#I know that this metaphor isn’t perfect and has a lot of loose ends

[hellmouth-manor]

last nerves | alou | f.2

Alou twitches when the first string is snapped. Without even thinking about it, his wing lifts into the air to brush against the loose strands. He catches the drifting one around one claw to then wind it back to its broken end.

Minami's blunt use of metaphor makes him smile, despite himself. He wonders if, despite everything, she's still trying to get through to him some way.

More strings are snapped and he lets go of the first, ignoring the rest. There's plenty more where those came from. His voice falls soft, like it used to sound.

"Of course I want to be friends. You've taught me a lot, Minami."

She cared for people, and took care of people, and there wasn't anything he could find that he didn't admire in her.

"... If I could make that happen-- torture just you for all eternity so everyone else could be happy... would you accept that?"

He laughs, and it's a breathy soundless thing that barely comes through the mask.

"Not an important question. I'm just curious."

He waves a dismissive hand in the air.

"I wanted..."

Alou hesitates. He could spin poetic all day about what he wants. He wants to change things-- really change them. He wants the assurance that the world has purpose. He wants an end to senseless violence, he wants a reason for the suffering, he wants everyone else to see and understand what he sees and understands. He wants to paint a portrait of joy with the blood of death.

Minami makes a big ask. Condensing it all down to something straightforward feels like teasing natural wool out of felt.

"Ah, well, does it matter what I wanted? I was made to run the game."

He dodges. Even now he can't be straight with her.

It's almost a pleasant distraction when Miori speaks up. It's his guilty pleasure that he loved toying with her-- each ragged edge of trauma was like a multitude of puppet's strings.

"I chose you. And I still don't regret it."

His voice is warm with the pride, as if he could take every accomplishment they made and make it his own.

"Do you know why there's a game?"

His wings shift and clench, and suddenly the loose threads tighten and pull and contort into a spiderweb of distorted squares. Many of the sounds resolve briefly into images of the world above.

"There was a time when demons were content to live on earth. They're not so different from humans, you know? Well, of course you know now, being partially one yourself. They have the same beautiful flaws, the same tragic stories, the same vices... but they have more power. A tale with a demon versus a human would never be fair-- just ask Faust. You're lucky your father and mother never consorted directly with demons. Wouldn't that be a fun little AU."

"No, the Great Game exists for the benefit of all. For those in hell who crave to consume a connection to the living, and for the living who need a safe distance from their self-made demons. The game is all that stands between our lives as we know them, and hell on earth. Why else do you think we sit on the Hellmouth? It is the symbol of our noble cause, our contract made with ourselves."

His grand words seem to flow into some sort of monotone towards the end, as he finds himself quoting a certain text rather than speaking from his own heart and mind. The brief silent lull is disturbed by Olwin, and Alou picks his head up as if snapping out of some sort of daydreaming.

Alou weighs in his mind how much satisfaction he would get out of cutting Olwin's tongue from his mouth. Olwin's words stick like pins, sinking deep into joints with a near paralyzing accuracy.

But of course, that would be conceding defeat. And Alou has always been a creature of pride. Instead, he twists his own emotions, weaves the narrative that best suits his world view.

Isn't this what you wanted? This is what you deserve. These are the individuals who you wanted to decorate your eternity with-- the people who were flawed and perfect in every possible way. Who would remind you of every facet of humanity, including your own, good and bad.

Olwin's words are like a scalpel, and the filth that spills forth from the cut cyst is hot and painful and--

--it's a relief, to be honest.

There's a reason that Hell exists. There's a reason that Alou is a demon. There's a purpose, a reason, a point, to why he's never been able to feel l--

"You know... it just occurs to me... that that is the beautiful thing about strings. They can control whatever actions they like, but they can't change the heart."

One wing gestures, yanking the strings it holds. The spiraling squares of images flick out of existence, and the front two legs of Olwin's chair snap back to the floor.

"So the reason you're the way you are isn't my fault."

[transthaumaturge]

What is it like to come out to yourself as trans and begin to love yourself for your autism when you’re already an adult? For me, it’s like all my life before I came out I was a fake person and now I finally get to be real.

Imagine that you’re born on a stage. All your life, you move from stage to stage as you grow up and mature. The audience has always been there, you’re told, sitting unseen just outside the stage lights, so you’ve never questioned the fact that you’re being watched and have to perform in a certain way. As a kid, you’re allowed to play around but given sharp words by the older actors when you do something that the audience doesn’t like. Over time, throughout your childhood, you’re taught how best to act in order to entertain. You make masks for yourself to help put on better performances, learn to wear the right costumes.

And just like that, you progress through the various stages of your life. You gradually get better at improvising your character in a way that will be the most acceptable, and sometimes you rely on scripts so that you say the right things. And you’re good at it. Like, really good. Your character is all you’ve ever been, so you can’t think of a life where you aren’t playing them. But that makes sense—if you weren’t playing your character, who would you be? You figure that you and your character must be the same.

As you get older, you start to notice things. You see that the stairs off of the stage have footprints on them, evidence of them being used before even though in your upbringing, nobody ever told you about “off-stage”. It just simply wasn’t acknowledged. You notice fellow actors and stagehands who feel like friends, though you don’t know why, and you sometimes wish you could have been assigned a different part or even leave the stage altogether. You don’t know how that would work, though. You’ve always played your part, what else is there?

And eventually, you begin to realize that some stages are different. You learn to find the ones where your fellow actors don’t care as much about acting in a way that’s acceptable to the audience, and some where a big box of props and costumes is just set in center stage for anybody to try pieces on from and see what it would be like if you wore something, acted in a way that wasn’t approved of by the audience or older cast members. In some stages, there are cast members that walk onto and off of the stage like it’s nothing and you don’t fully understand why yet but you envy them. One day, you learn that you don’t need to make eye contact with other actors and sometimes you don’t even need to wear your mask. Another day, you put on an outfit that makes your heart race because this isn’t what you were taught to wear growing up, and it doesn’t work for your character, but it’s right. For the first time in your life, you’re starting to feel a little closer to whole in a way that playing your character never made you feel.

And one day, you connect all of the dots and realize that you and your character aren’t the same person. And maybe over days, weeks, months, or years, maybe all at once, you step. off. the stage.

And the first thing you learn is that there’s no audience, that the ways you were taught to act were arbitrary and the only people you go against and displease when you transgress your role are your former cast-mates. Sure, the memories you have of your life from back when you played your part are genuine. And sure, aspects of who you truly are as a person made their way into your performance. It wasn’t all fake. But for the first time, you know what it feels like to be completely real.

Sometimes it’s scary, and you’re maybe not provided for in the way that the prop department used to give you what your character needed. Some people like you will get back onstage when their old cast members are around. Some interact with that family from offstage and are supported, while others leave the theater altogether to live life elsewhere. You notice that many of your old cast members still on the stage have no problem with being the same person as their character, and you don’t understand that but you accept that there are many different ways to be. Over time, you learn how to live as yourself, and not the character you used to think you were inextricably connected to. You realize that for the first time in your life, you don’t need to act anymore. You can just Be.

You still have memories from the time you lived on stage, and some parts of who you were back then are still you. You sometimes feel anxious when you aren’t acting in a way that the people still on stage will see as acceptable and have to unlearn those old habits. But you realize that all your life until you stepped off of the stage, you were a fake person who didn’t know what it was like to be real. You can finally see that for yourself now, and you wouldn’t give your realness away for anything.

I came out to myself as a trans woman when I was 23, and while I knew I was autistic by middle school, I didn’t know that I could be proud of it until college. My transness, the woman I am today, that feels real in a way that nothing else did before. Until I came out to myself, I was just playing a part. Now I’m also learning to unmask more and more, to live in ways that let me be my full autistic self, and I feel realer and more actualized by the day. It’s still hard to put into words, and family members don’t really understand what I mean when I tell them that I feel like I didn’t really start existing until recently. My brother got offended when I told him I felt like the sibling he grew up with wasn’t the same person as me, as dissociated from those memories as I am, and I wish I had phrased it more delicately. I forgot how much of a method actor he is. But I know what I mean, and I hope that many of you reading this have found that joy and euphoria of self-determination too.

[tired-beholding-bitch]

with a love so sweet (in your heart, in your heart)

well

what was I to do, not write a fluffy Valentine's Day fic?

yeahh not a chance. how I love writing obnoxiously in love people. and i especially love writing obnoxiously in love idiots

if you couldn’t tell, yes, I have been thinking nonstop about the Soup Sickfic universe since two days ago and I could not live without this -- it just makes me so happy to write them being happy and also dumb and also having big fat crushes on each other ✨

hope this will make you just as happy reading it as it did for me while i was writing it :)

happy valentine's day! 💕❤

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

«Does- does the ice cream taste haunted, to you?»

Martin, for the second time this month, isn't completely certain about how he found himself in his current predicament, exactly.

The predicament being, at the moment, the fact he's sitting down on a park bench, eating ice cream with his boss who maybe-kind-of doesn't hate him, actually. On Valentine's Day. And freezing his butt off in the process, because parks are not places to be in February. And also panicking, a little bit, because he might be almost, somewhat, a bit in love with said boss.

Also, that isn't completely accurate, now that he thinks about it.

And he will think about it, because it's still a better option than staring at Jon as he oh so carefully eats his ice cream.

(It's one scoop of rum and raisin, an old lady ice cream order, and he's eating it with a little plastic spoon despite asking for a cone, painstakingly slowly, savouring each tiny spoonful with great concentration. Which is also very old lady-like.

Martin shouldn't find that as endearing as he does, he's pretty sure.

However. It isn’t his fault it’s adorable. He sort of feels like he's about to collapse, with the amount of blood too busy rushing to his face to attend to any of the other very important functions it should attend to.

It doesn't help that his hair is tied back in a hastily fastened bun, messy and practical, that somehow still manages to look effortlessly artsy on Jon.

There are a couple of loose strands framing the angles of his face in a way that makes Martin's heart stutter in his chest, vague metaphors crowding his mind in flashes – something about loving hands carving wood in the shape of him, and about the sun kissing his eyes golden, and just. It's a lot.

He will not think about that. He cannot.)

In fact, unfortunately, he knows how he ended up in this situation.

It was Tim. Of course it was Tim.

Tim, who has been incredibly obnoxious about prodding and teasing and needling him into asking Jon on a date ever since the Great Soup Incident, as it's been referred to since they all went out for drinks once his flu had completely relented.

That was three weeks ago.

Martin has not known any peace since.

Tim had initially pitched his theory on that first evening back, over their third pint of beer – the two previous rounds, in Martin's humble opinion, being the only reason he could ever come up with such an idea at all.

«I think Jon likes you, Marto.» he had said, casual as anything, an arm around his shoulders ready to slap his back when inevitably the words registered and he almost choked to death on his drink.

Sasha had raised an eyebrow, looking at them from across the table. She didn’t comment, even though it was obviously a sign of alcohol poisoning starting to set in and they should have gotten Tim to an hospital as soon as possible, probably. Far from letting it drop, her silence only served as further encouragement for Tim to elaborate.

«No, no – hear me out, alright? What I think – and not only I'm amazing, in general, I also know the both of you very well –, yes, so what I think is that Jon is panicking. Why, you ask? Well, naturally because he has a big old crush on you, Martin, my friend! And he has no idea how to deal with that because he's also been an ass to you!» Tim had explained, cheerful, like his reasoning made perfect sense and not at all like he was about to blackout from a concussion, which would have been the more logical conclusion.

He had turned to Sasha in despair, silently begging her to agree with him – she's so level-headed, surely she was going to see that there was no rhyme or reason to any of that, no universe in which Jonathan Sims had a crush on him. On him. It's simply unthinkable. Preposterous.

Sasha had looked him straight in the eye. Then she had smiled, light and dangerous.

«Actually, I agree with Tim. It really sounds like a Jon thing to do.» she had said. The traitor. That’s when he first realised his friends are cruel, awful people, mocking him so.

And it hadn't stopped there, either.

It's been three very long weeks of constant nudges and winking and a lot of elbows planting in Martin's side every time Jon was in the same room as all of them, supposedly doing something prove Tim's convictions.

Except it never stopped.

It was all the time, while Jon was in his general vicinity. Even in the remote, extremely unlikely scenario in which it could have been useful data to prove his point, Martin doubts it could have been an accurate analysis of Jon's behaviour anyways.

Because the thing is, he couldn’t exactly deny that something different had happened.

That something had changed, after that Thursday evening in Martin's flat.

Jon is… trying.

He apologised properly, for one.

He's less harsh on his mistakes, which makes it easier for him to relax and make less mistakes, which in turn makes Jon smile at him, now, apparently?

Jon smiling at him is a thing that happens, now.

He'll bring him his first cup of tea of the morning, as he has been doing since he was transferred to the Archives and which never prompted anything more than a mumbled, distracted thank you before. And even that only when Jon noticed him leaving the mug on his desk.

But the Monday following the Great Soup Incident he had looked up from the statement he was busy glaring at when Martin had knocked on his office door, and he had thanked him with the same quiet, delicate tone he had used while he was sitting on his bed and giving him water and medicine. Like this was a perfectly normal thing to do.

And he had smiled at him. It was a small thing – it had scrunched up his nose, a little.

Martin had almost spilled the tea, startled, and then he had stammered something about work to do and nonexistent families to contact and had rushed out of the room before Jon could register the glowing red blush on his cheeks, or the fact his eyes had very much lingered on his lips. On the way the unfamiliar expression barely pulled the corners up, softening his features, as he wondered how it would feel to kiss that smile wider. To hear him laugh, maybe.

(He's pretty sure the day he hears Jon laugh is the day he dies.

Martin just knows – it simply isn't something he'll be able to survive, not with the way his breath catches on the faint lines that appear around his eyes when he's happy, something aching and sweet tightening like a fist around his heart every time he manages to smooth out the semi-permanent frown on his forehead.)

And, yes, maybe it is a bit weird that Jon also takes his lunch break with him.

Honestly, it's really weird he stops for lunch at all – Martin has been concerned about him not eating for months, and they have all been taking turns to try and needle him into taking a break with varying degrees of success – but it's especially so that whenever he does decide to have lunch, it's because Martin asks.

That... never seemed to be the case, before.

But he can't really complain, and it eases some of the ever-present worry about Jon working himself too hard that he has to wrestle with on a daily basis.

What’s more, he gets to sit across from him at a cafe table and longingly gaze at him as he gestures wildly with his sandwich while he goes on some tangent or other about deep sea gigantism or the questionable accuracy of historical records or another surprisingly fascinating topic Martin knows nothing about. He would listen to a two-hour lecture on the merits of white rice over balsamic vinegar with no regrets, if it meant he got to witness Jon's hair bouncing happily as he got more and more animated, hands dancing in front of him, cheeks going red because he forgets to stop talking to take a breath more often than not.

Along with other evidence – as Tim keeps calling the strange little instances of Jon doing distinctly un-Jon-like things – and the fact that his co-workers are bastards, Martin really had every reason to not be surprised at all when he walked into the Archives, that morning, and was greeted by an incredibly tense standoff between Jon and Tim himself. At his desk, for some reason.

However, Martin is also an idiot, and he was surprised.

Even more so when this was somehow followed – in a turn of events that left him kind of dizzy, holding on for dear life to a world that had mostly made sense five minutes before – by Jon stammering out an unbelievably awkward you– since Tim refuses, w-we are set to investigate a supposedly cursed ice cream parlour later, Martin. Don’t leave for lunch before one, please before promptly disappearing inside his office with not but a glance back, leaving Martin to gape at the closed door like a very confused fish.

So, yeah. This – this being the fact that he just had to utter the words does this ice cream taste haunted to you and also probably the cold he will end up nursing after sitting on a park bench in February – is all Tim’s fault.

He set them up. Like. Like they’re in a corny Christmas romcom, except it’s not Christmas and also this is real life and also Jon is his boss and there isn’t one single chance in the world he would not think Martin’s embarrassing crush on him is anything other than that. Embarrassing. Tim is delusional. And also an awful friend trying to make him embarrass himself, like he doesn’t manage well enough on a daily basis.

Except.

Jon doesn’t, in fact, turn around to glare holes into him, or try to drown Martin in his single scoop of rum and raisin, or even simply get up to walk away like he figured would happen in the best case scenario.

No.

Jon does the one thing he could have never even begun to imagine would happen.

He snorts.

It’s such a small sound Martin would think he hallucinated it, if not for the fact his own body wouldn’t betray him like this, making him think up something that sends his brain into a frantically blinking blue screen error, not able to process literally any thought besides.

Jon. Laughing – and not about anything, but laughing at Martin’s awkward attempt at lightening up the somehow tense atmosphere that had settled upon them, desperately trying to ease Jon into the comfortable, playful banter he had gotten used to hearing from him during their lunch breaks at the cafe.

A part of him is really smug about it.

He was right. He died. He must have done something right in his life and also his mother’s pastor was wrong, clearly, because he died and this must be Heaven.

Jon’s laugh is, possibly, the most adorable thing about him to date.

(That’s saying something, considering Martin spends a considerable amount of time cataloguing every cute thing about Jon in a growing list in his head.

The fact every new thing he discovers usually bumps up to first place immediately, displacing the previous one, is irrelevant. So is the fact first and second place are also irrelevant per se, because it’s simply impossible to classify them objectively anyway.)

He’s really proud of himself, actually.

Not only he made Jon laugh, he also did not immediately melt in an adoring puddle on the ground next to him. He’s just blushing. A lot. If he tries very hard he can probably pass it off as rightful awkwardness at asking an incredibly stupid question.

That is, until Jon – for some unfathomable reason, that Martin cannot begin to guess and that sends his poor overworked brain into yet another shortcircuit – casually puts a hand on his arm, steadying himself as his laughter dies out slowly.

It’s just – too much. The way his fingers tighten a bit, enough that he can feel the pressure even through his coat. How Jon looks up at him, a smile still playing on his lips, and there’s the tiniest smudge of ice cream right at the corner of his mouth.

No one can blame him for losing control of his mouth.

«Jon. Is– is this… a date?» he asks, and then immediately slaps a hand over his face in despair, wishing there was a way to physically grab the words and put them back.

There isn’t.

He keeps his hand on his face because he cannot possibly face him after this – not as he immediately starts trying to come up with a good enough apology for all that. There aren’t enough apologies in the world, probably.

Hey, sorry, it’s just I’ve been pining after you for a year and you suddenly decided I was someone worth smiling at and it’s becoming really difficult to, y’know, not fall in love with you even more. Terribly sorry about all that.

Yeah, no.

Before he can do the sensible thing – which, he suspects, would be learn very quickly how to vanish into thin air – Jon starts talking instead. He… also doesn’t let go of Martin’s arm, even though currently he’s using that hand to cover his eyes, which means his knuckles are brushing against his cheek.

Martin is going to have a heart attack.

«No. No, this- this is a case follow-up. F-for an incredibly idiotic case.» Jon says, and there’s a hint of humour in his voice, irony masking something deeper. Martin can’t quite detect what it is – nervousness, maybe? But why would he–

«B-but. We could, if you- if you were amenable and you, of course only if you wanted it to be a- a date, we could. Go. On one. A date? T-together?»

Oh.

It’s enough to convince him to glance cautiously in Jon’s direction, peeking through his fingers. Jon is looking at him very expectantly, and in the sun it’s easy to see he’s blushing, too, a little.

He’s smiling.

It’s a new one, all subdued, sweet as honey. It’s also the fondest expression Martin has seen on his face yet, softening the sharp angles of him into something novel, warmer than the crisp February air could ever be. He wants to cradle that expression in his hands and memorise every detail of it.

It’s comforting, in some way, to find out Jon is also an idiot.

«Jon. Jon. If I’m amenable? I’ve– I’ve been sighing after you for almost a- a year. Yes. God, yes, I’m amenable.» he says, and it’s exasperated and yet he can’t even pretend to hide the quivering happiness in his tone, the grin splitting his face that he can’t seem to get rid of.

He doesn’t think he imagines Jon’s blush growing deeper, either, or the mumbled how would I know, it wasn’t that obvious that he muffles into his shoulder.

He isn’t even mad Tim was right.

(The ice cream tastes much better after that.

Probably because he has to hold it with one hand, the fingers of his right intertwined with Jon’s as they make their way back to the Institute.

And yes, they forget to let go of each other before entering the Archives. Because they’re both idiots and they were too busy sneaking extremely-not-subtle looks at each other to realise their mistakes, apparently.

«I told you it was going to work, Sash!!! They couldn’t possibly be that dense.»)

[swaps55]

Mnemonic

This is an AU version of a standalone scene from Cantata that I rewrote with kissing. Because there was a lot of UST and I am weak. 

Ao3

14 June 2180, Hades Gamma, Farinata System, SSV Myeongnyang

For a biotic, the armor never really comes off. What they carry under their skin is like a live wire, a current always in need of grounding.

Standing face-to-face with half a dozen L2 biotics holding the chairman of the Parliament Subcommittee for Transhuman Studies hostage on the MSV Ontario makes it a lot easier for Kaidan to see how much he takes for granted having a safe place to do it. And knowing how.

Reparations for the L2 side effects are a pipe dream. But a pipe dream Colin Daggett and his people needed to cling to, whatever the cost. And it had almost cost them everything.

Shepard doesn’t say much as they arrange for the survivors to be transferred to the Madrid’s brig and the engineering crew arrives to secure the Ontario for the trip to Arcturus. He says even less on the way through the airlock back to the ‘Yang, and the rest of the squad take their lead from him.

When they’re back on board the ship he disappears, sucking the air out of the room with him. They kit down without him.

“You’re an L2, aren’t you?” Pendergrass asks as she shoves her arms through the sleeves of her uniform, armor plating in a heap at her feet.  

