provide a soft and comforting light around them. When the music swells, he pulls away from her just slightly and asks, “dance with me?”

She grins up at him and allows him to guide her from the rail to the center of the deck and sway her to the beat of the melodic sounds coming from beside them. He spins her, dips her, and lifts her until she’s giggling away and turning the same shade of red as her gown.

Will emerges from the galley carrying a small pastry meant to be their wedding cake and calls them over. They each enjoy it enthusiastically, and he kisses the powdery sugar from her lips and tastes the remnants of honey on her tongue.

When the twilight turns to night and the crew start dropping off one by one, drunkenly finding their way to their hammocks, she leads him to their bed to make love to him fervidly. She starts off on top, grinding against him as her eyes meet his, until he can no longer stand to not be holding her and flips them over so that she’s enveloped in his arms as they fall apart the same way they do everything: together.

When they’re finally sated, though still not content to be separated from one another, she lays her head against his chest and runs her long fingers through the dark hair she seems to like so much. His hands enjoy the feel of her soft skin as he runs them up and down her spine and occasionally cup and squeeze and blithely slap her backside, drawing playful giggles from her.

“You’re my wife,” he whispers into the darkness, and he feels her arms tighten around his torso.

“You’re my husband,” she breathes out. “Bit better than the last model.”

He snorts, taking another opportunity to squeeze her flesh, and kisses the top of her head. “I should hope so.”

She lies contentedly atop him for quite a while, breathing evenly as her skin is illuminated only by the dim flame of the lantern. He isn’t even sure she’s awake anymore when he speaks into the shadows and says, “there’s something we haven’t discussed.”

She hums to question him and shifts languidly so that she can nestle her nose into the crook of his neck. “What’s that?”

“Only the expectancy that generally comes with being a wedded couple,” he says nervously.

He isn’t sure how she may respond. He was certain that he’d never want to have a child until he met and fell in love with her. Truthfully, it was something they should have discussed before they wed, but it’s also something he never dares to bring up to her after her arduous experience baring a child.

“Are you referring to your carnal need to sire an heir to your empire?” Emma asks playfully, although he can sense the tension forming in her back as he continues to stroke along her skin.

“No, I’m referring to the natural desire to have a child that some people have after marrying the love of their life.”

She nods and sighs, seemingly more awake as she presses onto her elbows so that she can look at his eyes. “Perhaps we should have talked about this before we exchanged vows,” she remarks with a sad smile.

He moves his hand from her waist to her cheek and says, “it’s alright that we didn’t. Any decision that you make is one that I’ll happily agree with, I simply wanted to know your thoughts on the matter.”

“It shouldn’t be my decision alone,” she rationalizes. He can almost see the likeness to the Emma he met years ago, timid and frightened of stepping out of line in her marriage, so he does what he can to draw her away from that place and those thoughts.

She smiles sadly at him as he sits up slightly and rolls both of them on their sides.  “It’s ultimately your choice to make, my love. This is your body, not mine, and you have the right to not want to carry children after your last experience in doing so.” Her fingers run along his cheek, tracing the scar under his eye before kissing it.

“You’re very good at being a husband,” she whispers and he chuckles. “It’s a topic I need to consider further.”

“Take all the time you need, my darling. I’ll be here for whatever you decide.”

“Promise?”

He rolls on top of her and moves her hair away from her eyes so that he can kiss all along her face. “I did mention in my vows that I’d be by your side for the rest of my days. Your decision regarding children won’t change that.”

“Don’t you want them?”

He shrugs. “Truthfully, I think the two of us are parents already. We have about 12 children that we care for regularly.” she snorts and nods before he moves on. “I didn’t before, but when I met the love of my life, I realized why people crave having children so badly.”

She takes a deep breath and sighs out heavily, wrapping her arms around him and linking them just under his shoulder blades so that she can pull him close and feel his weight on her. “I love you,” she whispers. Each time she says it, his heart still races.