Beaudoin jabs her with an elbow.

“Yeah,” Kaidan murmurs, fingers tracing the amp port on the back of his neck when he removes the protection plate. He flexes his fingers, gravity well jumping into his touch. As he reaches for his chest plate to store it in his gear locker, an electric shock passes through him.

When 23:00 rolls around, Kaidan shows up in the mess as usual, figuring he’ll keep it simple tonight and just make some pasta. Shepard is there waiting, as usual, picking at a spot on the table while Kaidan pulls out a pot and finds a container of pasta. The entire time the water boils Shepard doesn’t say a word, stubbornly lost in thought.

Kaidan tells himself he’s not going to do more than olive oil and garlic – it’s been too long of a day for effort – but by the time he gets it to the table there’s parmesan cheese, parsley, and even a little red pepper in the mix.

“You going to tell me what’s up, or do I get to guess?” Kaidan asks when he sits down across from him and hands off a fork. He spent too much energy on going above and beyond with the red pepper to bother with a second bowl. They’ll just have to share.

Shepard looks up, almost in surprise. “Just thinking.”

“You’ve been thinking ever since you got Chairman Burns through the airlock. Maybe you should think out loud.”

The gravity well churns as Shepard stirs eddies in it, in tune with the twirl of his fork in the pasta bowl. “Everything that happened on that ship hinged on what Daggett did with his pistol.”

His toying intensifies, until blue energy shimmers around his knuckles. This one’s been chewing at him. A snap of electricity skips between his finger and the fork, and he drops it with an annoyed mutter. He looks up.

“You pulled the gun out of his hands,” he says.

And Shepard had put a bullet between his eyes. The fight had gone out of the rest pretty quickly.

“He wasn’t going to put it down,” Kaidan says. “We all knew it.”

“No. He wasn’t. And if you hadn’t been there, that standoff turns into a clusterfuck where everyone dies.”

A soft smile tugs at Kaidan’s lips. “Guess it’s a good thing I was there.”

Shepard picks up the fork again, staring at it with an unfocused gaze before he stabs it back in the bowl and twirls more pasta.  

“I couldn’t have done what you did. I can’t refine a field like that. I was prepared to shoot everyone in that room. But you pulled the gun right out of his hands.”

Only because Shepard had given him the chance. Whether Shepard had done it with purpose or actually hesitated is a question he hasn’t been in a hurry to examine too closely.

“We work together, remember? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

Shepard huffs. “Yeah. We have.”

“But you’re just gonna get bent out of shape about not being able to do everything yourself, anyway.”

“Have you met me?” Shepard says with a helpless shrug.

“Yeah, I’ve had the pleasure,” Kaidan says with a chuckle. He pushes his chair back. “Come on, then.”

Shepard casts him a suspicious look. “Come where?”

“To the gym.”

“Alenko—”

“Come on.” He nods towards the elevator and starts walking, smirking a little when Shepard’s chair scrapes against the floor and his feet hit the deckplates.

“You’re just dying to give me a taste of my own medicine, aren’t you,” Shepard grouches when they board the lift.

“Oh, definitely.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Apparently not when it comes to taking people’s pistols out of their hands.”

Shepard chuckles, though he tries to choke off a smile by looking down at his feet. When they get to the gym Kaidan digs a canteen out of his locker and sets it down on one of the sparring mats.

“I’m guessing that your training didn’t include a lot of control drills,” he says.

Shepard shakes his head. “Tulak wasn’t big on control. Overwhelming tidal force tends to be the krogan approach.”

“You don’t say.”

“Sarcasm does not become you, Alenko.”

Kaidan grins and points to the canteen. “Start simple. Just lift it off the ground.”  

Shepard rolls his eyes, but taps into the gravity well, corona enveloping him in a shroud of snapping blue tendrils. The hairs on Kaidan’s arms stand on end.

It’s so rare he gets to just watch Shepard work. All unrestrained power, from the loose, angry snarl of his corona to the sweeping mnemonics, make him seem larger than life. When he swipes the canteen off the floor he does it with his entire arm. The canteen leaps into the air, nearly hitting the ceiling before Shepard wrangles it. He only holds it still for half a second before sending it skidding to the other side of the gym.

“Hm,” Kaidan says.

Shepard gives him a withering look before marching off to fetch the wayward canteen. “It’s small. I don’t do well with small.”

“Not sure the size trips you up as much as you think it does,” Kaidan muses. “That mnemonic of yours applies some pretty impressive force automatically, so you’re already playing catch up if you’re trying to control the speed or direction.”

“See, I can’t tell if you’re complimenting me or giving me shit.”

“Both.”

“Har.”

Shepard resets the canteen and comes back to Kaidan to try it again, standing close but not so close their fields intersect. Kaidan watches through three variations that all end almost the same way, too much force being applied to the canteen, making it nearly impossible for Shepard to control where it goes, or where it doesn’t.

Doesn’t matter that he’s not accomplishing what it intends. The way the gravity well cants under his touch, the way his corona lights him ablaze like a flickering star, the way it caresses every nerve in Kaidan’s body like a swash of silk is mesmerizing. Kaidan swallows before trying to speak.  

“Good news is, if we ever need someone to punt a suspicious canteen into space, I know who to call.”

Shepard rolls his eyes. “And if you’re not around to yank pistols out of terrorist hands?”

“Well, first, I will be around. But second, as for the pistol, yanking it towards you isn’t so different from kicking it away from you.” He cracks a grin. “In your case you just need to be prepared to duck.”

“Have I mentioned that separating the pistol from the person holding it wouldn’t end well for anyone?” Shepard says. “If you were to go hold that canteen in your palm and ask me to do what I just did, you wouldn’t like me very much.”

I doubt that.

“One problem at a time,” Kaidan says. “Let’s work on controlling the canteen by itself, then we’ll add clutter.”

“And how do you suggest we do that?”

“You need a new mnemonic. You’re fighting yourself by adding force and trying to take it away at the same time.”

“I’m sensing a metaphor.”

Kaidan smirks. “Think that says more about you than it does me.” Before Shepard can protest he raises an arm. “Watch me. You don’t have to use my mnemonic, but I want you to see something different so you can visualize it.”

Shepard folds his arms across his chest, but does what Kaidan asks. A nervous thrill runs through him at the undivided attention.

Kaidan waves a wrist, a hard-learned, hard-fought mnemonic that now feels as natural as breathing. Dark energy rushes through him, responsive and willing, as his fingers flex and settle a field over the canteen. Very little mass-shifting needed to pick up a light-weight canteen, which makes it tricky to keep from doing exactly what Shepard did – send it spinning out of control. But Kaidan has spent years perfecting his ability to do exactly this, so the canteen rises off the floor until it reaches eye level. Kaidan closes his fist and holds it still, floating almost motionless in mid-air.

“That mnemonic is so damned subtle,” Shepard says with an appreciative shake of his head. A flush builds at the back of Kaidan’s neck.

“Easier for me that way.”

Shepard grunts and unfolds his arms. “I was never good at levitation.”

“Because your mnemonics always apply force.”

“Need force to yank that pistol.”

“Sure, but if you want to control it, you need to learn how to hold it still.”

“I’m not good at still.”

“I know,” Kaidan says, lips curving into a smile. “So come here and let me show you.”  

Shepard strays a step closer into Kaidan’s biotic field. The blend of auras creates a low keen through his nerves, familiar but always striking. The canteen wavers before falling to the ground.

“Sorry,” Shepard mumbles, but doesn’t back away.

“It’s fine,” Kaidan says, lifting the canteen again with another float of his palm.

Their eyes lock for a moment before Shepard clears his throat and looks down at Kaidan’s hand.

“You put everything in your wrist.”

“Yeah,” he manages. “You do it all with your arms.”

“Yeah.”

“So maybe, if you’re looking for finesse, try to create a mnemonic that’s a little, uh, smaller.”    

“With my wrist.”

“Right. Um, I’ll show you. Here.” He steps in front of Shepard, angling his body to align their right arms. He takes Shepard’s right hand guides it to his wrist, tingle running down his spine when his fingers close around it. Shepard glances at him with soft eyes that stop the breath in his throat, but doesn’t object.

“Hands-on teacher?”

“Best way to learn,” Kaidan replies, gaze flicking to Shepard’s mouth before going back to the canteen. “Just follow my lead. Don’t act on the canteen. Concentrate on what my arm does. Visualize it.”

“Sure,” Shepard murmurs.

Kaidan reaches into the gravity well, his own corona unfurling, a steady candle to Shepard’s flaring torch. Goosebumps rise on Shepard’s arm, a subtle reminder that he’s human after all, one Kaidan is almost never close enough to witness.

He takes a deep breath and flexes his wrist, Shepard’s fingers loose and feather-light against his skin. A crackle of dark energy passes between them before he snares the canteen and turns his wrist palm-up to lift it off the floor, Shepard close enough his breath washes over Kaidan’s cheek. The canteen wavers but Kaidan keeps it afloat for several seconds, the mingle of auras, ripple of kinetic energy and closeness of Shepard enough to make him dizzy.

He lets it go with a clatter and puts space between them.

“Does that help?” he asks, trying not to sound breathless.

“Yeah. It does.” Shepard’s gaze stays on him, still and steady. “Might take a while to hard-wire my brain for something in the wrist.”

“Doesn’t have to be that. It could be something else. But you associate those big movements with force. Take that away, you might have more luck with leaving velocity out of the initial execution, so you can add it how you need it. Have more control over it.”

Shepard’s mouth crooks in a half-smile. “Sure I’m not a lost cause when it comes to control?”

“I’m sure.”

Shepard breaks his gaze and focuses on the canteen, brow furrowed in concentration. Twice he catches himself using his arm, then nearly wrenches his wrist trying to restrict the movement.

“It’s so ingrained,” he says with a shake of his head.

“That’s why they work,” Kaidan says with a smile. “Here.” He steps close once again, positions reversed with his hand on Shepard’s wrist this time. “Let me help.”

“Fuck, your hands are cold,” Shepard says with a laugh.

Hastily, he loosens his grip. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Shepard says with a grin.  “Go on.”

Gently, Kaidan closes his fingers again. Shepard trains his eyes on the canteen, though they dart to Kaidan ever so briefly.

Shepard’s corona is so bright, so fierce, it’s a wonder he can wrangle it at all. Kaidan breathes in deep, letting his own kindle, the snick and crackle as they blend together forming a resonant hum that hovers just under his skin.

When Shepard’s arm moves, Kaidan tightens his grip, keeping the motion small. Instead of his usual languid, fluid posture, Shepard’s arm is stiff and resistant against him. The canteen spins in a circle but stays on the ground.  

“Breathe, Shepard,” Kaidan says softly. “Just let it happen.”

Shepard inhales deep, like someone trying to relearn how. This time they move together, Kaidan picking up the slack when Shepard falters, until the canteen hovers briefly in the air. It’s more under Kaidan’s control than Shepard’s, but it’s a start, and that’s what matters.

They gutter out and the canteen falls, but Kaidan doesn’t let go and doesn’t step away, not yet, not quite yet, not while the remnants of kinetic energy are still sharp in the air and he has to remind himself to breathe, too.

“How do you do that?” Shepard murmurs. “You worked around me, without…taking over. How do you do that?”

Their eyes lock for just a moment. God Kaidan could get lost there if he’s not careful. “Practice. Years of it.”

Let go.

He means to. He means to. In his head he loosens his hold on Shepard’s wrist, drops his hand away and puts space between them. That’s what he tells himself to do. That’s what he intends to do.

But while he does loosen his grip, instead of fall away, Kaidan’s fingertips brush Shepard’s knuckles, the pad of his thumb running along the round muscle of his palm.

It’s an accident. Just an accident. So many of their touches are, but rather than move or pull away, rather than let it be just another one of those excusable, explainable slips, Shepard exhales, the breath fluttering out of him, then splays his fingers wider, as if making room for Kaidan’s to slot between them.

Let go, let go.

But instead he explores the open space Shepard has left for him, fingertips light, hesitant, ghosting Shepard’s skin as he finds where they fit, hovering, hoping, but never daring to rest. Never giving up the ruse.

It’s an accident. It doesn’t mean anything.

Except it does.

Shepard stays still as a stone save for the rise and fall of his chest. They’re close enough now their cheeks almost touch, though whether Kaidan moves or Shepard does to close that gap he can’t say.

The next time Kaidan’s fingers trespass through that open space, Shepard closes his around them and traps them there.

Kaidan’s breath hitches.

The gravity well sighs as Shepard calls to it, glow of dark energy limming their hands, accompanied by a soundless hum that strums every nerve in Kaidan’s body before settling in his groin. Without thinking his other hand comes to rest on Shepard’s hip, needing something, anything, to hold onto.

A soft sound stirs in Shepard’s throat. Kaidan’s hand doesn’t stay on that hip for long, because Shepard seeks those fingers out, too, lacing them together. Kaidan folds both arms until Shepard is surrounded by them. There’s no imagining any space between them now – their cheeks rest against each other, Kaidan tightening his hold until Shepard is snug against his chest.

Shepard turns his head, but after briefly meeting each other’s gaze, his eyes drift down to Kaidan’s mouth.

Kaidan can still let go. There’s still a way out. Chalk it up to adrenaline, nerves leftover from the standoff on the Ontario. They can walk it off, laugh, pretend it never happened, continue on like they always have.

But he doesn’t let go, and then the millimeters between Shepard’s lips and Kaidan’s no longer exist and the window is gone.

Shepard’s mouth is warm, soft, lips tinged with the salt of his sweat. They start out slow, cautious, neither of them daring to think about it too hard, but that’s not a problem for long, because soon there’s no room to think about anything at all.

Nothing else matters but this.

Slow and cautious becomes deep and headlong, Kaidan pushing his tongue between Shepard’s teeth, Shepard sighing into his mouth and taking him in. His fingers tighten around Kaidan’s, the glow of dark energy rippling out from their joined hands until it swallows them whole. Kaidan gasps at the sensation.

Shepard kisses him harder.

God.

Kaidan wants to spin him around, throw his arms around his neck and meet him head on, give in to everything, all of it, but he can’t bear the thought of turning loose of that hand.    

They part when they run out of air, both straining to catch their breath, fingers still entwined, Shepard still firmly ensconced in Kaidan’s arms as his corona fades.

Shepard rests his cheek against Kaidan’s, ensconcing himself a little further.

“Oh,” he says softly.

“Yeah.”

Shepard’s fingers flex within his, twining and retwining, never letting go.

“You…don’t seem surprised.”

Kaidan closes his eyes, breathing him in, a star he’s somehow pulled down out of the heavens and trapped right here in his arms.  “No. Felt it…for a long time now.”

“Oh.”

“…Yeah.”

Their coronas may have faded, but the mingle of their biotic fields is a constant, soothing whisper under Kaidan’s skin. A small, contented sound slips from Shepard’s throat.  

“Why didn’t I see it?”

Kaidan huffs. “To be fair, I don’t think either of us are very good at this kind of thing.”

Shepard tightens his grip on Kaidan’s fingers and pulls them to his chest. The race of Shepard’s heart thrums under their joined hands. If Kaidan had any illusions about letting him go, they’re gone now.    

“I think I’d like to learn,” Shepard says.

Kaidan’s stomach flips. “Me too.”

They stay still, Kaidan content to hold him, Shepard content to be held, until their lips find each other once more. Kissing Shepard is easy, effortless, like it’s something they were meant to do, a safe place for the live current running under their skin to go to ground.

Shepard, against all evidence to the contrary, is…safe.  

Shepard gazes at him when they part, and butterflies cut loose in Kaidan’s stomach.

“You’re very good at that,” Shepard murmurs.

“We’re very good at a lot of things.”

“Yeah. We are.” He draws Kaidan’s hand up to press a kiss to his knuckles. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t know,” Kaidan admits. “What do you want?”

“You.”

A shiver runs down Kaidan’s spine, the euphoria of that one, single word enough to make him lightheaded. So simple. So complicated. They’ll have choices to make, all of them with compromises and consequences. But that’s something for tomorrow. Right now there is only the truth.  

“I want that, too.”

Shepard releases Kaidan’s hand to turn until they’re face to face, then runs his fingers through the hairs growing over Kaidan’s right temple. All the while those glittering eyes search Kaidan’s face, as though reconciling all the things he knows with the things he’s learning for the first time.

The corners of his eyes crinkle as a smile spreads across his face, pure, open, and full of possibility. “Taste of my own medicine, huh?”

“Well…” Kaidan shrugs helplessly, and Shepard’s grin only gets deeper.  

“Seems like I should have let you teach me a few things a long time ago.”

Kaidan flexes his fingers, a curl of dark energy igniting in his palm that draws out goosebumps along Shepard’s arm. “All in the wrist.”

Shepard laughs. It’s like music. “You and me.”

“I like that,” Kaidan murmurs, before kissing him again. “I like that a lot.”

[moonice20408]

Dream Analysis for Mary.

Quick intro, I don’t completely give into the idea of dream theory. But, I think it’s a good look into a persons psyche. People experience things differently, and interpretate things differently, so the brain is going to have different reasoning behind everything in a dream, depending on your own life experiences. Which is why I don’t think dream analysis is a ‘one size fits all’ thing, I just find it interesting in itself. And since we don’t really know a lot about Mary, this was just something for me to do to kill a few hours.

Also I wrote this pretty quickly.

Without proof reading… 

Sooooo…

 ! Slight spoilers ahead !

I’m working in the fields, like, digging up the carrots, when in the distance, I see a man. His eyes and his mouth are wide open and he’s pointing at me. And then I feel something moving in my hand and I look down… It is the carrots. They have become like newborn babes, crying and squirming their roots around my fingers. And I look back up and now, very slowly, the man comes towards me, but he does not walk. His feet, stay together, dragging through the soil. And still he’s pointing at me. And I try to breathe in to scream, but I cannot, and my mouth fills with dirt. And now the man’s on fire.

And that’s when I wake up.

‘Working in the fields, digging up the carrots’

Personally, I don’t think there’s too much to look at here. Working in the fields was probably most of what Mary did, and the setting of the dream is just likely to be somewhere that was familiar/safe/comfortable to her while she was alive.

However, depending on the state of the field, it can represent different things. Considering that she was working in the dream, I’m going to assume that the field was growing healthily and was in the state she would expect it to be. Meaning this could represent her own personal growth in some way, or the possibility of a rise to fortune and to places of honour.

Crops themselves, again, represent growth. In the sense that you have put your time and effort into something, and it has paid off in the end. Singling out carrots signifies abundance and fertility. To me this could mean that, while alive, Mary’s field was doing well, and there was a good likelihood she would be able to make some more money from her work.

The idea of digging though, can suggest that someone is trying to find out about themselves, giving meaning to the phrase ‘digging into their lives’. It suggests that maybe Mary was preoccupied with her own identity and reputation, or trying to get to the root of an issue. Perhaps she knew there were rumours being to spread about her, as to why the field she was working in was doing so well. Maybe a jealous neighbour’s field was not as successful, and could not believe any reason other than witchcraft could be the reason why.

‘I see a man.’

Seeing an unknown man represents how you view men in general. And given that this is Mary we’re talking about, and from what she’s said in other episode, we’re most likely looking at very old-fashioned/traditional masculine traits. Men were seen to be more dominating, powerful, assertive, etc. What they said was right, and Mary probably didn’t question it very much, or kept her opinions to herself.

I’m assuming, that since Mary did just refer to this person as ‘a man’, that it wasn’t someone she knew. So looking in to the meaning of seeing a ‘figure’ in a dream, it indicates that she was possibly facing some confusion and ambiguity about her life. Going back to the idea of her knowing about the rumours spreading about her, if it were a man who started it, or she heard it from, it could represent a confusion in believing it. She defiantly believes in witchcraft, and if a man is suggesting she is one, it probably would be a confusing thing for her, because she’d been raised to believe in what men say and not to question it, but knowing she isn’t a witch and hasn’t preformed any witchcraft.

‘His eyes and his mouth are wide open and he’s pointing at me’

I think the meaning her is probably the most obvious. The expression of the man is one of shock or fear, so I think this is representing the accusations of her being a witch. The focus on his eyes to me means he may have seen something, the mouth could mean he’s said something himself, or heard someone say something, and those thing have lead to the conclusion of Mary being a witch.

The actual symbolism of eyes I looked into tended more to focus on a persons own eyes then someone else’s. What I did find was quite literal, in the sense that seeing eyes means that you feel as though you are being watched. Could be true, if accusations against Mary had been made, it’s extremely likely people around her were watching her and she knew it. Or maybe she was just very cautious of herself, and had become more aware of her own actions.

The closest thing I found to a single person looking at her was ‘eye contact’. In a dream this can indicate you’re looking for a connection. Maybe this could lean into the idea that she’s trying to connect with this man, or all men, in a way for them to see her for what she really is, not a witch. This also made me think about the fact that Mary’s husband dies before her, so she likely doesn’t have a male figure in her life to defend her, which back in those days, she would’ve needed. Maybe if her husband died not long before this, people would have used that against her too.

Seeing a mouth in a dream can suggest a number of things. The ones I think relate most to Mary are that, there is a need to express yourself, or that you’ve said too much and need to be quiet. The first being the obvious need to tell people she isn’t a witch. But, going back to the traditional gender roles at the time, Mary probably knew it wouldn’t do any good. What she thought or said wouldn’t matter, and if she did speak out, it would make it worse. Look at her reaction to seeing an episode of loose women. I thought maybe the second interpretation could relate to her, if there was maybe something she remembered saying, and thought that that could be the reason the accusations started. Like I said, she for sure believes in witchcraft, and it may be a internalised victim blaming situation.

Which links to the symbolism of the pointing finger. To see this signifies a feeling of guilt and self-blame. You’ve done something, and are afraid of exposure. The story of her husband came to mind when I saw this. Mary’s incredibly superstitious, and to this day believes that because of something she didn’t do at her wedding, it is the reason her husband died 3 years later. If there was something she said or did, even if it were years before, she could link that to the idea of her being a witch. Maybe even believing the accusations herself with her own reasoning.

‘They have become like newborn babes’

Fair to say there is nothing about carrot-baby hybrids themselves, so I just stuck with babies. But babies in dreams have a lot of interpretations, so I tried to focus on the ones that I could best link to Mary in some way. So, holding a baby suggests that a person is longing for an earlier part of their life, when they felt needed. This could possibly mean there was a time when Mary was needed by someone, but feels like no one needs her anymore or at the end of her life. We don’t know much about Mary’s family, so it’s hard to say.

A baby crying symbolises the feeling that some part of you needs to be nurtured. Personally, I think this relates to her fear of the unknown. She takes comfort in blessing the house after the woodworm men have left, and when she was alive, there would have been many people around her who would have the same ideals. The other ghosts and Alison don’t hold the same believes, and don’t really take her seriously with them, so her fear often runs wild. She relaxed when Pat explained how the camera worked, and she got quite involved after, because she understood it (in her own way at least) so wasn’t scared anymore.

Dreaming about an extremely small baby symbolises a feeling of helplessness. I think this makes sense with Mary’s way of thinking. Being a poor woman in the Stuart era would have been hard enough, but if there were rumours about her, she probably knew there wouldn’t be anything she could do to change peoples minds.

‘His feet, stay together, dragging through the soil.’

This was a difficult part to look into, because almost everything I could find do with feet/legs not moving or the motion of dragging, all focused on it happening to the person dreaming. So a lot of this is just my own interpretation of what I found. I also think this is more of a twisted memory of what happened to her husband- who we know was crushed by a plough.

Mary specifically mentioned the mans feet staying together, so when looking into the symbolism of feet, I found that they can represent independence and freedom. I took this to mean that Mary feels her freedom is being controlled by this man, or men in general. The fact his feet aren’t moving maybe suggests that Mary’s future is no longer moving forward. Concentrating on other peoples feet in a dream can suggest you are concerned about their movements. This makes perfect sense to me, as Mary would be more than concerned about this mans next move, knowing the punishment for witchcraft.

‘my mouth fills with dirt.’

This is probably the only part of the dream that I agree with the psychology of it 100%. To dream your mouth is full, indicates that you’re unable to express your thoughts and feelings. Mary knows that even if she were to challenge what people are saying about her, it wouldn’t do any good. And most likely make the situation worse. And what is in your mouth is a metaphor for what it is that you want to process.

So, looking into the meaning of ‘dirt’, I found it represents situations that are ‘less than honourable’, and that it suggests you may be trying to cover up poor behaviour. I think this links back to the idea of Mary herself believing she was capable of witchcraft. We know she does believe in it to begin with, so that would be a ‘less then honourable’ thing for her, definitely. But if she also thinks that her husbands death was caused by not breaking the cake at her wedding, or maybe another situation in which she did or said something, then she can’t believe that it isn’t a coincidence. She’s involved with these situations, which in reality was just a run of bad luck (again, we don’t know how long she died after her husband, so maybe it was just that), but her being at the centre of everything is enough to convince even herself. Maybe she never told anyone they didn’t break cake at the wedding, so for Mary that’s ‘covering up poor behaviour’, and she just feels guilty about it.

‘And now the man’s on fire. And that’s when I wake up.’

Fire is also something that has dozens of meanings when looking into dream meanings. Annihilation, desire, longing, radiance, sanitisation, transformation, insight, rage… But honestly I think it is just the reliving of her death. Possibly the idea of transformation, the end of her old life, and the start of her new one- ‘that’s when I wake up’. The whole dream to me symbolises the lead up to her death, and the fire simply came at the end of it.

So thanks if you actually read this, I would love to hear other people thoughts on this!!

[thewatsonbeekeepers]

The Wizard of Oz and tjlc - more thoughts

Edited to add in a link to this meta  by @bug-catcher-in-viridian-forest which inspired these thoughts - v wonderful eye for detail in these parallels and would definitely recommend reading it before this!

Entirely indebted to @bug-catcher-in-viridian-forest​, whose post made me think about this - I have no idea how recent this post is, because the time stamp says 2016 but it contains details from s4, which suggests a tumblr fuckup! But my 2c based off this -

I’m a big EMPer. And - as I mention in every meta I write, not just because it’s a hyperfixation but because it’s super important to tjlc - I’m a huge David Lynch fan. David Lynch is the guy who defined the dream-movie genre, who made it more than The Wizard of Oz and turned it into the most self-referential meta psychological thriller possible - and won huge critical plaudits for it. (Incidentally, except from Tarantino - his response to imo Lynch’s most underappreciated film, Fire Walk With Me, is hilarious. Look it up. But anyway.) Lynch is obsessed with The Wizard of Oz, and has stated it’s his favourite movie, and even went so far as to remake it as a very loosely adapted thriller in Wild at Heart. My meta on TAB (x) talks about how indebted Mofftiss are to David Lynch, and how making a dream based piece of media is basically impossible without using him as a reference point. Like a fool, I forgot Lynch’s own biggest reference point - The Wizard of Oz.

@bug-catcher-in-viridian-forest​ makes a lot of excellent parallels, but I want to pull on them in the light of EMP theory! The biggest one is that Eurus is Dorothy - red shoes, pigtails, blue and white dress. This is also, crucially, something Lynch does with his characters who are meant to parallel Dorothy - see Dorothy Vallens in Blue Velvet and her red shoes, for example.

Only the most iconic costume in the history of film. Anyway. Red shoes are also seen on the girl on the plane, although her costume is stripes, so not a perfect link - we do know, however, that they are the same person. Parallels with flying the plane and flying the house - lovely. Parallels with the name of the east wind - obviously this is derived from ACD canon, but it’s nevertheless lovely. However, where I want to jump in now is the plot of TWoO, because this is really important.

Everybody knows that Dorothy has a dog (making child!Eurus playing with Redbeard even more striking in resemblance) - but what is really important in TWoO is that her dog is going to die. That’s the reason she runs away from home, which is what leads to her getting knocked unconscious and having this mad dream. @sagestreet​ has pointed out exactly why dogs are connected with homosexuality, and I’ve elaborated in my EMP series on the idea that Sherlock realises he needs to wake up because John is suicidal without him. This ties in beyond well. Incidentally, the bit about TWoO that never works for me is that when Dorothy wakes up, Toto is still destined for death. Everybody just conveniently ignores it. What Sherlock has right - if we’re right (we may never tell, but I assure you guys that the series 5 I dreamed the other night was fantastic. is that reality shifting?*) - is that the dream can actually make a difference to the situation, because the dream is the difference between life and death. Think of If I Stay. Or something like that.

Okay. But here’s the deal. TWoO is all about home. When Dorothy is asked what she has learned from her dream (the knowledge that she needs to wake up), Dorothy says:

If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard, because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with.

If I may say, that is a terrible mantra. And I love that film. But anyway. (MGM movies are a hyperfixation - come and talk to me about them.) Mofftiss know that this is a fucked up end to a fantastic film, not least because it leaves Toto dying. In queer terms, this is a terrible end to the movie - queer film icon John Waters famously said:

So Mofftiss, with Gatiss being the good queer writer that he is, don’t take the backyard literally. Just a Dorothy’s heart’s desire was literally to be home on the farm, and that’s where she finds the impetus to wake up, what does Sherlock need to do to wake up?

I’m incapable of finding images on the web (my metas are so sparse in comparison to everyone else!) but it’s literally in his backyard, as he pushes down the fake wall to get into the garden where the answers are. And this time, home is much more complicated - the ancestry that is built up in Musgrave hall, which is metaphorically connected to the history of Sherlock Holmes as a character, is pushed down just like a wall in Sherlock’s mind, instead helping him to find an internal home, a unity with Eurus, the other part of himself. That’s the necessary home here, not the home-as-absolute-normality that TWoO seems to espouse, which is inevitably exclusive of queerness. And then we get that literal scene of Eurus waking up inside her bedroom from this nightmare scenario she has invented.

The original post also points out comparisons between John and the scarecrow and Sherlock and the tin man, but I think it’s more helpful to understand the theme linking the three friends of Dorothy (no pun intended ;) ). The idea here is that all of them are convinced that they lack something because of the way they are made, but of course they learn throughout the dream that they have it intrinsically. As I’ve mentioned above, Dorothy is where that logic falls down - it also doesn’t work as nicely thematically with the lion, because lions are not supposed to be cowardly - scarecrows, on the other hand, are supposed to be brainless, and tin men are supposed to lack hearts. The idea that you can go beyond the role assigned to you and still find the love you’re not allowed to have - that is peak EMP theory. Nothing better. And the fact that it ties back into the original dream movie - !!

I genuinely haven’t given this a huge amount of thought - these are cursory thoughts. I want to go and watch Wild at Heart and get back with more thoughts, because I’m pretty sure there will be a lot more parallels on overlaying TWoO onto a much darker story.

Anyway! @sagestreet​ @sarahthecoat​ @lukessense​ @therealsaintscully​ @possiblyimbiassed​ @ebaeschnbliah​ @raggedyblue​ @helloliriels​ if you’re interested!

[neo-princess]

hi! could you please do fluffy A-Z for jaemin? thanks x

Absolutely! Thank you for your request!

A = Attractive (what do they find attractive about the other?)

I think anything! Jaemin can always find something to compliment you on. He could go on and on about the things he likes about you.

B = Baby (do they want a family? why/why not?)

Why not? You know, I think he really likes to raise someone. On account of all his jokes of raising Jisung. But honestly, I don’t think he’d mind having a family someday.

C = Cuddle (how do they cuddle?)

Oh gosh, so jaemin is most definitely a sucker for clinging too you while you cuddle. He will literally wrap around you like a koala, and won’t let got. While, the whole time just having this large smile on his face.

D = Dates (what are dates with them like?)

These are the moments where the real romantic in Jaemin comes out. He loves to take you really nice places, like board walks at dawn. Or at some large cliff or rock so you guys can see the start. Dates with him usually are something unforgettable, and they really pull you guys closer.

E = Everything you are my ____ (e.g my life, my world…)

You are the best thing that has ever happened to him. He’s gotten a lot of things, and a lot of opportunities. But, you by far are the best thing he’s ever had.

F = Feelings (when did they know they were falling in love?)

I think he knew he was falling in love from the beginning. You were just all about him as he was about you. You guys had energy that matched perfectly, and synced so he had no choice but to fall.

G = Gentle (are they gentle? If so, how?)

He’s very gentle with you most of the time. He loves doing things so that you can relax, like brushing or coming your hair. Or even just running his hand through you’d hair. Any texture, any length, he just loved it.

H = Hand/Hold (how do they like to hold? how do they like to hold hands?)

I think jaemin likes to hold hands, but that’s such a discrete form of PDA. And we know that he is not discrete with PDA. He’s more of a letting you sit on his lap like a big baby, or he will carry you again like a baby.

I = Impression (first impression/s)

Right from the start he thought you were beautiful, funny, and fun to be around. He loved the energy that you exuded, and he wanted to match that.

J = Joker (are they into pulling pranks?)

Oh poor you, you’ll never see the end of it. There’s most likely a prank war going on between the two of you. Jaemin loves to prank you, but you aren’t going to let him get away with it. Thus, the never ending cycle.

K = Kisses (how do they kiss?)

Well there’s two for jaemin. When he’s babying you are if you’re around the others, he will just make a kissy face and kiss your cheek over and over. However when you guys are alone, it’s different. I imagine him lifting your chin by his fingertips, and pressing a soft kiss into your lips. Pulling away slowing, though going back for more.

L = Little things (what little things do they love/notice?)

He loves how everything you do is cute to him. You don’t even realize how cute you truly are. And he can help but just stare and smile.

M = Memory (their favorite moment together)

There was this one time where you guys were both jumping on your bed. And jaemin fell off and bust his bud on the hardwood floor. And you rushed to ask if he was okay, and you were so concerned. And jaemin was just laughing. The whole situation was so funny to him.

N = Nickel (do they spoil? do they buy the person they love everything?)

Jaemin is definitely a spoiler. He loves to buy you things that you’ll wear or use often. He enjoys getting you friendship necklaces with him. Or a few rings sometimes. You probably have about 5 promise ring from this guy.

O = Orange (what color reminds them of their other half)

Pink. The color is cute and fluffy, and reminds him of how cute you are.

P = Petnames (what petnames do they use?)

Any pet and you can think of, especially the cringy ones he calls you. That’s mostly when he’s really in a babying mood though. But he usually goes for the regular “baby.”

Q = Questions (what are the questions they’re always asking?)

He’s always asking “do you love me?” Just so he can hear you say it. You know that’s why, but you still play along because how could you say no to that cutie.

R = Remember (their favorite memory of each other)

Another memory he has is on Valentine’s Day, he bought you flowers among other things. He just remembered how happy you were to recieve the gifts from him. He was glad to make you happy, so it was one of his favorite memories.

S = Sad (how do they cheer themselves/each other up)

No matter what, Jaemin always tried to keep a smile on your face. He will lay on you like he’s a big baby, smiling his perfect smile up at you. And you have no choice but to smile, because you can’t hide a smile from him. He knows that he makes you happy, so he just tries to be cute and lovey-dovey so he can see you smile.

T = Talking (what do they love to talk about?)

He loves talking about you honestly. Some of his members joke around with him about it. How they ask about you once, and he immediately goes off on a tangent. He just could tak about you for hours, he is definitely not ashamed of this.

U = Universe use a metaphor, what are they to each other? (e.g he was the universe, ever-changing and mysterious)

It’s as if you’re the sun and he’s the planet. His happiness constantly revolving around you.

V = Very ___ they’re thoughts about each other (e.g she’s very smart, he’s very stubborn, they’re very annoying etc.)

She’s amazing and perfect, nothing less than that.

W = Why (reasons why they love each other)

He loves you cause you’re the light of his life. Honestly he doesn’t even remember how he was so happy without you. He knows loosing you isn’t an option for him, you’re a vital part of his life.

X = Xylophone (What’s their song?)

I love you - Alex & Sierra

Y = You the ___ to my ___ (e.g the cookies to my milk, the macaroni to my cheese)

You’re the key to my heart

Z = Zebra (if they wanted a pet, what pet would they get?)

He gives me bunny parent vibes

[snlhostharry]

to be determined / one

harry styles x reader friends with benefits au

soon after moving to new york, you meet harry styles at a party. you convince yourself that there’s nothing between the two of you until it becomes too intense to ignore. if you keep telling yourself that he doesn’t mean anything to you, does that make it true?

a/n: hi everyone! welcome to my first harry styles series. This originally started as a challenge for myself to try and write a harry fic inspired by taylor swift songs so that’s where the chapter titles come from, it’s kind of become something bigger than that but I figured I would keep the theme anyway 

chapter 1: welcome to new york

The story starts in New York City. 

A place written about in countless stories, about love, about heartbreak, about giving up, about standing tall, and about putting broken hearts into drawers and slamming them shut. It’s easy to say that writing another story about New York is beating a dead horse, throwing characters into the same tired old setting and letting them live out the writer's wildest daydream. But it’s never been about the city itself, it’s always been about the people. Something about the city always manages to be the perfect stomping ground for people, for characters to find each other in a  whirlwind of A list parties and harsh billboard lights. 

Speaking of which you are suddenly very sick of said harsh billboard lights in the middle of times square. As someone who has read (and written) countless articles describing times square as a flurry of activity but also with some kind of inherent magical appeal, the center of everything it’s own small utopia, you know that everyone who wrote that had to be aware of their own bullshit. It’s a nuanced way of tourist trapping, smart, albeit annoying on a variety of levels. A gimmick to get wide eyed little girls to stand in the middle of chaos and think that maybe they could carve out a place for themselves here. 

You’re not trying to carve out a place for yourself, you’re trying to get to a stupid party. That and manage to not get any mud or other stains on this very nice dress you’re wearing. After what seems like forever of looking around and then suddenly looking back down at your phone just in case anyone wanted to even try to make eye contact with you, familiar faces appear out of the sea of people. 

You greet them with a look of disappointment, “Two questions: why did you want to meet here-” a tourist elbows there way past you mid sentence, inadvertently proving your point, “-and why aren’t we just taking an uber?” 

Molly, a tall black woman with objectively perfect hair (which is somehow gorgeous at all times), smiles and pats your shoulder like a kindergarten teacher, “I thought you would want to see Times Square.”

“I’ve seen it,” You shoot back, squinting again at the bright light coming from directly behind her head, and adjusting your jacket over your shoulders. 

She squeezes your shoulder quickly, “And also to teach you that any time someone asks you to meet them in Times Square  they’re fucking with you.”

“I figured you were fucking with me,” You tell her, “But thank you, god forbid the midwestern girl gets lost in Times Square waiting for someone to meet her who is obviously not coming.” 

Molly laughs, and so do you. She looks down at her phone briefly, and then back at you, “To answer your question, why would anyone ever try to get an uber in the city at seven?” 

You shrug, “What kind of self respecting party starts at eight?” 

Fletcher, who’s name admittedly sounds like it should belong to anyone but him, finally stops staring at the large elmo mascot a few feet away and jumps into the conversation. “The kind with an age range, twenty somethings to late thirty somethings, who no longer have the energy to go from nine to six am.” 

You sigh, “So boring then or-?”

“It’s about networking,” Molly says, “And also drinking, but mostly networking.” 

“One of those unique business opportunities where you get free food, and possibly run into celebrities, singers mostly.” 

You roll your eyes, “Wow you had me at various singers.” 

“Says the woman who did an interview series with Tik Tok kids who all live in the same house,” Molly snips, half joking. 

You shiver, half from the memories of that objectively terrible experience and half from a sudden breeze. Needless to say a significant portion of the reason why you’d left LA, was because their entertainment section was suddenly drifting away from profiles on actors and towards compilations of one minute videos made by sun tanned twenty somethings that somehow made them millions a year. That and after you’d spent two weeks semi living with ten of said twenty somethings for a story that had gotten a lot of buzz you never wanted to see anyone connected to the app ever again. 

You give Molly your best ‘I’ll kill you’ smile, “You have to decide what you’re going to make fun of me for, is it the midwestern thing or is it the Tik Tok thing because one of those involves you admitting that I lived in Los Angeles for a year which means I’m perfectly capable of handling Times Square in all of it’s elmo public urinating glory.” 

Fletcher looks again at the mascot who is not in fact publicly urinating, but honestly if it did suddenly start none of you would be surprised. 

Molly looks at you for a second and says, “Both,” She looks at Fletcher. 

He looks at you then back and Molly and nods, “Yeah. Both.” 

You roll your eyes, “So can we get going now or-?” 

The ride to the location Molly had all but refused to tell you was filled with talks of the impending deadlines on Monday for pieces that were anywhere from fifty to seventy percent finished. (your’s is at the lower end of the spectrum because there is only so much one person can write about an art installation that you found less insightful and more literal in the sense that the sculpture was literally just large amounts of clay pressed together in something that shouldn’t even be considered a shape with no metaphor or meaning behind it). 

Soon enough you’re standing in what looks like mostly a residential neighborhood, with one precariously nice building in the middle of the block. You turn to Molly, “What the-?” 

“Don’t finish that, just be patient,“ She interrupts as a response. “You are very impatient, you know that?”

“I’m a journalist,” You say, “I need to know all of the facts, including what the-” You take a breath, “-heck we’re doing in the middle of a nice little neighborhood, I was expecting something more Gossip Girland Brooklyn Nine-Nine.” 

“You’re definition of journalist is a lot looser than mine,” Molly says.

“Have you ever watched Gossip Girl? And isn’t Brooklyn Nine-Nine set in a precinct?” Fletcher adds. 

“No, and Jake and Amy live in an apartment.” 

“Beyond the fact that you’re a TV writer who has never watched Gossip Girl-” Fletcher sighs, even though you know he hasn’t watched it either beyond random snippets for a hit piece he wrote on it a few months back (not received well by the way), “The top floor of that building-” He points to the precariously nice building, “isn’t apartments its a loft, the floor is huge and only one house.” 

You squint your eyes, “You’re kidding.”

“And the rest are offices?” 

“How did they get zoning for that?” 

They both shrug at the same time. 

“Guys I want to know that if the police bust up this party, speaking of loose terms, I’m going to say that you dragged me here against my will.” 

“I always knew you had good survival instincts.” 

Molly turns to you, “Look when you’re getting special press access to the inside of the met gala you will be saying thank you Molly for bringing me here to catapult my career.” 

“I have catapulted my own career thank you, the Tik Tok thing-” You shake your head, “Nevermind can we go in and stop loitering, then we’ll really get arrested.” 

Party is a loose term but you learn that's not necessarily a bad thing. It’s not a rager with strobe lights and pumping bass but there is music playing albeit classical. People mill around at tables talking to one another, both twenty somethings and thirty somethings, you recognize a few faces from the media mostly. Fletcher was right about the food, and Molly was right about the drinks. You talk to a few people just to introduce yourself, a couple of them have heard of you, if only because your sudden cross country move to newspapers that aren’t necessarily competitors but might have a bit of a rivalry was something that people talked about. You’d made a couple thirty under thirty lists (no not the Forbes one) while in LA, which meant nothing to you if you were being completely honest but apparently meant things to other people which is fine.