“I love you, too. I love you whether you choose to have a child with me or to spend the rest of our days just the two of us. I love you more than the consequences of whatever decision you make.”

She kisses his neck and squeezes harder. “You're a good husband.”

“I’ve only been a husband for six hours,” he argues happily.

“I know a good husband when I see one.”

“Aye, I suppose you do.”

He rolls to his side so that he isn’t crushing her any longer and she follows, pushing him to his back and hitching her knee up onto his hip and resting her head at his shoulder. “Sleep now, my love, and in the morning we’ll plan the honeymoon of our dreams.”

~~~~

They venture away from the secluded part of the island and make landfall just outside of the small village. As Killian goes off to do some business, Emma takes the chef, Will Scarlet, with her to walk through the streets and browse the small shops. The two of them became fast friends when she’d first arrived on board, and their closeness blossomed into the very friendship that Killian wanted for his wife. It started with Will helping her with her training in swordsmanship, or swordswomanship as she often corrected him, when Killian couldn't, and they’re now inseparable and always get into mischief together.

They spend almost a month longer in the tropics before Emma suggests that they try something new one night after dinner. “Perhaps we could visit somewhere snowy,” she’d said longingly. “I’ve hardly ever seen snow before.”

While he’ll miss her small dresses on the secluded beach and swimming naked with her in the warm water, he could never deny her of anything for which she wished so fancifully, so he began charting the course to Arendelle, the only place he knows of that will be seeing snow this time of year.

As they get closer, the seas get rougher, but she enjoys her days larking about with Will and sitting in her soft Agrabahan chair as she watches the snow fall onto the choppy waves. When the bird lands on the wheel as he takes the helm, he becomes curious, but it’s addressed to Emma and he dare not violate her privacy. So when the weather gets particularly bad, he chooses to take advantage of his first mate and relax with her in his quarters.

Her face is alight when she reads that her closest friend is to be married in six months time. Ruby shall wed a lad named August, whom Emma seems to know, in the small church outside of her hometown. Killian tries not to think about the fact that he now needs to take her back to the place he’d promised to help her escape.

They make landfall in Arendelle two days later, Emma’s face so joyous at the sight of the fresh snowfall that he knows immediately that the somewhat difficult journey was worth it. He trades jewels and some more exotic spices he procured on the small island, then spends as much time as he can with his wife.

There are only so many wintery activities they can participate in, the joys of sledding and ice skating and snowman building only taking them so far before the cold wins out and they choose to start their charts back to Misthaven.

He wants nothing more than to say, to hell with the wedding, let’s just go somewhere else so you're safe, but he knows that would crush her. Ruby has been her best friend for years, she and Granny taking Emma in when she had nowhere else to go, and he couldn’t possibly deny her the joy of seeing her married off to one of their mutual friends. Also, she’s been away from them for two anda half years now, and he’s certain that she misses them dearly.

He just can’t move past the dread he feels at the thought of bringing her back to the place that caused her so much pain. She was maimed, accosted, and struck, all in the span of a few hours. She’d dealt with verbal abuse for years. She’d conceived a child, only to lose that child and be stuck with an absolute demon of a husband. She’d lost her parents at birth and grown up as an orphan. And through it all, she was the most exuberant person he’d ever met. The idea of bringing her back to that place, where her former husband could still be lurking, made him sick to his stomach.

But he does it for her. And when they land in the small port town she called home for years and years, she has tears in her eyes. She brushes them away with a smile and looks up at him, hugging her arms around his waist. “I’m nervous,” she whispers, and he wonders if it’s for the same reasons he is. He thinks it must be.

“Me too,” he admits, hugging her back and kissing her temple.

“But you’ll keep me safe, won't you?” she asks with a soft and loving smile as she looks into his eyes.

“If it’s the last thing I do, my love.”

“It won’t come to that,” she insists.