When you’re finally exhausted at putting on a smile and nodding like you’re actively engaged in conversation and not thinking about something completely you hang out by the bar, not even drinking, just watching the room and all of the people there. You never wanted to get a reputation for being the quiet girl in the corner who just watched and listened because those kinds of people are always seen as weird or doormats or both but if you’re being honest this is where you’re the most comfortable. Making small talk just to get some opportunity down the road has never quite been your style. 

You turn to go and find Molly when you suddenly come face to face with someone you recognise right away. 

In that moment you realize that Taylor Swift was in fact onto something when she said, “Didn’t you flash your green eyes at me?” As weird as it is, the first thing you think when you meet Harry Styles is how that song is definitely about him, because those green eyes are striking and they are staring right at you. 

“Hi,” He says, quick to the draw. 

You take a step back just because of how close you are and say, “Hello.” 

He looks at you like he’s thinking about something, and then holds out his hand, “Harry.” 

“y/n,” You shake his hand. You recover from your initial shock quickly, and plaster on that fake conversation smile again, ready for whatever it is he wants to say, if anything. You came here to ‘network’ and you’re not sure what kind of advantage talking to Harry Styles could possibly give you, but for some reason you want to talk to him. 

“What brings you here?” He asks you. 

“My co-workers,” You shrug, “I would much rather be at home watching Succession on HBO and listening to the Beatles on my record player, like true people of culture would.”

He looks at you for a second, as you try to keep a straight face. Then he laughs, “Seriously?”

“Fuck no,” You say, “That’s my impression of the girl who meets Harry Styles at a party and has to convince him that she is not like all the other girls, she is the one for him.” You smile, “Was that good? Or should I try again?” 

He thinks about it, “I think you should try again.” 

“Because you think it’s wrong or because you think I’m funny?”

“What do you think?”

“Well if you think I’m funny, then I’ve already won, I’ve tricked you into thinking that I’m not like all the other girls with reverse psychology .”

“Are you screwing with me?”

“Of course I’m screwing with you,” You take a sip of your drink. “If I were home right now I would be playing Lizzo on my record player, and drinking something with a medically unsafe level of caffeine.” You pause, “What brings you here?” 

“Honestly,” He looks out over the room, “I thought that this was going to be a much cooler party. Instead it’s just a bunch of reporters, and editors and media people.” 

“Who are inherent mood killers?” You ask. 

He narrows his eyes at you, “Am I allowed to say yes to that?” 

“You can do whatever you want,” You tease him, “You’re Harry Styles, who am I to tell you what to say?” 

“I feel like it was a trick question, which means that you are also a reporter.” 

You laugh again, “That was funny, I’m going to write that down for my story. ‘Harry is genuinely funny which he tries to use to make up for the lack of small talk abilities’.”

“You’re screwing with me again.” 

“Of course I am,” You say, “I work in the arts section of the Times, well not the actual art anymore but the movies and television.” 

“TV critic?” He says, “So you’re harsh.” 

“TV critics are just harsh for attention, I don’t need to be because no movie snob or well meaning director is going to go to the Times to see what we thought of any given movie. I write honestly, sometimes under the influence of caffeine and try to contain my excitement at narratively unnecessary plot twists.” You explain, “That and I get paid to watch TV, and usually private screenings of movies.” 

He leans against the bar a sign that he doesn’t plan on moving anytime soon. You’re not going to say that you’re so awestruck by a celebrity that you have no idea what to say, or that he’s intimidating you but your hand shakes just a little as you clutch your fingers around the glass because he’s objectively attractive. Objectively attractive in the way that if he were on a dating app you would swipe yes and then put a lot of pressure on yourself to be funny and relatable even though you know that you don’t need him. 

“What did you think of Dunkirk?” 

“Oh!” You forgot that he acted, “That was before my time. I was working at the LA Times doing the music section then I think.” You know what he’s going to say next, “And before you ask yes there is a piece still posted of me reviewing your debut album. I think I reached out to get an interview with you, but I was suspiciously declined.” He looks embarrassed, “I was like under five years out of college I would’ve declined me too. They only gave me the story because it was the time where people weren’t sure that ex boyband members could make objectively good albums that meant something.” 

He tilts his head to the side for a second, “And? Can they?”

“I’m in no place to make a generalization,” You say, “But I think you did. Admittedly that album was something, very intimate.” 

“I don’t know if I should be taking that as a compliment.”

“I don’t want to give you a compliment because some people have a hard time with them, and this will get very awkward very fast. No shame, personally I have no mechanism to take compliments on my writing.” 

He laughs, “I think I can take it.” 

“Hmm.. okay,” You take another step back, “Okay are you sure you're ready?” 

“Yes.” 

“I think the entire album was very good, very unexpectedly good or at least I didn’t expect it to be. It was very open in that way that songs are vulnerable but still leave enough mystery that your fans don’t think you're a shitty person and I really like meet me in the hallway,” You say quickly, “In fact I listened to it just yesterday when I was working.” 

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, and then fake sighs, “See I don’t think that counts because it was more of a backhanded compliment.” 

“What?”

“You said you didn’t expect it to be good, that’s not really a compliment then-”

“I was saying it pleasantly surprised me,” You say, throwing your hands in the air in mock annoyance. “You surprise me, Harry.” He doesn’t say anything, and for a minute neither do you, but you snap back to life just in time to say, “Is that compliment enough to embarrass you?” 

He shrugs, but you know he’s messing with you. “It’s something but I don’t know if it’s really doing it for me.” 

“You are impossible, just another out of touch celebrity, is nothing ever good enough for you people?” It’s by now that you realize that you inadvertently closed the gap between the two of you, and you’re standing very close. 

He seems to realize this at the same time as you, “I-”

“Are you going to ask me to have sex with you?” You deadpan. 

“What?” He looks offended for a second, “No.” 

“I had to ask,” You tell him, “It’s happened before.” 

“I was going to ask you for your number.”

“See usually when a guy asks me that they’re asking so-” 

“It’s not for that.” 

“Then what’s it for?” 

He looks at you with something in his eyes that you don’t know the meaning of, “In case you want to do an interview, so that they don’t reject you this time.” 

You know that’s not it, but you give it to him anyway because he’s Harry Styles (which yes is not a valid reason but this ‘party’ is very boring and this is the most interesting thing to happen to you in at least the past week). It takes you a minute to remember which one is your real number and which one is the fake number you give off if a guy is asking because he wants a booty call, but you eventually give it to him. Then you scurry off with a quick goodbye when you realize how late it is, and how you do have work to do. There’s a new episode of Big Little Lies out tomorrow and you don’t understand why but people are very into the show, and very into your episode recaps. 

You corner Molly away from some guy you think might have actually been able to get her press access to the Met Gala and remind her that she also has a deadline tomorrow. The two of you go off to look for Fletcher and find him very close to sealing the deal with an objectively pretty girl, but you politely remind him that he has work to do and is very busy. The girl looks sad but let’s him go without much whining. You would’ve understood if she tried to get him to stay with her, he’s a little bit shorter than Molly but to be fair Molly is above averagely tall, and is nice and fit and has brown curly hair which you know from personal experience is sometimes just kryptonite. (you’ve kissed Fletcher before, long story, and can also say he’s on your top list of good kissers as well right up there with a guy you hooked up with in LA only to realize later that he was Robert Pattinson). 

Somehow the three of you are only able to make it back to your apartment. So the night ends with Molly and Fletcher in the living room on the couch and in a sleeping bag respectively, and you are comfortably in your bed. Your phone sits on your nightstand, suspiciously silent. You’re not waiting for Harry Styles to call you, nope, definitely not. 

[animebw]

Binge-Watching: Beastars, Episodes 1-3

And so we begin! In which I muse over the nature of beastly allegory, overlapping identities paint a complex picture, and new ground is charted for CG animation.

The Beast Within

It’s kind of funny I’m watching Beastars now, all things considered. After all, it’s been just about a month since I tackled that other furry anime that used walking, talking animals as a metaphor for discrimination: Brand New Animal. For those of you who weren’t around back then, BNA kind of served as the perfect example of how not to use animals as allegory for people. It tied its beastman tropes to a loose grab-bag of real-world social injustices- microagressions, passing for normal- but never found a coherent thread to tie them all together. And then it undercut its own messages with weird, nonsensical worldbuilding that cast the beastmen as the real agents of their own oppression and also controlling the world with a shadowy cabal or something. Whatever that show was trying to say, it completely fell flat on its face and ended up more offensive than anything. And now here we are again, with another show attempting to use the concept of humanoid animals to comment on real-world power dynamics and social conflicts. Thankfully, it thus far seems like Beastars is going for a fully fictionalized internal logic, building its herbivore/carnivore interactions from the ground up. It takes inspiration from a lot of ways real social systems function, but it’s not trying to map perfectly onto any kind of real-world oppression. Instead, it’s charting its own allegorical course, using the animal kingdom as a vessel to touch on a lot of related ideas at once. As long as that’s the path it’s taking, I’m willing to stick with it and see where it goes.

And that’s my first point of praise: this show has already established a fascinating social dynamic. The world of Beastars isn’t a world where there’s clearly one group oppressing another; the situation between the carnivors and herbivores is much more complex. Yes, carnivores are often stereotyped as dangerous, but there don’t seem to be any real systems in place to encourage active discrimination. If anything, Cherryton Academy seems committed to giving carnivores and herbivores even footing, and judging by the excited reactions to the soy hamburgers at lunch, they seem to be doing a pretty good job. What suspicions exist seem not to be based on institutional oppression, but more on the fact that, well, carnivores do normally snack on herbivores as part of the animal kingdom. And judging by the fact that this show starts with murder, that’s not an unwarranted fear. Hell, our protagonist Louis is basically defined by his struggle to contain his primal instincts. He’s socially awkward and painfully introverted not just because of general dorkiness, but because he’s afraid of what he’s capable of if he stops being subdued and low-key. He knows he’s strong enough to rip apart anyone who pisses him off, but that only makes him double down on not lashing out and taking Ls to keep himself under control (”How can I lose in a natural looking manner?”) And serious credit must go to his VA, Chikahiro Kobayashi, who completely sells the unspoken tension behind his awkward, uncertain mumbling. You really get the sense of how much he’s holding back behind his seemingly listless exterior.

Eyes on the Prize

But there’s a lot more going on with Beastar’s power dynamics than just the carnivore/herbivore tension. There are specific stereotypes and social dynamics laced all throughout this community. Besides the predator/prey divide, the large and small animals also have different social groups and separate communities, (”I almost stepped on one of the rodent girls.”), to the point where Legoshi’s just as conscious of Haru being a small animal as a herbivore when he talks to her. Plus, there’s a set time for everyone to hang out solely with members of their species in an environment best suited for them, and some people, like the arrogant gazelle Louis, seem to have stereotypes in mind for basically everyone they come across, meat-eater or not. There are lots of different identities at play here, best summed up by Legoshi calling himself “an animal, a carnivore, a canine, and... a wolf male.” Much like real people, he’s a collection of lots of different identities, some of which overlap, some of which don’t, all of which are important to understanding his complete self. So people like Louis, who just see him as some feral monster in the night and encourage him to give into his instincts, are only focusing on one small part of a much more complex picture. That’s a way more interesting dynamic than BNA’s rote discrimination metaphors, and it leads to far more interesting plot threads.

For example, let’s double back to Louis himself for a moment. There’s a lot going on with this character, and I definitely haven’t fully figured him out yet, but it seems like he’s a self-hating herbivore who fetishizes the strength and power of carnivores. He despises the fact that he’s born as prey, and he pushes himself to dominate the school to rise above that fear. As long as he can be the best, as long as he can be stronger than the fiercest wolf, then he’ll never have to be scared of his weakness again. But in doing so, he walks a very fine line between rising above discrimination and actively perpetuating it. He preaches the importance of animals from all walks of life standing together in public, but he stereotypes basically everyone he comes across with some kind of cruel insult (”Is eating paper all goats are good for?”) He encourages unity in the drama club and explicitly built it as a place for misfits to find community, but he privately believes he’s the only member that matters and that everyone just needs to let him take care of everything. He seems to genuinely care about people, and he isn’t afraid to throw himself into danger for them, but his fear has driven him to extreme arrogance. He’s trying to take the world on his shoulders to run away from his identity, and it’s made him just as capable of helping people as it has crushing them under his foot. Perhaps he’s a bit like Reinhard from LOTGH, in that way. Wherever Beastars ends up going with his character, it’s sure to be a fascinating ride.

Rabbits on the Moon

But it’s with Haru’s character that you can see this complexity most clearly. Contrary to her appearance as a cute, innocent dwarf bunny, she’s a sexually active girl who’s slept around with a lot of guys. She’s also got an attitude a mild wide and doesn’t hesitate to take someone to task for being a dick (”Besides, if he got that excited from one little peck, I doubt he was all that anyway.”) Most of her classmates only see her as a slut, someone to sleep with and/or irrationally hate and blame for being such a slutty slut who sluts all around. And it’s clear she’s internalized a lot of anger and self-loathing from being in that position. There’s a particularly dark moment where she muses, ”I’ve lived my whole life as prey for others,” and the double meaning in that sentence is devastating. Her appearance has made her a target in ways she never asked for, and the only way she can cope with it is bristling against the world and becoming just as strong as the carnivores she’s surrounded by. But that doesn’t mean she still can’t run, can’t panic, can’t feel terror when she’s in genuine danger. She’s not a perfect prey despite her biology, but she’s not a perfect predator despite her attitude either. She’s too complex to fit under a single label, least of all one as reductive as “slut.”

And it’s in recognizing that fact that Legoshi really won me over as a protagonist. Even after the hilarious scene where Haru mistakenly comes on to him because he’s so bad at communication (”Is this some kind of greeting?”), he knows better than to pigeonhole her like all his classmates do. After all, his instincts almost drove him to eat her the previous night, so it’s not like he has room to complain about her “preying” on him in return. And besides, people are more complex than that. He might not know why Haru is the way she is, but he knows it can’t be as simple as a single derogatory insult. She’s just as complex and multifaceted as him, and despite his anxiety, he genuinely wants to understand her better, to see beyond the surface-level details and know her for who she really is. And that sentiment forms the foundation of Beastars’ biggest, most important theme: acknowledging that complexity. We’re so much more than carnivore or herbivore, small or large, prude or slut, monster or saint. We’re composite beings formed of countless different labels, overlapping and interacting until they form something entirely unique. That, I think, is what Beastars is trying to say, and so far, it’s saying it really, really well. Color me excited to see where it goes from here.

Lights, Camera, Action!

But it’s not just the writing that makes Beastars so compelling. In fact, I’d say its spectacular presentation is just as critical to its success. Studio Orange is easily the best studio producing CG anime right now, and if Land of the Lustrous didn’t drive that point home, this show sure did. There is so much life to the characters and now they move, from their subtle shifts of expression to their massive, sweeping movements. But it’s not just the animation: the cinematography and editing make full use of the medium in a way I’ve never seen with CG anime before. That opening scene in the dark room, where we only see the stark colored outlines of characters and objects as an unknown predator stalks us. The horror cinematography as Legoshi looms over a poor sheep before we find out he’s actually just awkward as hell. The symbolic representations of events and emotions playing out literally inside Legoshi’s head as he tries to make sense of things. The panache and purposeful melodrama of every drama club scene. The symbolic representation of fire burning through Legoshi’s veins as his wild side is awakened by Haru’s scent. The horrific sketchy lines of that same instinct personified as it tries to get him to crack. So many fantastic uses of split-screen framing to show two different characters’ actions going on at once. That long take from inside Louis’ mask as he slowly collapses at the end of episode 3. This isn’t just great CG animation, this is legitimate CG artistry. It uses the medium to explore abstraction, symbolism, hyper-emotionality, and cinematic storytelling in ways that I’ve only ever seen in 2D anime before. Land of the Lustrous was already fantastic, but Beastars is actually charting new ground for what CG animated storytelling is even capable of. Add to that a killer jazz soundtrack to set the tone, and this show is an absolute audiovisual feast. Even if the stoty goes completely downhill, at least it’ll still be a treat to watch.

Odds and Ends

-”Bear not your fangs, but your heart.” Lmao, the signs in the background are all great.

-Huh, are some of the characters normal 2D? That’s weird and jarring.

-”I-I waited until we could be alone.” skdjfhsdf oh my god you awkward fucker

-uuuuuuuugh this insert song tho

-”Black sheep.” I can practically smell the irony in her words, lmao.

-”Put the actors’ safety first.” So he can get ferocious when it’s needed. Good to know.

-sdfhdskfh why are you dragging him

-Yoooo stop-motion jazz OP! Love it.

-And that is how you do a punching the mirror moment. Cripes.

-Okay, Legoshi’s inner monologue is hilarious enough, but I forgot that the anteater kid also ran afoul of Haru and oh my god I’m cackling.

-his poor tail askdjahsdkjhsa

-”There’s no meaning in a wolf being strong. But there is for you.” Man. There’s a lot going on here, isn’t there?

And with that, we’re on our way! This is gonna be a good one, folks. See you next time!

[captain-emmajones]

Love, Emma (7/7)

(Art by the wonderful @carpedzem​ <33) 

Loosely based on Love, Rosie (2014).

Killian and Emma are best friends and neighbors. They’ve always been – until he leaves for the Navy when his brother dies. When he comes back, nine months later, summer has begun and childhood is ending. Emma can tell something is changed in him, but she doesn’t know what. Until she does. He’s fallen in love with someone else.

And then, suddenly, they’re kissing on her nineteenth birthday. When she asks him to forget their night out, and never talk about it again, Killian thinks she means to tell him she regrets the kiss they exchanged. Except she has no memory of it.

Big thank you to @profdanglaisstuff​ for being a wonderful beta and having my back all through this work! 

Friends to Lovers - Mutual Pining - Angst - Fluff - 7000 words - ao3

Part 1 - MIRRORBALL, Part 2 - AUGUST  , Part 3 - HOAX, Part 4 - PEACE, Part 5 - THIS IS ME TRYING, Part 6 - CARDIGAN

Note: This is it, the great, the terrible last chapter. I hope you guys will like this as much as I tortured myself writing it, making sure it is the perfect ending to this story :’) It’s been a pleasure writing this story, I loved every second of it and yeah...Thank you for sticking with me through this. It’s been really lovely having you as my readers. 

PART 7 - INVISIBLE STRING 

Present Day -- August, Storybrooke, Maine.

That night, Granny’s dinner is fuller than usual. Fuller with people, fuller with life.

It’s an agreeable summer night, the air a cool breeze against Killian and Emma’s bare arms as Mary Margaret and David argue over the color choice of the napkins for their upcoming wedding. Crickets chirp all around them, seeming to mock them.

Their plates of food are now empty, and Ruby expertely piles them up on her left arm as Mary Margaret shoots a death glare at her boyfriend.

“White is simply perfect, David.”

“So you play Snow White once in High School and now it’s your favorite color? That’s ridiculous, Mary Margaret.”

“Is it now? And what kind of color would you go for? Orange?”  

“Well, orange would be a statement for one!”

“Over my dead body, David. It’s white or nothing.”

If Emma weren’t so distracted by the warmth of Killian’s fingers around hers, she would have probably choked on her beer and mumbled “Mary Margaret - 1, David - 0.”

Thankfully for everyone, the palm that curled around hers a few minutes ago metaphorically threw her straight into a pink cloud kind of paradise.

Looking up from their intertwined fingers, Emma is greeted by the very real purple pink clouds in the night sky, behind Killian and Mary Margaret’s back. They are sitting opposite Emma and David, while Ingrid sits in the middle, a small contented smile on her lips, as she eats her onion rings in silence.

Fairy lights hang above their heads. Emma loves fairy lights, she always has.

“Why not settle for another color, mates?” tries Killian in a calm, soothing voice, and Emma is surprised he is talking at all.

He should know better. Grave, stupid mistake it is to get between Mary Margaret, David and their napkins.

“NEVER,” the couple answer as one voice, and Emma watches with a chuckle caught in her throat as Killian backs away, hands in front of his face.

“Wohoho, mates. Calm down. The only people you’re allowed to kill are each other.”

And as Emma swallows another grin, she thinks Killian and she haven’t talked about it, but that’s fine. Emma’s brain doesn’t seem able to come up with words, anyway.

A few hours ago, the walk back to Ingrid’s was achieved in near complete silence, and it was weird -- considering with whom she was walking. Actually, cross that -- it was weird to be walking back to her childhood house with Killian Jones, period.

But Emma was able to find comfort in Killian’s lack of words as well, and god knows how talkative Killian can be, she found comfort in his breathy tone when he handed her the box back and the flush on his cheeks, knowing if she could barely hear anything if not for her own heartbeats, surely he wasn’t pulling this any better than she was.

“Earth to Emma, would you like a desert?”

Emma blinks. Two green eyes are staring at her.

Right. Dinner. Granny’s. Damnit, focus Emma. Ruby’s voice sends a shameful loop down Emma’s belly.

“...Mmm, no, actually. I’m fine, for now.”

Ruby’s raising an eyebrow. Everyone is staring at her. Why are they staring?

“Are you sure, Ems?”

“I am. Why do you ask?”

“...It’s just, it doesn’t sound a lot like you.”

And then Emma’s pretty sure her hair stands on end.

“Really.” And each word is meant to sound more threatening than the last. “I. Am. Fine. Ruby.”

She’s not looking at him, but Emma catches Killian’s small chuckle all the same. It’s hard to ignore how easily her rage melts away, and she hides the beginning of a smile behind a napkin.

“Fine.” And Ruby nearly sounds like she is the one who got attacked. (Perhaps she was. But she deserved it.)

As the waitress disappears in a clatter of heels, Ingrid is tapping a napkin against her mouth, delicately, and Emma knows very well what this means.

“Well, it’s already 10pm. I think I’ll leave you youngsters to it.”

Emma watches as Ingrid folds the napkin in front of her, just like she always does, and gracefully stands up.  

“Goodnight, kids.” Ingrid grins, and everyone replies with a lively “Goodnight, Ingrid!”

A kiss is dropped onto Emma’s forehead, and Emma doesn’t miss the subtle pat on the back Killian receives on Ingrid’s way out. Emma thinks Ingrid’s always liked Killian, but then she stops thinking about it because David and Mary Margaret are coughing, and it is the least natural piece of acting Emma’s had the chance to witness in a while.

They both exchange a sly glance, nod and stand up at their turn, and Emma stares at them -- cheeks burning.

“Yeah, we’ll go, too. It’s getting pretty late, and we flew in very early this morning.”

Traitor, shout Emma’s eyes at Mary Margaret, but the small brunette is smiling with all of her teeth out and doesn’t seem concerned by Emma’s impending murder threat.

“Enjoy your night, guys,” David looks far too delighted. “Byye.”

“Aha, bye guys.”

Away from Granny’s dinner and up Main Street towards Granny’s B&B, the couple vanishes into the night.

And just like that, Emma and Killian are alone under the fairy lights.

Chirp, chirp.

This time, Emma cannot ignore the childish panic that strangles her throat, as his touch begins to burn her skin and her hand slowly slides out of his palm. She looks down at the green plastic table.

What to do now? Jesus, she is not nineteen anymore, she needs to take initiative, and—

“Fancy a walk along the beach, Emma?”asks Killian, and Emma is so thankful for the distraction she nearly knocks the table down as she springs to her feet.

“Excellent idea!” Why do her legs feel so wobbly?

And Killian smirks, and she wonders if he knows just how badly she is afraid, of him, of her, of risking her heart.

“Perfect then, let’s sail away.”

But she wants this to work, she wants them to work. She spent a good part of her life agonizing over this relationship, daydreaming about it, and then cursing it, and it better be as good as she thought it would be.

.

As things turn out, this walk along the beach feels like brutally falling down a rabbit hole. It knocks the wind out of Emma and it is wonderfully terrifying.

The wind blows that night. Salt air dances with Emma’s light dress and Killian’s hair.

Emma’s shoes dangle from her fingers, but she is still shaking like a leaf.

Awful, isn’t it, to finally get all you’ve ever dreamed of?

She knows it’s not entirely hers yet, she knows she still has to dash forward and grab it with her two hands, and not let it go – on any account. (Do you want it?)

It’s terrifying.

She did not reach out to Killian, this past month, although she knew about his letter...and she probably wouldn’t have reached out first, had he not appeared on her porch.

There is still this stupid fear, down her stomach, this stupid fear that he never cared, he never will, and this is all a sick joke.

(She wants it.)

“Should we sit?”

“Aye.”

He complies as she sprawls into the sand she feels moist under her toes, sitting down a few inches from him.

Somehow, staring at him still feels illegal.

When he gets a flask of rum out of his leather jacket, she rolls her eyes, and her bracelet glints under the moonlight. For the first time in ages, it is not a painful sight. She does not twist the little charms.

“Really? Is rum your solution to everything?”

“It’s not rum, Swan. It’s merely water.”

“Is it now?”

“Nah, it’s definitely rum. But it never hurts to have a drink between friends.”

And at that wicked, wicked word, they both stare at one another and gape slightly.

It should be funny. Except it still itches.

Aren’t they friends?

There are stars reflected in his eyes. There is still this ache inside her chest.

Emma is urged by a desire to look down then, but she doesn’t cave in. Instead, her mouth curves into a smile.

“…Friends or other types of acquaintances,” he adds after a while, and Emma’s smile widens.

The flask of rum is handed to her, and she drinks a few mouthfuls that diffuse a sweet heat and courage down her throat. Lord does she need it.  

“Acquaintances, you say, um?”

She licks the small drop of rum that rolls down her lower lip, notices with satisfaction as Killian’s eyes follow the movement of her tongue and widen when he realizes she has caught him red-handed.

“Aye. I believe we’ve been acquainted.” There is a delicious twirl, down in her stomach, that could drown her fears, she knows it, if only she allowed herself to let go.

“Right.”

Idiot. Her cheeks burn. It is ridiculous, they are ridiculous and she doesn’t mind.

Woosh, woosh, the waves giggle.

As Emma inhales deeply, she figures she has to give him back his flask and that this -- whatever the hell this really is -- is probably going to be more difficult than she initially thought.

Her fingers brush against his as his hand closes over the flask -- of course they do -- and Emma couldn’t honestly say who’s to blame.  

“Thanks, Swan.”

Oh, how many scenarios she made up in her mind, about him showing up. They all ended with their lips locked together. What she had a very hard time figuring out was the in-between. The talking. The confession. Because there has to be one, right?

She hears him gulp a few mouthfuls of rum down next to her and she refocuses her gaze on him. He clears his throat.

“So, erm, any plans for the foreseeable future?” he inquires.

The flask is buried in the sand between them.

“I don’t know, to be honest. For now, I think I’ll stay in Storybrooke. It’s my home.”

And then a pause, she glances at him through her eyelashes. A mischievous wave comes crashing at their feet, bites their toes.

“What about you, Killian? Still in Portsmouth?”

She watches him tilt his head next to her as he carefully sieves a handful of sand between his fingers, brows furrowed.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about moving back to Storybrooke. Joining the Navy again would not be easy, and I’m not sure it’s entirely what I desire. I mostly did it to honour Liam but it’s never been a dream of mine…”

A pause, a breath, for him, Emma has stopped breathing somewhere after “Storybrooke”. And her mouth refuses to shut.

“Plus, there’s the fact that Graham did mention the need for another deputy,” he casually adds, shoots a swift glance at her.

Oh. Breathe, Emma, breathe.

It’s very hard, then, for Emma to swallow the smile that tingles her lips.

“You are?” she asks, curses silently her quivering tone. Clears her throat. Dammit, why did it come out like this?

If he notices it, Killian doesn’t show it. Instead, he goes on, the ghost of a smile over his lips.

“Aye. I don’t think there’s anywhere else for me to be. It is high time I came home.”

Home. The word echoes between them, much like the gentle rustling of the waves.

And Emma nods and she has no idea where to put herself, what to say. She settles for telling the truth.

“That’s great. I could really use you around.” A pause. “I’ve missed you.”

Twinkle, twinkle the stars in the night sky, and the constellations in her heart as her eyes meet his. They put to shame the sea of stars in front of them.

Emma’s heart is bursting out as he slowly glances down at her lips, and then even more slowly looks up, a dangerous grin overtaking his features.

“Aye. I’ve missed you too, Swan. I don’t want to be apart from you anymore.”

Hearing him repeat her words is positively the worst thing that could have happened to her heart rate. That one nearly rips her heart out of her chest and sends it ricocheting on the waves.

She nods, laughs a bit, crinkles her nose mostly to hide how flustered she truly is.

“How…How did this happen?”

And he sighs next to her, a very dramatic sigh that she recognizes as a poor attempt to hide a deeper kind of pain. She watches as he stretches his legs, digs a shape into the sand with his fingers.

“How did you end up marrying Neal Cassidy, you mean? Poor judgement, if I do say so myself.”

The bastard.

She elbows him in the ribs, of course, he deserves it.

And he only chuckles, feigns a moan of pain, and… and grabs the arm she threw at him to bring her closer to him. There are grains of sand stuck to his skin as his hand closes over her fisted palm. As he stares at her, all air has definitely been knocked out of Emma’s lungs.  

His nose gently brushes hers. Little pulses of magic seem to climb up her hand, her arm, to gently tickle her heart.

And she gazes into his eyes, mortified. Swallows hard.

“To be fair, he did hide that letter from you. A shame really, it was truly a pearl of literature.”

His breath tingles Emma’s lips, and it isn’t fair.

She snorts, she tries to at least, because it is hard to do anything when he is this close to her.

“David told you,” she mumbles, rolls her eyes dramatically, blushes furiously.

He isn’t denying the letter. He isn’t denying anything.

“Aye that he did. You can’t trust the guy with a secret, love.”

She doesn’t know what David told him over the phone, but Emma thinks it is safe to assume that it is somewhere near absolutely everything. And it should bother her, it should bother that secret and private part of herself, but Emma’s tired of fighting against herself, and she lets it go. All of it.

Her hand is still in his, twisted against his chest, right above his heart. She doesn’t mind. They could remain like this, forever, for all she minds. But that wouldn’t be very practical, now, would it?

“And it’s not like I didn’t know…” he continues, and Emma’s mouth drops even more, if it is possible. “I think I’ve known from the moment I met you. Haven’t you?”

A nervous chuckle shakes her shoulders.

“What exactly have you always known?”

“You can’t answer my question with another question, Swan. That’s just not how the English language works.”

“Well, if you could drop the metaphors and double entendre, then perhaps, perhaps I…” A breath. There’s no need to hide anymore, although something ludicrous seems about to explode inside her chest. “Y-yes, I think I knew...But I --”

“-- Good, because in that case, there’s no use for me to hold back from doing this…”

And as she opens her mouth to complain about metaphors and double entendre, again, he leans into her, tilts his face and, as Emma’s heart does a weird leaping thing in her chest, delicately presses his lips to hers.

While Emma does think it is definitely very rude of him to interrupt her like that, she cannot bring herself to complain too much.

Neither can she ignore the sudden explosion in her chest, thousands of strawberry bubbles of happiness that taste of childhood and dreams bursting out.

Oh god. She muffles a moan against his mouth, snatches her hand from his grip to tug at his hair, brings him closer to her, as close as humanly possible, presses her mouth harder against his, as hard she can, and she quite literally feels like a house set on fire.

Thump, thump, cries her heart, as their lips dance together, as his hand gets lost in her hair, and no air reaches her lungs and this goddamn flower keeps blooming inside her chest and there isn’t any space between them, and she’s pretty sure she’s combusting into flames, but it’s fine, it’s really fine when his mouth opens and gives her access to his tongue.

It’s a gentle kiss, in spite of the passion. It’s such a gentle kiss, in the way with which his hand tenderly lingers in her curls, as if he were afraid she’d shatter under his touch, or in the way his other arm curls around her waist, holds her tightly, but not too tightly, so as not to break her it seems.

Years of yearning will do that to you, make you afraid of shattering the glittering and fragile object of your affection.

And when they let go, burning forehead against burning forehead, because they really, really need to breathe, Emma doesn’t want to run. In fact, she doesn’t want this to ever end. And she doesn’t know it, but she smiles.

“Then why –” he begins, his lips lightly, delicately brushing against hers as he speaks.

And how dare he be talking! She can barely breathe.

“—why the wedding?” she lazily answers against his lips. “Because I didn’t think you cared…” A pause. “You never told me you did... You didn’t even call, after the k-kiss.”

Damnit, that was harder to spit out than anticipated. And it probably sounded more accusing than she wanted it to, but she forgives herself.

The painful memory allows her to step back a little, to gaze into his blue eyes and discover his cheeks crimson and an awestruck look on his face, as well as a lot of guilt and tenderness.

A sigh. “Of course I didn’t. I was waiting for you to do it. You were bloody engaged, may I remind you.”

Her brows furrow.

“And I did! But you didn’t answer.” Silence. “Tink did.”

She watches his features with weariness. She watches as he frowns. Backs away slightly, to gaze into her eyes, seems to seek the truth. And then, sighs.

“Of bloody course. Tink.” Emma watches as he rolls his eyes dramatically, hisses a few insults between his teeth.

She thinks he is still infuriatingly handsome.

Another nervous laughter begins rattling her body, because this is ridiculous, they are ridiculous, they just had to talk it out and it would have been fine but --

“Seems like our lack of communication isn’t only on us.”

Emma smirks. “Well, it’s mostly on us.”

“Point taken.” And it’s unfair because he smiles a bright smile then and her heart jumps once more.

And he looks down, again, at her lips, and Emma feels frozen only she is burning. She needs to kiss him again, and forever, probably.

“But if you cared--” Why is he talking again? She opens eyes she didn’t know she had shut to dart a murderous gaze on him. He doesn’t see it, the fool, keeps talking instead. “--why did you ask me to forget our kiss?”

That nearly knocks her out. “Our kiss? Which kiss?”

She doesn’t know just how right she is to ask this question.

He raises an eyebrow. His cheeks are flushed and his hair dishevelled, and Emma has to focus to look into his eyes and not stare at his swollen lips.

“You mean to tell me you don’t remember?”

And his eyes do a weird twitching thing. He doesn’t seem alright. And he sounds a little bit as if a part of himself has just died.

“I mean… I sure as hell think I would remember this.” Oh, she totally would.

“Your nineteenth birthday,” he exhales, and if he could raise his eyebrows any harder, they’d get stuck up his hairline, “we kissed on the rooftop right before you fell to the ground.”

Well, she does remember the wicked headache she got that day, but she thought it was caused by the alcohol and…

“No…Yes?” A pause. She frowns. Realization sinks in. Well that would explain a lot, indeed. “We did?”

That would explain his crumpled face as she asked him to forget their night, it would explain why he avoided her all through summer, and why he stayed with Milah, and why she started dating Neal in the first place, and oh -- they are two idiots, aren’t they?

“Aye. And you specifically asked me to forget that night.”

If she keeps frowning her eyebrows will remain stuck forever. She frowns harder.

“But I had no memory of that kiss.”

“Bloody hell.” And Killian lets go of a very dramatic sigh, shakes his head.

Emma’s mouth forms an “O” as she watches Killian glance further away, to the sea, and she begins to understand years of struggle could have been avoided, had they, had they…well, talked about it, it seems.

An angel passes.

“Damnit,” she whispers.

And Emma is surprised to find a chuckle tickling her throat. Why is she laughing? This isn’t funny.

He still isn’t looking at her. Impish waves keep nibbling their toes. She hates how heavy everything suddenly feels.

Emma thinks that all this time he thought-- he thought she didn’t care, but she did, oh she cared, and...

Emma breathes in, fingers pressed to her temples. Shrugs a bit, breathes out and casts an eye on Killian. He doesn’t seem alright. But she knows how to distract him.

“Since I don’t remember, allow me to ask: did you kiss me?”

His blue eyes flash in the dimness as she smirks.

She doesn’t think she has seen him look this offended before.

“I beg your pardon? You bloody kissed me, Emma!”

His high pitch does make her chuckle.

“Don’t give me that offended look. That does sound like something you’d do.”

Oh, the wrath sparkling in his gaze then, it’s a sight for sore eyes, and she cannot stop smiling.

“Nah, you were the one who melted onto my lips and sucked the bloody life out of me, perched on your high heels.”

“They weren’t that high. And, at least I did something about my feelings.”

“Well, you forgot so it was pretty useless in the end, anyway.”

“Hey!”

And her fist punches his chest, and he captures it again, traitor, and time stands still for a moment, as they glance at each other.

Everything still feels very fragile and terrifying. But that’s quite alright.

And then with a swing of his hip, he shifts her under his weight, onto the sand, and her body meets the ground softly.

His face surrounded by dark, tousled hair hides the moon from her sight, but as her breath catches in her chest, she doesn’t mind.

“You were saying?”

“Mmm…”

Emma thinks sand will get stuck in her hair. And it’s going to be a pain to wash it out. But that’s okay.

They’re only twenty-three, murmurs her inner voice, they’re allowed to be young and stupid and messy and –

“Well, I’m glad it didn’t take us another ten years to figure our shit out. Wouldn’t be nearly as sexy.”

“Speak for yourself, Swan.”

“Idiot.”

And without a second thought, or a first, she raises her face to capture his lips, drink his breath, because she is allowed to, and this is right and all she’s ever wanted.

.

Up the beach, down Main street, Killian and Emma walk along the roads of their childhood.

Emma doesn’t know where they are going, but it doesn’t seem to matter, not just yet.

Fear is of course lurking in one deep corner of her mind, but it is easy to ignore it while her hand is safely tucked in his.  

“Where are you staying?” she asks as they shift to stare at one another.

Granny’s green B&B sign flashes behind Killian’s back.

Amusement sparkles in his eyes. “Granny’s.”

Emma remembers New York’s cold street lights, and the snow melting onto her lips, and Killian’s damp hair, and the sad glimmer in his blue eyes and her cold, shaking hand in his.

It was the night she decided to give him up, not knowing, not knowing he cared too.

It was the night she would have burned in hell to hear him invite her into his hotel room.

(Was it worth it, all the pain, in the end?)

“Fancy a last drink, Swan?”

Streetlights dabble gold beams into his blue eyes.

She nods, a little out of breath. Something soft and awful swallows her from inside.

“Yeah.”

And down the road, up the stairs, they go, hands clasped together. Her bracelet jingles up the stairs.

Emma remembers standing on his porch before her eighteenth birthday party, forehead pressed to the door, eyes locked on her phone screen, heart beating fast, fast.

“Come in whenever you want, I’m ready!” And her stomach twisting at his reply.

Things were so easy while she was still convinced that she was in love with him and she would never love anyone else and they had all the time in the world.

She was wrong, but that’s also fine.

(Isn’t pain just pain?)

Click, he’s unlocked the door, and Emma steps forward to gaze inside. Beyond Granny’s questionable decoration choices, everything is clean and proper and Navy and Killian. What a relief.

It is quite late now, and exhaustion burns Emma’s eyes, circles her throat and crudely brings to light her fears and insecurities. She feels bare, exposed, vulnerable under the dark green chandelier.

For a short moment, she fears there will be too much to mend between them, too many scars over their chest for them to offer their hearts again.

“Make yourself at home, Swan.”

The red leather jacket is dropped onto the bed just as he neatly folds his own on a chair by the wall.

And she keeps staring at those four walls, at this cramped room, and she thinks a month ago she was marrying someone else.

She’s still scared. Is she supposed to be scared?

“You okay, love?” he nudges her.

His hand softly grabs her shoulder.

She shrugs. If she is honest with herself, she does feel a little bit overwhelmed. This room is too silent. She can almost hear past echoes of their hearts breaking.

“Yes, I’m just…”

“Reminiscing?”

A smile. “That’s not the word I would have gone for, but yeah.”

His hand hurtles down her arm and slides into hers. His touch still shoots electric trails all over her skin.

“Want to sit down, Swan?” A nod, and he’s tucking her down with him.

When Killian switches on the small outdated TV on the wooden table in front of them, Emma sighs in relief.

And when still no words echo between them, Emma feels his eyes burn the skin of her cheek.

New York again. A cold bench. The snow falling onto his hair. This pain, in her chest, as he utters her name. Milah.

(Pain is just pain.)

“What are you thinking about, Swan?”

She blinks, licks her lips. Breathes in.

Will not look at him.

Augusta airport this time. His back, his image printed in blood over her retinas, this dark shape she cannot forget, forever turned on her.

“The past.”

The pain.

Storybrooke’s town hall. Her weary eyes twitching back and forth from Neal towards the door. Begging Killian to appear. And he doesn’t. (Or he does, but he’s too late.)

“Listen, Emma,” and his fingers have found hers again, and they are soft, and she looks up to discover his eyes even gentler, and his lips spread in a tender smile, “The past is behind us and we cannot change it.”

“But there’s been so much pain…”

She sounds like she is twelve again, she can almost touch Ingrid’s wooden fence under her fingers, can almost feel the tingling fear that a splinter might get stuck in the tender skin, and she can almost smell the yellow irises, and it almost brings her to tears.

“I know. But we can do better now.”

She nods. Can they do better? What if all of this is just a chimera and they’ve both idealized their love and what if … What if none of this is real?

She should sleep. Her eyelids are heavy and her eyes burn.

But then his hand cups her cheek, and its warmth brings her back to reality, tethers her. Her own palm settles above his as she leans into his touch. Closes her eyes, for just one bit.

She is so tired. Morpheus is luring her into his arms.

“As long as I am alive--” Oh, but then he is talking, and his voice is velvet against her skin, and she opens her eyes to stare at him. She’s pretty sure he can hear the thump of her heart. “--you can live with the conviction, Swan, that I will always be by your side.” A pause. “Always.” Another silence, his words sinking into her skin, as his fingers trace butterflies along her neck. A smile. “I’ve always been in love with you. From the moment I met you.”

Oh. Her eyes widen. Thump, thump.

She is swallowed by a gigantic wave of confused feelings. She thinks an earthquake is shattering the windows and shaking the walls. She thinks a tear rolls down her cheek, but she is not crying.

And it’s not like she didn’t know, she knew, but, but also she didn’t, for so long, and this is all very confusing and unexpected but very much expected, and he keeps staring at her and she doesn’t know what to say, for fuck’s sake.

And the only answer she can come up with is her trembling hands caressing his cheeks and then slowly grabbing the lapel of his t-shirt, and then, finally -- the pressure of her lips against his. Tender, at first, and then furious, desperate, hungry.

She wants to tell him, I loved you when you walked away from me, the first time, and the times after that, as well. I loved you although you never looked back at me, and I couldn’t look forward. I loved you when you were avoiding me, and I loved you when I didn’t think I loved you anymore. But mostly, I loved you from the moment I met you.

Instead, she presses her mouth into his, fiercely, for all of those times she wishes she had been brave enough to kiss him and she didn’t.

And Emma forgives them both. Forgives their past mistakes and heartaches.

They will do better. (They want to, and that’s already half of the journey, isn’t it?)

.

A number. Nineteen. Emma’s nineteen tonight. He’s been for a while now. (He feels a hundred years old since Liam left. Feels like he’s been holding his breath for centuries. Only the pain doesn’t flatter.)