Ruby’s wedding is far more put-together than their own. She has a decorated venue, middlemist flowers ordaining the aisle and wrapped through her hair, and after they exchange vows before a priest, as perhaps Emma and Killian should consider doing, the party is moved to the tavern where he fell in love with his wife. They dance the night away together, enjoying the ability to be in each other’s company here without fear of being noticed. Killian offers to buy her an ale as he wasn’t ever able to do when she worked here, but she turns him down and says she’s too tired. He can’t blame her, what with their endless travel and their long night spent dancing and laughing with friends, so he promises to take her home to the ship shortly.

A thought strikes him, and he wonders for how long she’ll tolerate living with him on a ship. They’ve been at this for two and a half years, and they’re now married and at least casually considering parenthood. Should he buy her a house? Where would she even want to live? He thinks she would like that, but wonders if she’s ready to leave her life of travel and wanderlust.

As the ale continues to flow through him, his love for her grows, and he thinks she must be glowing more than usual as she sits under candlelight  in the corner with Ruby, laughing and catching up on all that they’ve missed of each other. Granny must agree, because when she sits beside him on a stool and bumps his shoulder with hers, she grins. “She looks good,” she tells him, nudging her head towards his wife.

“Aye, she does.”

“I gotta tell you, I wasn't thrilled when Ruby told me she’d run off with a pirate.” He lifts his hand off of his mug and scratches behind his ear. “But she needed to get away from that bastard husband of hers. And you’ve loved her for quite a while.”

He laughs in surprise, eyes widening and brows raised as he looks at her before responding, “You knew, then?”

“‘Course I knew, I'm no fool. And I know a fool in love when I see one.” He chuckles and nods at the same time as his wife throws her head back and laughs boisterously at something Ruby said. “And I know Emma Swan. She’s loved you since the moment she met you.”

He smiles at her, the woman who has known Emma longer than nearly anyone else, and nods again. “That’s nice to hear, thank you.”

She grunts out an acknowledgement and sips some more ale. “Heard you gave up the pirate’s life,” she says, and he nods once more.

“Felt unnecessary once we’d left. Truthfully, I hadn't done much pillaging since I met her.”

“That so?”

“Aye.”

“So Captain Jones has gone soft?”

He laughs at her, and he thinks that if he hadn’t had so much ale, he likely wouldn’t be telling her so much, but continues anyway. “I’ve always been soft. Losing my brother just made me lose my mind a bit. But meeting Emma helped me find it again.”

She hums thoughtfully, then bumps her shoulder into his once more and says, “huh, who knew the infamous and treacherous Captain Jones was such a sap?”

“Emma, certainly,” he jokes.

“Yes, my love?” she asks from behind him, and he turns happily, surprised that he missed her getting up from her seat.

“Hello,” he says with a smile, and she leans in to press a soft, chaste kiss to his lips.

“Hm, someone’s been enjoying their ale,” she remarks at the taste of his mouth, drawing a chuckle from him.

“Aye, it’s been a while since I’ve tasted this backwash and watched the beautiful blonde from across the tavern.”

He feels a whack at the backside of his head and exclaims, reaching up and turning to see Granny’s irritated face chastising him. “Need I remind you, I let you sit in that corner and watch my barmaid for years before you stole her away from me? You know how hard it is to find good help these days?”

“She’s right, my love, one cannot abase Granny’s ale in Granny’s tavern, never mind with Granny sitting right beside you.”

He stands from his stool, apologizing to Granny and tipping just slightly to the left until Emma presses herself against him, and wraps an arm around her shoulder. “Care to turn in, milady?”

“Definitely,” she says, yawning with perfect timing. “I’m done for.”

They wish their friends a pleasant evening, Emma promising that they won't be leaving port just yet and will surely say goodbye in person rather than leaving a sad letter. Ruby informs them that she and August will be leaving for their honeymoon in the mountains in three days, and asks that they stay that long so that they can spend some more time together.

“That was lovely,” Emma says as they fall into bed together. It’s been some time since he’s drank himself to this extent, but figures it was grounds for celebration.

“It was. A bit more put-together than ours, but a nice time indeed.”

“Ours was fairly well put-together considering we were only engaged for about six hours.”

“Too right, love,” he chuckles, pulling her into his arms. “You miss being here?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess. I miss Ruby and Granny, but we can’t exactly stay around long, so it’s alright.”

He sighs as he holds her, letting her drift off to sleep quickly as he considers how he can fix this for her.