They’re on a rooftop. Emma’s pink dress floats in the wind, much like a pirate flag. Her smile, that night, is bright, vivid, infuriatingly confident as she glances down at his lips.

The waves crash against the sand, back and forth, back and forth.

Her body is warm against his chest. Both of his hands hold her waist.

Time stands still, as she stands up on her tip toes and kisses him.

It’s an explosion, then, in his chest. A mercurial bliss.

And this time, he catches her before the fall. He doesn’t let her go. This time, his grip is secure around her waist, his fingers firm around her hips as she stumbles forward and they chuckle together.

This time, she doesn’t forget their kiss.

No.

Instead, she stares deeply into his eyes and she says: “I’ve been meaning to do that for a while, now.”

And he says: “I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

And if everything is easy, it’s only because it is a dream.

.

A ray of sunshine tickles Killian’s eyelids. His face crinkles, he groans, opens one hesitant eye.

Bloody hell. What a dream. Or a nightmare, he cannot really tell.

There is a weight against his chest, bitterness at the back of his mouth.

He glances down. Emma. She fell asleep in his arms last night while he was slowly rocking her, and they forgot to close the shutters and now Killian will never fall back to sleep again.

His eyes still burn.

He gazes at her face buried in the hollow of his neck, blonde hair across his chest. He smiles.

A hospital room, eight months ago. A blinding, golden light. Her sleepy smile. “Oh, you’re awake?”

He would pinch himself if he had a hand to spare.

Those six months, without her, thinking she didn’t want him, were some of the bleakest of his life.

It was like losing a limb, only he lost two. And he had to keep on learning how to walk without an anchor, how to live without a hand and without hers to hold.

And then, David’s call, one morning.

“They broke up, Killian. Neal found your letter. I think you should do something about that, or I will personally come to murder you in your pitiful apartment, do you hear me?”

Emma snores lightly against his skin. He traces the shape of her jawline with gentle fingers.

He is terrified. Perhaps it is the only way to be, for now.

Perhaps it is good. It means they’re trying. They’re evolving, together, for the first time in ages.

A grunt, her small hand spread across her face, she’s starting to wake up, he can tell.

There is still a lot of sadness in his chest, for the boy who loved a girl and suffered deeply for it. For the boy who lost everything and still managed to lose more through the years, until there wasn’t anything left to lose.

Liam’s smile from his car window. A wave. And then void, nothing.

Killian clenches his jaw.

“Hey,” a small voice groans, “if you keep staring at me while I sleep, it’s going to get creepy.”

A grin.

“Sorry love, couldn’t sleep.”

Emma lifts her chin, green eyes shimmering in this golden morning light, and she tries a sleepy smile.

“Morning, Killian.”

“Morning, Emma.”

“Am I crushing you under my weight?”

“I think I’ll survive, love.”

She still hesitates to kiss him, he sees it in the small start of her head backwards, so he bends forward to kiss her.

It’s a sloppy morning kiss, but he wants all of them.

Last night, they absolutely did not take time to undress. Emma fell asleep like a rock, and he was too afraid he’d wake her up to try and remove his clothes.

But she seems very much awake as her legs curl around his hips, and it is very hard for Killian to ignore the way her dress climbs back up her thighs and gives away the beginning of her red panties.

He can feel his cheeks become hot and red, and suddenly Emma’s smirking at him.

“Like what you see?”

He swallows down.

“It’s quite alright, aye.”

A squeeze of her thighs around his torso, he is trapped, and his heart leaps.

“Alright?” she repeats. “That’s definitely a disappointing answer.”

As for Killian’s heart, it’s practically bursting out in his chest by now. He gulps.

He cannot say he hasn’t thought a lot about it, what it would feel like to go beyond a simple kiss with Emma. How her skin would taste under his tongue.

He may have started to think about it at around age fifteen, when he saw her come back from summer vacation all tan legs out, and he can still hear Liam’s mocking tone “If you open your mouth any wider, little brother, you’re going to swallow flies.”

The thoughts worsened after their kiss. There were some lonely, desperate moments as well during which he imagined tracing the shape of her body, much like his fingers flutter against the side of her leg right now.

His eyes don’t leave hers, scrutinizing her to know if he is allowed to go further.

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to, Emma,” he whispers.

The wicked smile she shoots him is a sufficient answer. “Oh don’t worry, I want to.”

And then her lips find his again and his fingers are gripping her thigh now, clutching her skin, leaving marks, climbing back up some more and feel the soft skin right under the fabric of her dress.

She moans against his mouth, and it’s a wonderful sound, and suddenly they are both wearing far too many clothes and they have to hurry or they’ll combust into flames.

Emma straddles him just as her nimble fingers pull her dress up and throw it over her head.

“Couldn’t have done it better myself,” he mumbles and it’s very hard to look anywhere else but at her naked body.

But she’s already getting impatient with his t-shirt, and she groans. “Come on Killian, help me. Raise your arms up.”

“Didn’t think you’d become such a morning person, Swan.”

She laughs a bit as his t-shirt hits the floor in its turn in a muffled sound, and she does this thing where she stops to gaze into his eyes and he will die for a lack of oxygen.

He watches as she swallows, ogling him.

“Some things are worth waking up for.”

And then she’s melting into the skin of his neck as her fingers sift through his hair, and Killian ceases completely to think.

.

A month later -- Augusta Airport.

Emma clutches Ingrid’s yellow irises against her chest. Her hold is gentle but her lips form a firm line.  

As she stares at the Arrivals Board in front of her, the beat of her heart is drumming in her ears, and she is pretty certain oxygen is having a very hard time reaching her lungs. 

He’s only been gone a week, mumbles her inner voice, but Emma’s too happy to pay attention to her pride. 

She glances up, and a breath of relief escapes Emma’s throat as the light next to Portsmouth changes color.  

“He’s landed,” she whispers to herself, flowers still pressed to her chest.

She glances down, careful not to damage the beautiful bouquet Ingrid offered last night, over the dinner table. 

“I know how much he loves them,” Ingrid smiled. 

Another look at the clock. He should be here any time now. 

Her heart skips a blissful beat. 

A part of her still cannot believe this is real. That he is coming home, for good, that Emma found them a cute apartment near the beach and they’re going to get everything they’ve ever dreamed of.  

“Are you sure you want to do this...I mean, we could wait, and I could go back to Ingrid’s for a while…”

A butterfly in the dark, a kiss in the night. 

“I’ve never been so sure of anything…” 

Gazing all around her, Emma spots the familiar large window in front of her. It still shows a blurry reflection of her body. Emma frowns. Well, that will never change. One hand reluctantly gives up on the flowers to comb her hair. 

It is now mid September in Storybrooke, Maine, and Emma has to admit she’s missed him.  

It wasn’t the kind of missing him she was far too familiar with only two months ago. It wasn’t a burning ache in her chest. It was just like losing your glasses and finding them again on your bed table, where you left them. It’s a kind of missing she knew to end. And it made a great difference. 

As she remains very still, feet stuck to the ground, she remembers shaking, bouncing up and down on her feet, waiting for him to come back the first time, four years ago. 

Nothing’s really changed. She is still Emma and he is still Killian. Except everything’s changed. 

It feels like another lifetime. Emma smiles down at the flowers in her hands. A very peaceful sunflower blooms in her chest. 

The crowd of people around her brings Emma back to the present. More people gather together, and Emma understands they are all just as eager to see their loved ones as she is.

And she waits, knowing her love is about to arrive. 

Another few minutes go by, and time seems to slow down. She clenches her jaw. Unclenches it. Come on, relax, Emma. 

And then… And then, there he is.

“Killian.” The blissful whisper escapes her throat as a brutal wave of bliss sweeps her off her feet. She doesn’t hold it back. It isn’t scary anymore.

  She’s somehow thankful to notice he hasn’t changed one bit, but it’s only been a week, what was she expecting? A tender hue of blue meets her eyes and smiles in recognition.

“Emma, my love,” he mirrors her happy sigh. 

Her heart beams as they walk towards each other, their pace sure and quick and knowing, and in a few steps he lets go of a thousand suitcases to pick her up from the ground. 

  “Careful, Killian, your flowers,” she complains even as her feet quit the floor.

And she tries to hold the bouquet away from his face, but he doesn’t seem to care and presses a long kiss to her mouth instead.  

She sighs happily into his embrace, wraps her arms around his neck, and her senses are filled by him – his smell, a strong cologne she is only too familiar with, his skin under her fingers, his tousled black hair.

“I missed you,” he exhales against her cheek, and drops another kiss to her cheek. 

She slowly backs away, smiling. “It’s only been a week…” 

He raises an eyebrow that challenges her to lie some more. She chuckles, crinkles her nose, mumbles: “Okay, I might have missed you too…”

He sighs a dramatic sigh, rolls his eyes. 

“Now, you nearly gave me a heart attack, Swan. I was this close from flying back to Portsmouth.”   

Idiot, her inner voice snorts, unimpressed. But her heart isn’t very concerned, and a giggle jolts out of her throat. Even her cheeks give her away, flush furiously, and she hates them for it - come on, it’s been a month now. 

Her hand lingers on his face, tracing the little scar on his cheek.  

“Are you going to take those flowers, or should I keep them for myself?” She attacks in a coy, sharp tone. 

He flutters his eyelashes. The fucker. 

“If the lady insists.” 

A roll of the eye, a bright smile, and Emma’s heart sighs -- defeated. And the flowers carefully slip into his hand. 

He drops another kiss to her lips. “Thank you, love.” 

“Of course, Killian.” 

And then there is this very dramatic moment during which they both stare at his three enormous suitcases and wonder how the hell they are going to make this work. 

“Damnit. Did you have to take your whole life with you?” 

“Well, a blonde lass did ask me to move in with her.” 

Her fist punches his shoulder, playfully. Another sigh echoes all through the airport’s hall. 

“Well, let’s go, I guess.”  

She’s quick to grab the bag he let go of to hold her and seizes two red suitcases. And he watches her, the fucker, flowers in the crook of his arm and the third suitcase secure his hand. He seems infinitely entertained. 

“Don’t you dare laugh in my face, Killian Jones.”

“Well, if it weren’t for the flowers, I could maybe hel-”

“-- NO. You keep the damn flowers! For once Ingrid offered them.” 

And as they are walking down the airport like old times, Emma knows they’ll do better. They already are doing better. 

(Emma thinks pain is just pain, and they should have known sooner, they should have known better but she also thinks that doesn’t matter because surely there is no kind of pain that cannot be absolved by a lot of love.)

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

@yasbio2015 @bubblegum1425 @daenerysmyhsa @dancingnancyy @elizabeethan @farewell-courgette  @beca0912 @stina-g @tenaciouskittynightmare @noensnaringnet @klynn-stormz @sekretny13 @tiganasummertree @vvbooklady1256 @brustudyblog @peggyyswan @thisonesatellite @ohmightydevviepuu @courtorderedcake @snowbellewells @kingofmyheart14 @teamhook @mariakov81​ @folkloreismylullaby​ @officerrogers​

(Might write some missing scenes, and add a few bonuses to this story, so if you’ve got anything in mind you’d like to read, hit me up ;) (actually hit me up for anything and let’s be friends.) 

[zombieratt]

Alright so forewarning this is LONG as FUCK specifically because i came up with this idea in early high school and was just today POSESSEd By the Spirit Of Musical Theatre to put it to paper— er Tumblr.

So without further ado:

DEAR EVAN HANSEN BUT EVAN ISNT A TERRIBLE PERSON AND CONNOR LIVES.

the beginning is the same, canon diverges just after waving through a window.

*this ended up getting written is script format? i also just sorta ignore alana’s whole exsistance bc in this version of the play she’s unnecessary*

In the moments before he talks to Connor evan decides to omit Zoe from his letter, having resolved himself to move on from her. (instead of being a hella creep.)

Connor: “dear Evan Hansen,” what are you writing letters to yourself? *he laughs*

Evan: its, uh, its for my therapist. its just a stupid little assignment that she says is supposed to help me process my feelings or— uh or something

Connor: hm. here. * hands Evan the letter*

Connor: your cast. no one’s signed it.

Evan: uh no. no one has.

Connor: gotta sharpie?

Evan: huh?

Connor: gotta sharpie? im gonna sign it.

Evan: *handing the sharpie to Connor* w- whuh uh why?

Connor: *shrugs* feels right.

Evan: i wish i could do that

Connor: what?

Evan: UH, IMEAN—

Connor: no wait- dude.

Evan: i mean uh, i meant that i wish i could just be, y’know impulsive like that.

Connor: Why Cant you be?

Evan: i uh, my heads pretty messed up, and stuff like that just, makes it worse i guess.

Connor: well theres some thing we have in common— were both fucked up in the head.

*the bell rings*

Evan: oh shoot! i missed the bus—

Connor: i’ll give you a ride.

Evan: are you sure i mean i can walk its not far-

Connor: all the more reason, i probably have to pass it on my way home anyway, cmon.

——

they meet Zoe in the parking lot

Zoe: I have Late practice today

Connor: whatever, gotta passenger.

Zoe: who the fuck would be crazy enough to trust your ability to drive?

Evan *being Brave*: Me Apparently?

Zoe: Uh, Evan Right?

Evan: yeah, uh, yeah.

Zoe *holding her hand out to be shaken*: i’m Zoe, we’ve met though right?

Evan wipes his hand on his shirt and shakes it: yeah, uh, nice to formally meet you, Zoe.

Zoe: i’m off, don’t kill him stoner.

Connor: i wont Princess

Evan breathing heavy: that was,, an eventful ten minutes.

Connor: oh fuck— you cool? or—

Evan: Panic Attack.

Connor: Right, uh

Connor: can you get in the car?

Evan: yeah

*car nonsense*

Connor: Can i start driving or do you want me to wait

Evan: Distractions are good,, Can Uh, Can you Talk about Stuff?

Connor: What stuff!??

Evan: any Stuff!

Connor: Is Zoe okay??

Evan: Sure?!

Connor: Uhh we don’t get along as well as we used to?

we were really close as kids, shes a huge asshole now but *fully venting now*

i kind of miss it you know? having someone to talk to and care about— and i still care about her— but its scary and i always fuck it up! not to mention the fact that our parents hate me— make her see me as some alien and not just a fucked up kid who wants to talk and — (more ranting that i dont feel like writing, but its a whole monologue bro)

Evan: Connor

Connor snaps his mouf shut: yeah

Evan: thanks

Connor: oh that, uh actually helped?

Evan: yeah focusing on your voice and whats real and stuff— it makes a difference.

Neither of them noticed that Connor was just sort of Driving. they end up at the park where in canon Connor commits Sewer-slide.

Evan: i didn’t know there was a park here.

Connor: huh, oh, yeah i guess i just sorta auto piloted, i come here to think.

Evan: About stuff?

Connor: Yeah, Stuff.

*the convo lulls*

Connor: do you have a laptop?

Evan: no, i uh, i left it at home? why?

Connor: give me a second

Connor walks to the car and grabs his back pack out of the back seat

Evan watches Quizzically from the swing-set

Connor pulls out a Sketch Pad and Pen, flipping to a clean page.

Connor: So tell me how to write one of those letters of yours.

Evan: uh, well you start like any other letter- just addressing it to yourself

Connor writing: Dear Connor Murphy,

Evan: and uh, my first one was supposed to be about my ideal summer vacation? since i started in middle school- but you don’t have to—

Connor: thats perfect.

Connor starts to sing for forever,

eventually Evan joins in there is a minor gay moment where they’re holding hands face to face.

the song ends with Connor hugging Evan.

Evan: its- its pretty late.

Connor obviously crying: just— just a couple more minutes.

Evan lets go and grabs Connors sketch book of the ground, closing it and handing it off to him: then how about this, labor day weekend- we actually go.

Connor: what are you talking about?

Evan: being spontaneous?

Connor: o-okay.

and it cuts to black.

theres a small montage here, as the set changes to Connor and Evans bedrooms

sincerely, me is a lament in this context, Connor and Evan are duetting from their respective rooms, writing to themselves.

(the lyrics are completely different and i will not be writing them here because thats too much fucking effort.

but they’re duetting from their bedrooms about making a connection to another person, feeling seen, for the first time. what it felt like and how they really want to keep it up but are afraid of making a mistake and ruining it.

its got some themes of waving thru a window, and a little bit of for forever, but its still largely the same notes just in a different key.)

after wards, Zoe knocks on Connors door to tell him dinner is ready to find him peacefully asleep.

requiem is the same, Zoe sees Connor as Dead to Her instead of actually dead, so some of the wording changes, so and so about how a monster doesn’t deserve peaceful rest etcetera.

school day happens, Connor doesn’t die, but the hot goss is that everyone saw Connor and Evan go home together after school, jared makes a shitty homophobic joke to Evan and Evan kind of tells him off about it. they argue and it culminates in Evan saying “well god forbid I’m friends with someone who isn’t YOU!” or smth like tht and it hits jared right the fuck at home man.

Connor says from the side lines: damn that was pretty hard core dude.

Evan: you have, no idea how long i’ve wanted to do that.

Connor honest to god l a u g h s, theres a number of people who hear it and lose their shit, Zoe being one of them: i have a pretty good idea, wanna get some lunch?

Evan: yeah, sure.

this general routine continues until labor day weekend, when they plan to go on their little escape. theres a short scene of Connor leaving the house with his keys and a backpack.

Connors mom confronts Zoe about his oddly upbeat attitude and hows he’s seemed differently lately Zoe Shrugs but decides to investigate his room.

she finds the letters. the first one is for forever, the theme plays as she reads it frantically, and is signed “Sincerely me (connor murphy)” so she knows its him, i f i could tell her begins but its a real duet between Connor and Zoe and at the end she resolves to try harder to connect to him.

Evan sings disappear to Connor after breaking into a formerly public park, in this context its him confessing that he broke his arm attempting su!c!de. Connor records it, for personal reference.

jared hacks Connors phone and steals the video, posting it to yt, in an effort to ruin their friendship.

Evan and Connor get in a little fight about it, and in the meantime Evan is called to the school to give an assembly because hes a phenomenal speaker and Disappear got like 1000000 views over night.

Zoe and Connor bond a little bit in a short scene before the assembly

Zoe: wheres Evan what happened?

Connor: Kleinman Did!

Zoe: what?

Connor: Why Do you care?

Zoe: because! you look happy around him!

Connor: i, i do?

Zoe: yeah? he could tell the worst joke ever written and you’d crack up. i haven’t heard you laugh like that in years Connor, maybe ever.

Connor: oh.

Zoe: Come back inside?

Connor: y, Yeah.

they all perform You Will Be Found together.

end act 1.

(no more dialogue from here i got tired)

to break in a glove is Connor’s dad trying to reconnect with him, it goes mediocrely, but Connor feels like hes being seen by his dad for the first time in years. its said in metaphors, but this is Connors dads way of saying that if Connor is willing to put in the work, so is he. they hug at the end, things are looking up. some talk of therapy is sprinkiled in the dialogue as they walk of stage together.

Only Us is Evan and Connor saying that they saved each other. its loosely romantic, as its a love song, but they don’t out right say that they’re in love or anything, they don’t know if theyre ready for that. its a promise. the song ends with Connor finally apologizing for pushing Evan over at the beginning of the show.

good for you is sung by jared only, as a power ballad, about losing people you didn’t treasure. its his attempt at an apology, but it ultimately fails, since jared is unable to take responsibility for his own actions. this is where jared and Evan go their separate ways.

Evan’s mom comforts him, as he sings words fail, which is about specifically jared, and how their rocky friendship is ruined and Evan pegs himself as the cause, instead of parents or perfect girl he uses metaphors that apply to best friends— maybe more. and talks about how he didn’t try, he was happy so he ignored that jared was hurting, and how that was really shitty of him. but instead of it being a generally somber song the end is lighter, because Connor is there— waving through his front window.

Evans mom sings So Big/So Small as Evan steps out the front door to embrace Connor and they mime talking about jared, hug and take hands. the house moves off stage in preparation for the finale.

Connor and Evan open the finale saying each others names, and sing it together as the test of the cast (minus jared) joins in, Evans mom taking his hand and Zoe Taking Connors, Evans mom the Murphys and Zoe break off to the back where Evan and Connor finish the final “all i see is sky for forever” while looking into each others eyes, and finish the musical by embracing (maybe kissing if thats ur jam).

[traincat]

Hi traincat! Hope you're doing well. I figured since you have an extensive knowledge on all things Spider-Man, you would know your way around his rogues! I wanted to ask if you have a favorite or one that you find most compelling and why. Thanks a million!

I think my answers for which rogues are my favorites and which I find most compelling and which are widely viewed as the best and why are all pretty wildly different. I do think the popular assessment that Spider-Man has one of the best rogues galleries in Marvel canon is true. Like, I think the absolute best Spider-Main villain story -- the one that gives you the best sense of the villain as a character and also the one that works best at uniting villain and is Kraven’s Last Hunt, which is just incredible on every level. (Content warning for suicide.)

(Web of Spider-Man #32) Also, like, in terms of design, Kraven is great. Love a big Russian game hunter perpetually bare chested and wearing leopard print cropped leggings. That’s not something you get sick of. Only Kraven Sr. for me, though -- I’m less fond of his son, although I think the whole family affairs in Grim Hunt and Scarlet Spider v2 are pretty fun.

On the other hand, though, I think that some of the biggest villains in Spider-Man’s gallery, namely Norman Osborn and Doc Ock, are overused, although I know why they’re overused and it’s because they’re really good villains. (But also you can only make people pay for the same story so many times with only minor variations before it starts to get old.) I think Norman and Peter are pretty perfect opposites, whereas Otto and Peter are mirror images -- although I think generally Norman stories pull off that opposite nature better than Otto stories reveal him as a mirrored image of Peter. 