~~~~

The following evening, Killian receives an invitation from August to go to a tavern that isn’t owned by his mother-in-law. He asks Emma to come, but it would seem that Ruby wants to spend time with her, and he can hardly deny her such a pleasure, so they head to Ruby’s new home while the lads spend the evening at the pub. He likes August well enough, but he can’t help but miss the image of his wife winding her way through the tavern with her blonde hair following her.

He learns that August grew up with Ruby and Emma, and once had feelings for Emma when they were much younger. He feels childish at the jealousy that arises, but must remind himself that the two of them are both happily married. He chuckles at the man’s words, joking that he also had feelings for Emma quite a few years ago.

“I knew it was you, pirate,” he hears from behind him, and he cocks his head to the side as he takes another swig from his mug.

When he turns around, he sees a man he doesn’t recognize, but somehow knows all the same. He’s angry with Killian, that much is clear by the heat in his face and the tone of his voice as he spits, “How long were you fornicating with my wife before you finally had the stones to take her away?”

He nods in understanding, practically feeling sorry for the man who is still so clearly hung up on a woman he abused and chased away. “I suppose you must be Baelfire,” he says, putting his mug down on the bar and holding out a hand for a shake. It gets slapped away.

“Yeah, I am. I’m also Emma’s husband, and I’d like to know where she is.” He’s clearly drunk, having had at least three too-many ales. Killian is most certainly not going to be giving this man any information about her.

He smirks. “Who?”

Baelfire scoffs, spitting on Killian's cheek as he does so. “Maybe a few whacks to the head will remind you.”

“She’s dead,” he says, trying to come up with the fastest way to get Baelfire to leave. “Died a long time ago.”

“Dead?”

“Aye, dead. Now what do you want?”

He’s starting to get irritated, as having to repeatedly call his wife dead is less than ideal.

“So you stole my wife, and then you killed her?” He pulls out a stool beside Killian and takes a seat, staring in what he assumes is an attempt to be leering, although it seems as though his eyes may be going in two different directions.

“I didn’t kill her, mate, and I certainly didn’t steal her.”

“Well, I think you did.”

“Tell me something, then,” he says, clearing his throat and turning as the anger at this man begins to fester. “If a woman comes to you and begs you to take her away... is that theft?”

Baelfire lunges for Killian but he’s able to stand and dodge him quite easily, sending him falling onto the stool that Killian had abandoned. “Bastard pirate, you don’t deserve to live.”

He laughs. “I’ve heard it all before, mate. Why don’t you get back to whatever gutter you crawled out of and leave me in peace.”

“No,” he says as he stands. He’s shorter than Killian by several inches and decidedly not threatening. “I want a duel.”

Killian scoffs. “A duel? Why?”

“For my honor. You stole my whore of a wife and then murdered her in cold blood, I must assume, so I want to duel for my honor.”

The look Killian shoots at him is one of confused disgust at Baelfire’s obvious oblivion. He wonders how someone can be so foolish as to assume that his wife being murdered is any reflection on his honor. He wonders how he can let the man go after saying such things about his wife. “If it’s a duel you want, then a duel you shall have. Though I must inform you that I'm a master swordsman and will more than likely win.”

“A fight to the death, then.”

Killian laughs now, throwing his head back. “Very well, gutter rat, have it your way. We fight to the death at dawn.”

~~~~

When he arrives back to the ship, a bit drunker than he should be, Emma's laying in bed with a candle lit beside her, wide awake despite the late hour. “My darling wife, what are you still doing up?”

She smiles as she sits up just slightly turning to him and intaking a deep breath. “I’m seasick,” she tells him.

He cocks his head and moves to sit beside her. “You’re never seasick. Is it nerves?”

“Hmm, must be,” she agrees, laying back down when his hand finds her scalp.

“Well, worry not. You needn’t worry about Baelfire again after tomorrow, and then we can stay here as long as you like.”

She sits up abruptly, glaring at him in concern as she hisses, “what?”

“Aye,” he smiles and caresses her cheek, “Baelfire found me at the tavern and has requested a duel. One that I shall surely win.”

“Killian, no. Don’t go.”

He shakes his head. “What do you mean, my love? I must go and eradicate any threats against you. I know a part of you wants to stay here, and once I win, we can do just that.”

“I’m serious, don’t go! He isn’t worth it!”

“Darling, don’t worry. He’s nothing but a drunken fool, and once we’re rid of him you won’t have to fear ever running into him again.”

He thinks she may have tears in her eyes as they shine in the flicker flame of the candle. “I don’t want you to do this, Killian,” she says seriously. “You’ve left the pirate’s life. There’s no need to fall back into dueling.”

“Alright, I hear you,” he says, stroking her hair soothingly. He feels her relaxing against his touch instantly.

As much as he wants to promise her that he won’t go, that he won’t leave at dawn to duel this man who has caused her such anguish, he simply can’t.

~~~~

The air has a thickness to it that makes Killian uneasy. He hasn’t been in Misthaven in quite some time, but he doesn’t think he remembers feeling such sticky humidity when he was here last.

He knows he’s being foolish. Emma told him not to come, begged him not to, but there was something in the way that Baelfire spoke of her last night that set him off. He thought it may have been the ale he was drinking that made him so excessively angry, but hearing this man who vowed to love her call her a white and talk of her death so callously had him seeing red.

“I see you decided to honor our agreement, then, pirate. I must say I’m surprised.”

He rolls his eyes at the man’s cloying voice. “I am a man of honor, Baelfire, unlike you. Of course you’re surprised.”

He scoffs, drawing his sword from the scabbard and pointing it towards him. “How do you come to the conclusion that I’m not a man of honor?”

Killian draws his sword as well. “No honorable man would strike his wife.”

He guffaws, tossing his head back, and says, “you can’t say that until you marry a slag, mate.”

Killian snaps, lunging forward and clashing his sword against Baelfire’s. He fights back rather well, meeting each swing with a defensive block, but he’s no match for Killian’s decades of training. They spend a few moments gamboling around each other as they swing their blades. He’s making it too simple, his slow swipes easy to avoid and his weak blocks easy to break through. Killian becomes hard-headed when he thinks Baelfire may be tiring, letting his guard down and deciding to have a bit of fun with him, until the demon lunges at him with such violent enthusiasm that he falls to his knees.

Killian had made a foolish mistake, thinking that Baelfire was a poorer swordsman than he. He is, of course, but Killian shouldn't have let his guard down, as he’s now allowed Baelfire to place his blade at his throat and kick his sword out of his grasp. “Do you know what it’s like to have your wife stolen from you? It’s like getting a sword through your heart,” he spits out, trailing the steel from his neck to his chest and drawing just a bit of blood along the way.

“She wasn’t stolen from you, mate,” Killian breathes out, and he isn’t sure why he’s still acting so foolish as to instigate the man holding a sword to his heart.

“Let me show you how that feels, pirate—” he says, drawing back just slightly as he rears himself to plunge his sword through Killian’s chest.

He isn’t sure how the hell he got himself into this position. One minute he was confidently parrying with this fool, beating him easily, and the next, his cockiness has gotten the better of him and sees him on his knees about to be run through. He tries to think quickly, about to duck out of his way and roll towards his own sword, when he hears her.