I think it’s interesting that Otto is kind of the first “big” villain Peter encounters -- he makes his debut in ASM #3, so there are villains that come before him, but they’re like, the Vulture and the Chameleon. And there are great Vulture stories -- love that flying octogenarian -- but like, I would not put the Vulture in the absolute top tier Spider-Man villains. And the Chameleon is a freak.

Same, girl. (Web of Spider-Man #65) 

More villain talk beneath the cut.

By comparison, Otto is the first villain to actually serve Peter a real defeat, the first one to humble him. So I think it’s interesting that they come from very similar backgrounds -- both geniuses, both lonely as children, both people who were in danger of becoming very solitary, isolated adults, which Otto did and which Peter did not. They had a mother figure who verged on at times or was actually smothering in her affections, and a salt of the earth type father figure. And Otto gains his powers after suffering an accident with radiation much the same way Peter does. It’s one of the things that disappoints me about Superior Spider-Man, because I don’t think it plays into the idea of Otto and Peter as mirrored images of each other nearly as much as it could have. Even Otto’s Parker Industries originally showed up in a “bad” version of Peter’s life, where he never got bit by the spider and instead becomes a CEO:

(Sensational Spider-Man #41) “You prove yourself to everyone -- except yourself.” Which is what Otto is continually trying to do, and which is what he always falls short of. So it’s interesting that there’s kind of all this set up here and that the actual comics sort of continually fall short of it. 

Green Goblin stories live up to their rep a little better, in my opinion, and they’re better at playing into those parallels. Norman and Peter are both self-made men, but Norman is rich and Peter is not. Peter accepts responsibility and fault; Norman does not. Norman’s life is devoid of women, while Peter’s is full of it. If Norman and Peter are both studies in masculinity, then Norman’s is toxic and Peter’s is not. Peter is capable of growth; Norman is entrenched in this role he’s made for himself -- he is not capable of sustained growth beyond the role he’s made for himself. There’s a reason I think Norman gets used so much and it’s because it’s a heady dynamic to kind of play into -- especially when you go with the relatively more recent angle of things where Norman kind of views Peter as the perfect heir, worthy where Harry is not. Honestly, it’s a good time whenever you’re involving Harry in the mix at all, as someone caught between these two very powerful figures and how the tug-of-war there for ownership of him is just completely soul destroying. 

(Spectacular Spider-Man #180)

But I do think Norman is overused, and it’s gotten a point where in Amazing Spider-Man #800 it was like -- oh, what, he’s going to kill Flash? He’s going to kill someone else Peter loves? He’s killed like half the main-main cast at this point. He’s behind the murder of Peter and Mary Jane’s baby, he’s responsible for Ben Reilly’s death, he killed Gwen Stacy, Harry’s death goes directly back to him, he’s kidnapped May and Mary Jane and Flash and blah blah blah it’s JUST TOO MUCH. It can’t always be this one guy! You can’t just bring him back every 50 issues like “this time Norman Osborn’s gone too far” when he went too far in the ‘70s. Everything since then has just been trying to recapture the moment he threw Gwen Stacy off the bridge. It’s exhausting. I’m begging Spider-Man, as it starts hyping up yet another Norman story for ASM #850, to do something new.

In comparison to Norman, I think Harry’s run as the Green Goblin is fairly flawlessly executed as far as villain stories go, especially in its final hour. Spectacular Spider-Man #200 is really one of my favorite single issues of all time. Harry has the pathos that Norman really never does -- you can feel for Harry in a way that you can’t feel for Norman. And it’s because Harry loves Peter -- really, truly loves him -- that his acts of villainy take on that special edge of cruelty. It doesn’t just hurt Peter that these things are being done; it hurts Peter that these are being done and that it’s Harry doing them and that, in a lot of ways, they both blame Peter for why Harry is doing them, even if at the end of the day it’s in no way Peter’s fault. And then there’s the utterly perfect moment as Harry dies in Spectacular Spider-Man #200, that his act of triumph is that he can’t bring himself to kill Peter, because he loves him too much. It’s perfect. I live in fear they’re going to make Harry a villain again and try to replicate it only to fall painfully short. 

I think the Jackal is actually underutilized because he is in my honest opinion the scariest Spider-Man villain, or at the very least the creepiest. Where Norman can only dream of remaking Spider-Man in his own image, the Jackal actually does that with Ben Reilly -- and, to a lesser extent, with Kaine, his first damaged clone. He’s a good lurker, too, less show-y than either Otto or Norman. He lurked in the background for a while. And in a series where I think you can pick a lot of the villains apart as men who take advantage of their power, having the Jackal be a college professor whose villainous career stems from his obsession with one of his students fits right in. And he’s just creepy. He’s upsetting! The things he does to the clones -- both the Peter and Gwen clones, although I think the comics are not so great at letting the Gwen clones shine as individual characters, which is something I wish someone would actually do something about -- are very upsetting, especially since you can extrapolate from a lot of Kaine’s stories and the things we know bother him and how he’s consistently paralleled against Janine Godbe, that both Kaine and the Gwen clones were sexually abused by the Jackal. (Spider-Man’s not typically shy about examining darker subjects, and while we can only extrapolate from canon with Kaine, it’s extremely there on the surface with the Gwen clones. I mean, he married one.) And honestly, the villain who’s whole schtick is cloning makes more sense as someone who can repeatedly come back from anything than Norman’s deal of Corrupt Businessman Surprisingly Hard To Kill. I’ve said before that Peter appears to have a bit of a loophole in his personal moral code when it comes to violence that either has no consequences or lessened consequences, like when he cuts loose against Wolverine, someone who has a healing factor, or when he buried the Juggernaut, supposedly indestructible, in concrete. The Jackal as someone who could and has clone himself repeatedly opens up similar doorways -- what’s to stop Peter from cutting loose if the Jackal isn’t confined to this one body? There’s a lot to play with there and a lot more interesting spaces to go than, say, having to invent increasingly poor excuses for why Peter hasn’t taken more permanent action with Norman if Norman is always going to return to do harm to someone beloved to Peter.

Finally, I’m in a weird spot with personal favorite villains because honestly my instinct is to say the Lizard. And that’s an issue because of one fairly recent storyline and everything that’s spun out from it: Shed (Amazing Spider-Man #630-633), the storyline where Curt Connors loses all control over the Lizard, kills, and partially devours his son Billy. Like, I LIKE grim dark Spider-Man comics, and Shed is honestly too much for me -- not because of the Lizard’s actions, but because in the story Peter fails to save Billy. And I say not because of the Lizard’s actions because I think, as fun as a giant lizard man in purple pants and a lab coat can be, I think Curt Connors makes for one hell of a supervillain metaphor for domestic violence. 

(ASM #365)

(Spectacular Spider-Man v2 #13) And it’s very compelling. There’s a lot of things to explore down that alley. But once you actually go as far as having the Lizard kill his son, you can’t take that back. And the problem is, that’s what Spider-Man comics have tried to do post-Shed. It feels weird and deeply out of character to have writers assume that Peter could forgive the murder of any child, let alone a child he knew, and have him continue his relationship with Curt Connors. It’s a weird message to go “yeah, he ate his kid, but he wasn’t in control, and he made up for it via cloning, so we’re all good now.” Like imagine trying to spin that in any horror movie. It doesn’t work -- that your villain kills his kid and then clones him and pretends everything is okay now would be the plot of the horror movie. Spider-Man is a series fundamentally built on the fact that actions have consequences, and sometimes those consequences are utterly unfixable. Peter can’t go back and intercept the burglar to prevent Uncle Ben’s death. He can’t clone Uncle Ben and wipe that incident out of history. So to have a story like Shed in continuity as something that doesn’t alter Peter’s perception of Curt Connors forever doesn’t work.

Anyway that’s why my favorite villain is the Shocker. Love that quilted bastard.

[janus-stanus]

Do you have any Janus headcanons that you want to share?? I seriously love reading peoples' headcanon

You want Janus headcanons? I’ll give you Janus headcanons. All the headcanons.

* Janus came into existence as a Side later than the others, and he wasn’t initially Deceit. More on that here and here (though I have some changes in mind for when I actually write something out of it, hehe)

* He became in charge of keeping Remus out of school things kind of by default, and from there, they bonded.

* He got into spats with Patton often, which he took way more seriously than Patton ever did. Usually everyone else sided with Patton, cause they knew and trust him. Especially Roman.

* Janus learned to fake confidence fairly early on. He figured, he had to convince himself that he knew what he was doing before the others would take him seriously. You know. “I am the first one I deceive”. That. Oh, and “Razzle Dazzle”.

* He’s planted “roots” in Thomas’s mental system, like a network of cables that can transfer information to him almost instantly. He has clusters of roots form around secrets he (or the others) is (are) keeping from Thomas. For the aesthetic, his eyes glow gold when he checks in to it, and the information rings in his ears like hissing.

* As a kid he wore a yellow shirt, with a waistcoat over it to make himself appear more professional. As a teen, he wore a long black coat, a fedora, and a striped yellow scarf. There’s more I want to say about the scarf, but, spoilers.

* ...That being said, I will spoil this from the wip where the sides all find their names: Logan helped Janus find his (ever notice that we didn’t see Logan’s reaction to Janus’s name reveal in POF? I’m running with it). He liked the name, it felt right... but it, at this point, didn’t really tell him anymore about what his purpose was supposed to be.

* It stops being a sore spot for him at a certain point, but then by the time of POF, where his failures have definitely not been getting to him, it kinda sorta is again! Hence, his... reaction, to Roman’s... reaction.

* (Also, it’s just his instinct by this point to be snide and pointedly cruel when he’s hurt or backed into a corner. He knows how to go for the jugular, and sometimes he doesn’t realize - or doesn’t care - just how deep his blows will cut.)

* Since I mentioned Jan originally not being Deceit... here’s a song that basically lays out why he came to take on that role :) (spotify recced this to me a few days ago and I’m still not over it)

* It was only once Janus became Deceit that he started gaining his snake features. First fangs; then the changes to his left eye; then his scales. Right before the other sides found out about the gay, the scales covered his whole face, and probably went below his shoulders too. It was bad. By teen times they’ve receded to mostly one side of his face, but they’re still on his neck for a few years (hence the scarf).

* Jump ahead to Thomas in early high school, and Janus, for reasons that would be Big Time Spoilers (though I may be able to... share some excerpts... if people want...), chose to cut himself and Remus off from Thomas. He keeps their existence a secret, having them only influence Thomas subconsciously, until, well, the series basically. (Virgil joined the “others” shortly after the divide, of his own choice, and thus wasn’t hidden from Thomas like the rest of them were.)

* For all those years, Janus whispered comforting lies to Thomas. Lies that stopped working after he revealed himself in CLBG, because Thomas now recognized that voice as belonging to his deceitful side. I have a wip about this that I’m planning to finish and post for his birthday!

* Janus helped Thomas believe that he was an honest person. A good person, even. Because, that’s what Thomas wanted, as evidenced by the Big Time Spoilers. Even as Janus recognized the long term impacts of the lie. Even as he himself thought the whole moral dilemma was a distraction at best.

* The more Janus dedicated himself to becoming Deceit, the more he came to rely on lies, which is a large part of why his and Virgil’s relationship collapsed. All their conversations became like, to borrow an old metaphor of mine, fencing duels, with Janus always trying to assert his control and distract from his intentions with witty remarks, and Virgil always assuming the worst of him, rapidly switching between offense and defense.

* Janus and Remus’s relationship was, and is, much less hostile. Yes, Remus gets on his nerves, literally every day... but, unlike the others when it comes to Jan, “trust” isn’t a hurdle for Remus. They’re partners in crime; they’re best friends. And that’s enough. It has to be.

* I don’t really have a better place for the following diatribe, so here we go:

Ever since the Big Time Spoilers thing, Janus has done what he can to eliminate and prevent any feelings of regret for the bad things he does. He justifies to himself that it was the best choice he could have made, that it was a necessary evil; or, he convinces himself that what he said or did wasn’t that bad, the blame is on the everyone else for reacting the way they did; or, he simply goes “oopsie, my bad, definitely won’t repeat that mistake” and does everything he can not to think about it again. To quote the song “Devil in the Details” from his playlist again, “I put my past into the ground”.

Speaking of songs, there’s this line from the song “Never Love an Anchor” by The Crane Wives, one of my favorite bands incidentally:

It's a secret I keep tucked inside my chest With this heart of mine that’s guilty not remorseful

Janus will readily admit to being guilty of having made bad decisions, decisions that hurt people (though in the moment he will be unreasonably stubborn about admitting he’s doing something wrong/stupid, to self defeating ends).

But remorseful? No, he’s never remorseful. At least, he’d like to believe he isn’t (because that would just make things so much more complicated).

And when so much of your own conception of yourself is based on lies you’ve told, to feel more confident, to feel like you belong, like you’re doing what you should be doing...

Is there really a difference?

I have No way Of telling The two Apart

Oh hey, “Devil in the Details”, what are you doing here again? It’s almost like I draw half of my entire Janus characterization from you alone /hj

* (This is a deliberate contradictory parallel to Virgil, who seems to keep a full record of every mistake Thomas has made (see ATDH). Anxiety constantly digs up your past mistakes, theoretically to make sure you don’t repeat them. What Thomas needs, as with every dilemma in this series, is a healthy balance between their two perspectives.)

* The last of the pre-canon headcanons I have is this. TL;DR, Janus helps Roman out when Thomas plays villianous roles (their cooperation could perhaps explain why Roman initially described Janus as “very nice”)

* Janus’s plan for CLBG was not to get caught; he was hoping to convince Thomas of his various merits over the course of multiple discussions, before properly revealing himself.

* When PattonJanus asks, “Virgil, it’s me. Aren’t we friends?” That’s like 10% him still trying to keep up the facade, but 90% him asking genuinely. And the fact that Virgil can’t even look at him when he answers implies that he has some doubt too... because it still might be Patton and he doesn’t want to hurt him? Or because, he knows it’s Janus, but his feelings are just that complicated?

* In between CLBG and SvS, Janus realizes the thing I pointed out earlier about his subconscious lies suddenly working not nearly as well on Thomas - specifically, the whole “good person” thing, since it’s currently causing him a lot of stress. Instead of dwelling on the fact that this has kind of undone years and years of work on his end, Janus goes, “You know what? I never believed that bullshit mattered anyway! I should convince Thomas that it doesn’t matter either; it’ll be much better for him in the long term.” And then the wedding vs callback dilemma presents the perfect opportunity. Hence, SvS, parts 1 and 2.

* Janus can read the other sides like open books... but only if they’re acting within the narrow perspective of what Janus would expect from them. The biggest example is with Roman in SvS. Janus knows that Roman wants to go to the callback more than anything. He’s Thomas’s Hopes and Dreams, for Pete’s sake! But what he doesn’t expect, is the extent to which Roman priorities Thomas being good (or believing himself to be good), even at the expense of his actual role as a side. That’s why Roman’s sentencing of Thomas throws him so badly; it’s when he realizes just how much Patton’s unopposed influence has affected Thomas (not that Patton ever meant it that way).

* My thoughts on Janus’s motivations for setting Remus loose in DWIT and his feelings on the matter afterward are covered in this fic (which you’ve commented on, but you know the hustle, gotta self promo where I can)

* So. Putting Others First. I don’t have much to add on top of the wonderful canon content it gave us. But.

“Sometimes I don't know the way. But... When I told you that, you were so scared. I couldn't bear it. So I said to myself, ‘Alright, Patton. Thomas needs you. You're responsible for his morality. You can never not have an answer for him.’

After Patton says this, the cut to Janus?

The Thing his face does after the eyebrow raise?

I live for this shit.

A while ago, my headcanon for this moment was that it was when Janus realized that Thomas wanted to be a good person, as much and as genuinely as he wanted anything else (like, being famous and fulfilling his dreams), and that, as the one who wants what Thomas wants, it’s a drive he should take into consideration. But then I rewatched CLBG, and was struck by this exchange:

[Thomas]: Why didn't I know about him until now? [Virgil]: He had you convinced you're an honest person. [Thomas]: But I... AM an honest person. [Deceit]: Oh, you are, Thomas. You are a good person. Everybody says so.

This is where some fo the earlier stuff about Janus playing into Thomas’s belief that he was a good person came from, and it required a changing of my interpretation of That Look in POF. So now? I take it as the moment Janus realizes that, when he revealed himself like a Scooby Doo villain, the effect wasn’t just that he could no longer use his comforting lies on Thomas. It put the whole responsibility of Thomas believing he’s good, something obviously very important to him, onto Patton, a side he could trust. And Janus knows what kind of toll that burden must have taken on him.

* I have plans now for a Janus & Patton fic set after the Janus & Logan one that’s been in limbo since the summer which will delve more into Janus’s vulnerabilities, going back to the whole idea of him being guilty but not feeling remorseful.

To not give away too much... Like how Logan insists he doesn’t feel things because he’s Logic, because it would get in the way of his function, Janus insists that he doesn’t have any interest in his own morality or how he’s perceived by the other sides, because it would get in the way of his ability to do what’s best for Thomas. He needs to be able to push Thomas to act in his own self-interest in all scenarios, and otherwise manipulate things behind the scenes, even when it requires being immoral. So he, Janus, can’t care about being a good person.

But Janus is a part of Thomas. And he won’t get away with hiding from the implications of that for much longer. 

He’ll have to face the mortifying ordeal of being known, and of feeling remorse.

Will this be his arc in canon? Who knows; I’m just having fun :)

...Those last two got kinda long. Sorry about that, lol. Let’s knock some final few ones out.

* Moving on, in FWSA, both Patton and Janus were watching the proceedings, with Janus contributing when called on (something he’s not used to, especially at that frequency). This leads to this post.

* Janus wants to have control, influence, some modicum of power, in any scenario he’s in. He does not like leaving things up to other people. He’s learned he can’t predict Remus and has mostly come to live with that, and he’ll ultimately bow to Thomas’s judgement if it conflicts with his own, but they are the only exceptions.

* This post.

* I don’t think about human AUs much, but, if you’ll allow me some projection: human Janus who’s nonbinary with eczema.

* An UnderTale related thought I posted months ago: A human Janus in that world would be a Determination (Red) soul, who has at times attempted and spectacularly failed at being a Patience soul. Put another way, the boy tries to plan and wait things out, but... you know.

* Lastly, he’s an enneagram type eight. Enjoy the song, and thanks for asking about my thoughts!

[fanfic-corner]

Cafe AU

6/11/20 - Someone requested I do some Cafe AUs, and boy am I glad they did, or else I wouldn’t have read these fics. They are just another level of relaxing (mostly!).

A Little Slice of Heaven by onamelancholyhill on AO3. (112,265 words).

Tags: Slow Build, Friends to Lovers, Falling in Love, POV Dean Winchester, POV Castiel, POV Third Person, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Friendship, Family, Episode s04e17 It’s a Terrible Life, Alternate Universe - Human, Explicit Sexual Content, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Bisexual Dean, Idiots in Love, Making Out, Apple Pie Life.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Jim Morrison once said, “The most important kind of freedom is to be what you really are.” That was Castiel Novak’s motto in life, and the reason why he accepted his grandmother's inheritance and took the responsibility it implied. Dean Winchester, a remarkable accountant at Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc., however, had other priorities. He lived to serve, hidden in a mask that didn’t allow him to be honest with himself, but lonesome and boring. When destiny made their paths cross, in a less than promising way, with Dean as the instigator and Castiel as his victim, Dean’s mind started wandering, in between pies and cakes, coffees and muffins... What if Mr. Morrison was right? After all, as the guy used to say, "there can’t be any large-scale revolution, until there’s a personal revolution first."

Notes: So cute, and the plot was great! It’s really making me want to rewatch It’s A Terrible Life. I did have to google who Sarah Blake was though, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a fic with her in.

In the House of the Rising Bun by imissmaeberry on AO3. (9,046 words).

Tags: Bakery and Coffee Shop, Baker Dean, Barista Sam, College Campus, Poet Castiel, Mutual Pining, Daddy Issues, Background Sam/Jess, Past Balthazar/Castiel.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Dean Winchester only has three rules concerning the cafe he and his brother Sam own, "House of the Rising Bun".

1. Any and all opportunities to make a pun will be taken. 2. Free regular coffee with your student ID (If you want some of that fancy nonsense you gotta pay, sorry kids). 3. Anyone and everyone is always welcome.

Between Dean running the shop full-time and Sam helping out whenever he isn't in class, there really isn't a whole lot of time for romance for either of them. But that all changes when they gain a new regular - some writer from London - who may or may not have the bluest eyes Dean's ever seen.

Notes: First of all, the puns were amazing and I am willing to fight people on that. Secondly, that was so sweet and funny I am afraid I might have to disappear under mysterious circumstances and open my own cafe...

Just Your Heart, In Exchange For Mine by noxsoulmate on AO3. (46,808 words).

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Bakery Shop Owner Dean Winchester, Retired Hunter Dean, Cas is a witch, Canon-Typical Violence, Witch Curses, Demisexuality, Dean Winchester’s First Time With a Man.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: Dean owns a bakery and Castiel loves his pie. This could be such a cute little bakery love story – if it weren’t for the fact that one was a retired hunter and the other one a powerful witch. There’s also the matter of the black little cat Dean finds in front of his bakery one cold and rainy night. Not to forget the crazy witch on the loose, ripping out other witches’ hearts.

Notes: Absolutely adorable, and the artwork was phenomenal! This fic also hit me right in the feels.

Through a Bakery Shop Window by thatwriterlady on AO3. (2,860 words).