“Stop!” she shouts, and his heart hurts more now than it did when he thought he was going to be stabbed. She stands before the both of them looking fierce and scared all at once, her fists clenched tightly at her side and her eyes the size of saucers.

“Emma,” Baelfire says, dropping his sword and turning to her with a sinister smile. “Well, this is a turn of events.”

“Bae, don't hurt him.”

“Emma, get out of here.”

“No!” she shouts at Killian. “You fool, I told you not to come!”

“Enough!” Baelfire asserts, pointing the sword back at Killian. “This is a story I wasn’t expecting. My wife has fallen in love with the pirate, is that it?”

“Bae, please just leave us be. Let him go now and you won't see us again.”

He laughs condescendingly, dropping his sword once more, then gesturing for Killian to stand. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you Ems? You want me to leave you be so you can whore around with your pirate?”

The anger is back, flowing through Killian’s veins the same as blood. He gets to his feet and clamours towards Emma, facing her with his hands on her cheeks so that he can ensure that she’s alright despite the tears that are falling from her eyes.

“Bae,” she continues, choking the word out as she looks down from his eyes. “If you won't let us go willingly, perhaps an exchange will do.”

He laughs and Killian draws his brows together in confusion at her words. “I’d love to hear what you have in mind, strumpet.”

He turns towards Baelfire again but Emma grabs his upper arm, grounding him. She holds out her other hand and lets something fall from it: a ring dangling from a silver chain. “You can have this back.”

“Well,” he laughs. “Come then, hand it over.”

She steps to the left, releasing Killian’s arm, and takes one stride towards Baelfire before it all goes wrong. She’s holding the chain in her left hand, and moves to pass it to him, but rather than accept it, he raises his heavy sword towards her and swings it downwards.

He doesn't think, throwing himself in front of her and her to the ground out of harm’s way. He feels the sharp burn in his left arm immediately, but isn’t able to focus on that very well over the sound of Emma's screams. He’s on the ground, and she falls to his side, touching his face and weeping so forcefully that her tears fall onto his own face. She’s completely hysterical, but in his dazed mind he isn't sure why. He hears laughter above him and sees her face shift from fear and sadness to all-consuming fury as she reaches to Killian’s side and he hears the shrill swipe of iron against the cobblestone ground.

He turns just slightly as she pushes herself up, hoping to stop her from injuring herself, but when he finally sees her through his blurred vision, he’s met with the sight of her sword plunging deep into Baelfire’s middle, as if he was moving towards her and she stopped him with the blade.

She’s back at his side in an instant, breathing more heavily than he’s ever seen her, then she’s screaming for help and running her warm, wet hands along his face and his arm, and he wishes he could tell her that he’s alright and that she shouldn’t worry, but the icy heat that’s radiating from his hand is becoming too much, and his vision blurs into blackness.

~~~~

He sleeps through cloudy delirium for what feels like eons. He hears faint whispers beside him from time to time, whenever he wakes, but the scorching pain of his arm makes it impossible to stay conscious, and he screams in agony until he feels sweet sleep taking him again.

He isn’t sure how much time goes by before he finally starts to hear the things that people say around him. They toss out words like infection and loss and stump, but he isn’t quite sure what those things have to do with one another. He hears Emma weeping beside him more than anything else, constantly whispering into his ears although he hardly comprehends her words.

Too much time has passed, and he thinks he must be dying. That must be why he’s still in such great pain and numbness and why Emma remains at his bedside in tears, always whispering her thoughts into his ears and resting her head on his chest. She’s a strong lass, and would be fine without him, he’s sure, so her ongoing emotional outpouring tells him that something awful must be happening.

More time passes before he’s able to comprehend what she says to him in the night when she must be unable to sleep. He’s discovered that he’s been in their bed, probably all this time, and she keeps a candle lit despite the darkness of the sky outside the window. He only keeps his eyes open long enough to take in the shadows of the room they share and the gold of her hair before they fall closed again. She must notice the change in his breathing as he wakes slightly, lifting her head from his chest and pressing a lingering kiss to his lips, though he can hardly respond. She moves her mouth to his ear and whispers, “come back to me, my love. We need you here now. I can’t do this without you. Please come back to me.”

He’s sure she can do anything without him; she’s the strongest person he knows. She could become the captain himself and sail the crew across realms if she truly wanted to.

His attempt to lift his hand and place it on her head in comfort fails, as he finds he’s still unable to move much, so he rolls his head towards her just slightly to tell her that he hears her now. He feels her whimper and cry in response, hugging him tightly and kissing his cheeks as she repeats, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” like a mantra.

He uses it as a mantra himself as he falls back to sleep. He loves her.

~~~~

“Are we sure he’s even still alive under there?” he hears someone say, and he screws his brows together. Of course he’s alive.

“Of course he’s alive!” Emma says, and he smiles just slightly at the fierceness in her voice.

He tries to say something, anything, to give the fools an indication that she’s right, but all that comes out is a pathetic grunt.

She gasps so loudly that he jumps. “Killian!” she shouts, and he feels the mattress shifting under her weight as she bounds towards him. “Are you there? Killian, can you hear me?”

When he opens his eyes, he’s met with the perfect view: her cleavage is directly in his line of vision as she fusses with his hair and face. He smirks, breathing out a soft laugh, reflecting internally on how long it must have been since he’s been met by such a sight. He hums out in satisfaction, causing her to draw back and glance down at her own chest. “You brute,” she says with tears in her eyes when she realizes to what he’s reacting, then reaches for a cup of water.

“Hi,” he chokes out, finding his voice barely working despite his throat being less dry now. The door closes beside him as the men must've left them alone.

She’s on him in an instant, kissing along his face relentlessly and getting tears on his skin. He laughs, finally able to lift his arms to try and hold her, but when he reaches both hands to her cheeks, only one makes it.

Her face falls in response to his confusion, more tears falling as she sits up to straddle his hips and takes his left arm. When she raises it between the two of them and presses a kiss to the bandaged stump, his face must show how confused he remains.

‘Baelfire,” she tries, holding back a sob. “He, he swung at me and you…” she can’t seem to finish her thought. “You’re such a fool,” she laughs and cries and shakes her head.

“He… my hand?” He glances back down at the blunted arm but can't quite understand.

“We couldn’t save it; it became very severely infected. I’m so sorry, Killian.”

He chances another look, hoping it would be restored magically somehow and becoming disappointed when it doesn’t. “It’s gone?” he asks, as if the visual confirmation wasn’t enough

How is he to care for his wife with only one hand? How will he protect her, provide for her? “Yes,” she whispers.

“But… how…” It’s as if he can’t get it straight in his mind. What sort of husband could he possibly be to her?

“He swung,” she repeats, but he cuts her off before she has to recount the story again.

“No. How will I… with just…”

“Killian, no,” she says, taking his face in her hands once more. “You're capable of anything you attempt. This isn’t going to hold you back.”

He feels himself slipping, his anger and resentment consuming him all at once as his thoughts spiral into ones of hatred for Baelfire and of the inevitability of his own failure. She’ll leave him, surely, as she deserves to be with a man who can provide for her and meet her needs. His face is falling along with his mood, and he drops his hand, no, his stump, down onto his lap and lets his head fall back against his pillow.

“Stop,” she says firmly. “Stop right now. I know exactly what you're thinking and you’d best stop it now, or so help me, Killian Jones, I’ll, I’ll,” she trails off, finishing, “I’ll skewer you like I did Bae.”

That catches his attention. He looks up at her in awe and confusion and says, “you did what?”

“Ran him right through. The bastard tried to attack my husband? I think not.”

He feels the corners of his face twitching upward at the visual she’s given him. He likely shouldn't be proud of his wife for murdering someone in cold blood, but that’s exactly what he is. “You ran him through?”

She nods, giving him a shy smile, and gets off of his hips to sit beside him. “He swung at me and you jumped in line of his blade. He maimed your hand badly and there was blood everywhere when you fell to the ground, and I was just so upset. I couldn't even think. I grabbed your sword as he was coming back around to finish the job and I just…” she uses both arms to demonstrate the motions she must've made to stab through her ex-husband. Killian glows with pride.

“So you used those skills I taught you, then?”

She laughs lightly, lying down next to him and hitching her knee up over his hips. “I’m not sure you're the one who taught me how to stab, I think it was more of a gut reaction to my husband being attacked.”

“Likely true, but I don't mind a bit of credit.”

She laughs through some more sniffles, hugging him closely to herself before saying, “oh, I’ve missed you so. I thought for sure I would lose you and the…”

She freezes, her arms clinging to him and her body stiffening. “The what?” Inhaling deeply, Emma nuzzles her nose against his neck and presses a soft kiss there before sniffling once more, as if she’s started to cry again. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s something else you must know.”

He yawns inadvertently; apparently the few moments he’s spent awake have exhausted him. “What’s that, my love?”

She clears her throat, not moving otherwise, and says, “I’m pregnant.”

He thought he was losing his mind before, but with this admission, he’s truly dumbfounded. “You’re… what?”

“Pregnant, Killian. With a baby.”

“With a baby,” he repeats, tasting the words on his lips before letting them curl into a smile. “My baby?”

She snorts, sitting up to look at him. “I should hope so.”

“Our baby.”

She smiles at him sweetly, then it’s as if something has shifted for her internally and she stares him down seriously. “You went off to duel with someone, you dullard, and I want you to know how angry that makes me, because it’s not just about you and me anymore. Got it?”

He realizes now that there was a deeper reason for her being so firmly against his plans to fight Baelfire, and this was it. The babe in her belly, growing happily in the home she’s creating for it. And he nearly put that in jeopardy. “I’m sorry,” he says, and she shakes her head.

“It’s alright, everything is fine now. You’re okay, baby’s okay… we’re all fine.”

He’s fighting sleep now, but staves it off a bit more to ask, “in your stress, you thought… you thought you may lose him?”

“Or her,” she corrects softly. “But it’s been nearly three weeks since then and so far… everything seems normal.”

Bloody hell, the thought of him being nearly unconscious for three weeks straight is mind boggling. He can’t believe he left her alone for that long. “Are you alright?”

She tips her head to one side in question and then nods. “Of course I am, now that you’re awake.”

“With the babe, I mean. I know you were hesitant…”

She smiles sweetly, brushing her fingers through his hair as she answers. “Once I found out, that feeling went away. I suppose it’s different, having a child with a man I love.”

He smiles back up at her and kisses the inside of her wrist. With the caressing of her fingers along his scalp, he’s trying hard not to let his eyes drift shut. “How am I to care for a babe with one hand?”

She hums, leaning back down so that she’s on her back beside him, and takes his remaining hand in hers to place it upon her belly so he can feel the slight swell. “Perhaps we can fashion you a new apparatus. Maybe a nice frightening hook so you can keep up your fearsome pirate persona.”

He laughs as he drifts away, rubbing his fingertips gently over her stomach, over their baby, and says, “you’re funny,” as he falls asleep.

~~~~

He does get a hook, but only for operating the ship— he finds it easier to tie knots and manage the wheel. He recovers quite well from his three week flirtation at death’s door, once he’s able to keep solid food down and stand on his own. Emma’s helpful in his adapting to life without a left hand, but she never once coddles him and always assures him that he can still do anything he did before.

He’s nervous for when the baby comes, assuming it’ll be difficult to properly care for them on his own with only one working hand, but Emma comforts him by reminding him that she’ll always be there for him, and if she isn’t, there are 12 crewmen who can lend a hand. He doesn't find her pun very funny, but he’s willing to let it slide, for her.