Tags: Dean Has a Crush on Castiel, Shy Dean, Sweet Castiel, Dean has Asperger’s, Dean has Social Anxiety, Socially Awkward Castiel, Fluff, Coffee Shop Owner Castiel, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Discussion of Asperger’s, Mention of Autism, Dean has OCD, Castiel has OCD, Castiel has ADD.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: Dean passes a bakery every day on his way to work and it smells so good. Through the window he catches glimpses of the man that works there. Dark, messy hair and a bright smile intrigue Dean and he decides to break his usual routine and drag his brother in one Saturday for breakfast. He didn't intend to even so much as see the man, let alone talk to him, but Sam is rather persuasive...

Notes: Okay, this was so precious! Plus Sam and Gabe having a conversation about their little brothers was so cute.

My Own Little World by tale_to_tell on AO3. (6,858 words).

Tags: Hurt Dean, Protective Castiel, Meet-Cute, Fluff, Pining, Coffee Shops, Implied Domestic Violence, Abusive Alistair, Abusive Relationships, First Kiss, Human Castiel, Protective Sam Winchester, Dean Has Self-Worth Issues, POV Castiel, Love Confessions, Implied Sexual Content, Light Angst, Happy Ending.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: Castiel stumbles into a local café in order to avoid the rain, and during the process he meets a very attractive barista by the name of Dean Winchester. It doesn't take long for Castiel to fall in love with Dean's wit and charm.Too bad that Dean has a boyfriend.

Notes: This was fairly sweet, and I was not expecting the Sabriel content (always read the tags, folks). Also, return of Alistair being an asshole! I would have forgot he existed if he didn’t keep popping up in these fics.

Alfie wears a dress by Morethanacupcake on AO3. (2,402 words).

Tags: Alternate Universe, Bakery and Coffee Shop, First Meetings, Love at First Sight, Kid Fic, First Kiss, Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff.

My Rating: 3 stars.

Description: "But the little boy watching TV on his living room is sporting a huge bruise on his cheek, the dark and purple kind. And he’s wearing a dress.” Dean meets Alfie Novak, a sweet little boy who likes to cook and wears dresses. He meets Alfie's dad, Castiel, and starts a little revolution in their little town.

Notes: This was so sweet, Cas is the best dad, and I will be forever plagued by the image of Ash and Benny in a dress.

Finding the Words by Honey_Bee80 on AO3. (1,530 words).

Tags: Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Baker Dean, Writer Castiel, Mutual Pining, First Kiss, Cas is Clueless, Bisexual Dean, Pansexual Castiel, Writer’s Block, Fluff, Alternate Universe - Human, Human Castiel, First Dates.

My Rating: 3 stars.

Description: Cas is a writer who's stuck. Dean and Sam own a bakery. Basically I'm a sucker for coffee shop/bakery stuff and needed Cas in glasses.

Notes: This was fairly adorable and the way the author managed to slip in a hint of Cockles was very smooth (although shipping real people makes me a little bit uncomfy).

Chocolate, Caramel, and Zombies (Of a Metaphorical Sense) by TextReciprocation on AO3. (1,461 words).

Tags: Bakery and Coffee Shop, Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff.

My Rating: 4 stars.

Description: Castiel approached the counter and looked at the menu contemplatively. The barista spun around to face him, eyes bright and hair untidy. He was roughly Castiel's height and build, with sandy hair and lightly tanned skin. Castiel's breath caught at the sight of him, but he bit his tongue, chastising himself.Cute baristas were rarely gay and always taken. Castiel knew this. Fate, as it happened, was a cruel mistress.

Notes: Very cute, and Cas was an absolute mood in this. It made me feel tired just reading it!

And as a bonus for all the Good Omens fans...

The Angel Cake Challenge by almaasi on AO3. (8,132 words).

Tags: Canon Universe, Fluff, Romance, Team Free Will 2.0, Day At The Beach, Mistaken For A Couple, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Food as a Metaphor For Love, Public Displays of Affection, Pet Names, Endearments, First Kiss, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Closeted Dean, Coming Out, No Prior Knowledge of Good Omens Needed.

My Rating: 5 stars.

Description: There's a kooky gay couple sitting in this little beachside bistro, at the table next to Dean. Dean's biggest mistake was telling them they looked cute together. Now they've noticed Cas, and they're silently encouraging Dean to be as openly affectionate as them. Dean didn't sign up for this challenge. But now? Hell, he's in it to win it.

Notes: Okay, technically no one owns/works at a coffee shop, but it is set at one, and it is adorable. I love my Ineffable Husbands, and I love Destiel, so this was perfect. Also, I may not have met him yet, but Jack was adorable.

So, if I disappear forever, you’ll all know where to find me. Seriously though, these are some of the cutest fics I have ever read. And if you ever want to suggest a fic or a list, please don’t hesitate to ask me!

[nev3rfound]

creaking door : b.b

brief summary: bucky has a tendency to come visit you during the night. but when he is away on a mission, you can’t help but long for the creaking of your door and his company

word count: 2k requested: nope, just an idea I had :) warnings: none that i’m aware of

(everything on my blog is my own writing. if it is shared on another page or website know it isn’t me. all rights reserved. - thank you to everyone who helped regarding the wattpad situation, you’re all amazing)

* masterlistin’

** permanent taglist

You always knew when he was entering the room. For someone who was trained to perfect the art of suspense, to never be heard he clearly never dealt with doors that announce any form of presence. 

Light would glide into your bedroom as he pushed it open, turning the door handle slowly to avoid any stir from you as you were asleep. Slowly, the artificial light would rise, growing further toward your bed and expose you curled up into your pillows. It was a sight he couldn’t help but smile at, how cosy you seemed as you subconsciously pulled the blanket further over your body to stop the small shiver that spreads through your body.

And then the door would creak. You told Tony it needed oiling, but he insisted the noise would die down with enough time. At first, you didn’t care about it, but since these late-night conversations have been happening, you wish you bought the oil yourself. 

His hand would tense around the door as he heard you turn over, groaning in your sleep. As his fingers would slowly lose grip the creaking only increased and this time your stirring awoke you. 

Sitting upright, you squint as he stands tall with a slither of light illuminating his metal arm. “Bucky?” You mumble sleepily, rubbing your eyes as you reach for your lamp, but Bucky moves closer.

“It’s okay, you don’t need to turn the light on.” He insists, hesitant to move any closer as he gnaws at the inside of his cheek.

“Is everything alright?” This was your first question to ask when he would come in. You learnt about the nightmares, the terrors that plague his mind a few months ago during a mission you were both on. 

It was a mission of playing sitting ducks. You were kept inside of a hotel room for days on end, taking it in turns to keep watch. Bucky couldn’t hide the fact he struggled to sleep with you around every minute of the day, so when he woke up screaming he explained it all. From then on, you promised he could come and talk to you when he needed it. 

This was an offer Bucky deeply appreciated, even if he struggled to show it on the surface.

Bucky stumbles forward before turning around to close the door, cancel out any light and invasive ears. “I, I had the same dream.” He speaks softly, never wanting to raise his voice above a whisper whenever he interrupts your sleep. 

“Hey,” You speak up, shuffling as you rise to your feet and walk over. 

Despite the darkness of your room, Bucky can see you perfectly. He watches as your hand rises to his cheek, resting against his skin delicately before guiding him toward your bed. 

He’d always start off by perching on the edge, his weight causing a small dip in the mattress as he sat upright. But as the words began to leave his lips, his posture began to slouch. Eventually, Bucky would end up lying beside you, muttering the end of his nightmare as you silently listened. 

Secretly Bucky enjoyed the fact you didn’t cut into his nightmares. You knew he had to tell it to someone with a clear vision of what happened. If you interrupted it, it would corrupt the nightmare, ruin the precise moment that happened that caused him to come to you. 

“It’ll be okay, you know.” You say quietly, tugging on the duvet as Bucky slides beneath them. 

Lying beside you, Bucky nods. “Someday.” He always tells you. How someday things will change, but not today. 

“You okay to get to sleep?” You whisper, your fingers gliding across the metal plates of his arm as your eyes grow heavy.

“Get some sleep, doll.” Bucky whispers, gazing from your tired eyes to your lips wishing he had the confidence to act on his suppressed feelings. “Thanks for always listenin’.” He mutters, only to hear a soft snore in response. 

*

It had been over a week since your door had been opened in the middle of the night. But you still awoke despite his absence, wondering if he was outside hesitantly waiting to enter. 

“Buck?” You call out, wrapping your arms around yourself as you wander through the compound. 

Entering the kitchen, you listen to the sound of water being poured and a heavy sigh. As you turn the corner, you see Steve hunched over the counter. 

“Didn’t expect company this time of night.” Steve speaks up, looking out of the corner of his eye to see you stand almost too still. “It’s okay, Y/n. I don’t bite.” He jokes, sensing you easing before you take a seat opposite him. 

Sighing under your breath, you tug on the sleeves of your jumper to cover your hands. “How come you’re up?” You question, focusing your gaze on the spoon stirring against the ceramic mug. 

Steve shrugs a shoulder, placing the spoon down on the counter as the brown liquid drips. “Felt restless.” He states as his eyes fixate on the swirls of the liquid in his mug whilst his hand loosely grips the handle. “With the mission and everything, just feel a bit lost.” He explains, glancing up to see you nodding along, not butting in. 

A small laugh escapes Steve’s lips, catching you out of your deep thoughts. “Mmh?” You mumble, looking up as Steve shakes his head slightly. 

“I get what Bucky means now.” He says to himself, seeing you straighten up and raise an eyebrow at his comment.

“What’s Bucky told you, Steve?” You smile playfully, watching as he lets go of the handle and sits back down.

Steve glances over his shoulder before looking back at you. “This conversation doesn’t leave this room.” He mutters.

You nod along. “Yeah, it won’t leave this room, or FRIDAY either when Tony does his annual gossip hunt.” You joke, and Steve sighs to himself knowing he’s helpless. 

“Follow me.” Steve rises to his feet, picking the mug up as he wanders over to the balcony. As he pushes the doors open, he glances over his shoulder to see you still sitting quite happily in the chair. “Come on, Y/n.” He says with a small sigh, watching as you force yourself to your feet and into the cool breeze. 

A shiver buries beneath your skin as you wrap your arms around yourself tightly. “What did he say, Steve?” You ask again through chattering teeth whilst Steve remains perfectly composed. 

Avoiding the curiosity in your eyes, Steve instead focuses on the view ahead. He locks his vision on a tall tower illuminated by lights. Light was often something he heard in association to you, not that he could say in depth the beautiful metaphors Bucky uses to describe you. 

“He finds comfort in knowing you’re there of an evening.” Steve states, noticing you shift beside him. “That, you don’t let him down. It, it doesn’t matter how tired you are because you make time work for you.” He repeats the words Bucky told him days before he left on the mission, one you seemed oblivious to. 

“Huh.” You hum, nodding to avoid the racing thoughts that circulate inside of your head. “So you know about it then?” You lift your head up, seeing Steve smile softly to you.

“One thing about Bucky worth knowing, Y/n.” Steve turns to face you, leaning his weight against the balcony as you continue to shiver. “He only shares information if it’s worth knowing. And clearly, you mean a lot to him.”

With that slither of information, Steve wanders back inside leaving you in a dazed state, focusing on the flickering lights of the city ahead.

"You comin' back inside or planning on freezing out there?" Steve calls out as he holds the door open, a small smile forming across his lips as you return to Earth and rush past him, leaving a trail of thoughts behind you as you head back to your room.

*

"You doin' alright?" Steve walks toward a series of the team as they depart from the debriefing room, all wearing exhaustion across their faces as they pass him with their heads held low.

Bucky is the last to walk out, trying to avoid the temptation to relive the events that had taken place over the last seven days. With every blink, he can see gunfire, another body falling lifelessly to the ground. He glances up, seeing his best friend forcing a meek smile in the hope Bucky might crack more than a frown.

"Why're you up?" Bucky questions, walking alongside Steve as they near the compound.

Steve shrugs his shoulder in response, following Bucky's gaze toward your suite.

"Couldn't sleep," Steve responds before continuing on before noticing Bucky remaining situated outside of your suite. "Buck,"

"I know," Bucky states, a small sigh leaving his lips. "I know I should tell her, but, I don't know." Retracting his hand from the door handle, Bucky steps away and follows behind Steve, keeping his head low before entering his own room once again with doubt clouding his mind.

Hours had passed by, and a slither of light was peaking through the blinds focusing on Bucky. It illuminated the desperation to leave his room, the need to be held close by someone who genuinely cared about him. It was past a want, it stopped becoming an idea months ago and turned into a need the moment he woke up and saw you in his arms. You seemed so delicate in his embrace, a small smile lining your lips as you remained in a deep sleep.

He couldn’t ignore the gnawing forever and forced himself to his feet. Bucky knew the route from his suite to yours backwards, if need be he could do it in his sleep.

Approaching your door, he releases a shaky sigh knowing the next time he exits the door he’ll have said everything. You’d know how he feels, whether it’s accepted or rejected, it would be out there and not concealed.

Slowly turning the doorknob, Bucky waits to hear that creaks of the locks turning. Yet, for the first time since he started coming into your room late at night, no sound follows. Silence spreads as the door swings open in the darkness leaving Bucky slightly dumbfounded. Never before had he realised how much he depended on that sound. He never had to make the first move voluntarily. Sure, the door alerted you, but you always spoke up in response.

“Bucky?” You call out in your sleep, stirring from your body facing the window to the side he would lie beside you. “Please come home.” You murmur sadly, oblivious to him standing in the doorway and not a figure in your dreams.

Bucky moves forward and closes the door behind him, wincing as a reflex for the sound that never follows. He tiptoes over to his side of the bed, climbing in beside you.

Subconsciously you turn and cuddle into his arms, shuffling as you bury your head into his warm chest with a hum.

“You got that door fixed?” Bucky mumbles you, watching as you slowly open your eyes and look up at him with a small smile.

“Yeah, Tony fixed it whilst you were gone.” You whisper, focusing on his eyes, his features, his hair as it falls forward covering the gashes lining his skin. “You never said goodbye.” You remind him, sadness lining your tone hitting Bucky in the heart.

“I didn’t want to see you sad, doll.” Bucky brushes his fingers through your hair, refusing to you go from his embrace. “I’m sorry, Y/n.” He tells you softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

His lips linger, and he can feel you drifting off to sleep beneath him. “G’night, Bucky.” You whisper, resting your hand on his chest.

A small smile crosses his lips as he rests his head on top of yours, his arm across your waist holding you close. “Goodnight, Y/n.” He mutters back as he listens to you snore quietly. “I’ll love you more than you’ll ever know.”

t a g l i s t (thank you for the support!) link in my bio to add yourself☺️

@biss-stuff   @psychicforest  @lourightm @mywinterwolf   @justsomedreaming @stanlux17@supermoonchildbroski @xrosegoldwolfx @courtneychicken@marvelsangels @supraveng @tommy-lee-81

[whaticannotshowyou]

Okay! I sent the Revenge of Junior Jaskier ask, and. I’m hoping this helps with ideas for Geralt’s ultimate revenge? Uh. I’m not a sadistic person so this probably sucks XD

He starts being nice to Jaskier. Apologizes for the first time, gaslighting him and saying that it really wasn’t as bad as Jaskier remembers, Geralt didn’t even know Jaskier had been drugged, just really drunk, doesn’t he remember Geralt asking if he wanted it? Ofc Jaskier doesn’t believe him, but if you hear something enough, even from someone you hate, you start to believe it. Also it’s convenient for this idea. Jaskier starts to suffer from guilt, maybe just a little. And Geralt leans into it hard. I’m vague on the details but somehow, Geralt gets Jaskier to trust him and his brothers. It probably takes longer than a year. I know when I was a senior that if any kids who had graduated continued to talk to me I would have bent over backwards for them. So. It isn’t too terribly hard to lure Jaskier out one night to their family’s farm. Even easier to force him onto a breeding bench and use him as they want... before letting any of the animals take a crack at him. Dogs, goats, maybe a pony, if they have pigs maybe one of those. Ofc they film it- but if Jaskier doesn’t want it spread around, he’ll come back when they say. Which leads to even more blackmail material. This goes on until he graduates... where he gets a “job offer” from the farm. Jaskier knows he can’t turn it down. Once he’s there, Geralt can finally have his full revenge- branding him like a cow, carving his name and insults into Jaskier’s back and thighs and anywhere they’ll fit honestly. A good little breeding bitch.

....I honestly have no idea what I’m doing, you absolutely can ignore this

Oh, don’t worry! This is just perfect! Honestly can’t stress how much I love the blackmail and manipulation!

This is... quite a lot. So under a cut for once! [non-con, manipulation, blackmailing, beastiality, psuedo-incest, marking and knife play ahead.]

It’s an absolute whiplash having Geralt apologise to him, the man spilling his heart out to the junior and saying they are even now. Jaskier doesn’t believe him at first, wary to this sudden change of heart and just shrugs it off. But it continues, Geralt approaching him more and more to get Jaskier to see just how sorry he is and soon enough, he believes it. There is no way an arsehole like Geralt would metaphorically beg on his knees for his forgiveness if he wasn’t genuinely feeling guilty, right?

Eventually Geralt and his brothers graduate, the whole drama dissipating over the summer. Except Geralt keeps in touch. He acts like a friend, like he genuinely is interested and likes Jaskier at this stage and after being shunned by more or less the entire school, Jaskier can’t help but let him into his life. It starts very slowly, Geralt referring to that night at the party as a “drunken hook-up” and whenever Jaskier protests, he warps his words into something else. “It wasn’t that bad.“ “Honestly just thought you had too much to drink.” “I thought that your offer to fuck was still on the table even after a few beers.”

Jaskier ends up believing him, his own memory failing him as it’s replaced by whatever lies Geralt feeds him and the stories from the rest of the party-goers telling him how much he enjoyed himself. He doesn’t remember flirting with the man, not even as much as sparing him a glance honestly, but he must had, right? Geralt told him he even invited him to bed before blacking out.

When Geralt invites him over to his farm to “help him out with his studies”, Jaskier doesn’t even hesitate as he enters the car, Geralt picking him up after school and being awfully pleasant the entire way out there. He explains the family business for him, the different animals they keep there and even how excited his brothers are to finally have a chat with the dude Geralt “never shut up about.” The way he talks about it makes Jaskier’s heart flutter, how he tells his family about him and how much details he gives out on the various livestock and pets they have. He never coined him for an animal lover, but here they are.

The two arrive soon after, Jaskier’s heart pounding as Geralt offers to show him around before they “retreat to his room.” He gets to see the fields, pet a massive mastiff that licks at his hands and even acquaintance himself with Geralt’s mare Roach. It’s as if in a dream, Geralt keeping close to him the entire time, much so that he can feel his body heat against his side as they walk towards a barn further away from the rest of the farm. They enter the dim lit building and immediately Jaskier knows something is wrong.

Four strong hands catches him, two gripping his shoulders, one around his waist and the last one wrenching his arm behind his back. Jaskier kicks and screams, blood running cold as he is met by cruel and cold laughter from Geralt’s two brothers.

“Oh, he is cute when he struggles!” one of them says, Lambert if Jaskier isn’t mistaken. The other agree with a hum and soon he is carried away towards a large contraption in the middle of the barn. There isn’t much he can do to get loose, Jaskier spitting and flailing as he is tied down to the bench by practised hands. The other, Eskel, is soon gone from his vision, the other two busy with his clothes as they rips them off unceremoniously.

“You thought you could get away with it?” Geralt barks out a laugh as he squats down in front of his face. He grips Jaskier’s hair firmly with his hand and stares straight into his soul, none of that warm and welcoming glow left. All there is is cold hatred. Eskel returns with various things, hooking them up on the contraption Jaskier is tied to. In the meanwhile, Lambert has taken to slapping his arse hard, commenting on how he is “practically asking for it” as his finger prod at his entrance.

There isn’t much grace to it, Geralt taking his mouth roughly as his brother fucks into his hole dry, both of them groaning and thrusting hard while Jaskier sobs around them. Eskel takes his turn after Lambert, all three of them berating him and calling him all manners of things as they use his body to it’s fullest extent. Geralt finishes up inside of his mouth and takes the last round on his arse, the other two spending themselves over his skin before disappearing all together.

Geralt holds him open on his cock long after coming, kicking his feet apart even more as he explains that he “will need the stretch.” Jaskier doesn’t have to wonder for long what he means, soon able to hear the distinct sound of a panting dog entering the room. The moment Geralt moves out of the way, an eager nose sniffs at his hole and laps at him. Jaskier has about five seconds to thrash and struggle before the mastiff jumps up and mounts him, stabbing it’s cock at his entrance until the tapered tip catches.

“He’s a good stud,” Eskel comments with a smirk. “He knows a needy bitch when he sees one.” Jaskier lets out one last sob before the dog fucks into him, jackhammering his guts from the first thrust and not letting up until Jaskier can feel it’s knot pushing against his entrance. Its owners help him out graciously, using their fingers to hold Jaskier open so it can get it inside. The knot swells up even further, locking inside of Jaskier as he cries out from the stretch, tears almost running dry at this point as he begs in broken sentences to be let free.

He is sure he is in a nightmare when all he gets as a response is their cruel laughter and them fisting their cocks as the dog unloads inside of him. “Better make sure it takes, don’t want the bitch to leave without your pups” Lambert says and prompts the dog up again after dislodging, petting it’s retreating cock to get it interested for another round. Jaskier hangs his head as the brothers comes over his face and hair, the dog tied to him for a second time as the hot seed spills inside of him.

He is let go shortly after, Geralt tossing him his tattered clothes and telling him he will “be waiting in the car.” Jaskier doesn’t even get to rinse himself off, sat the whole way home with spend dried to his skin and ripping out into his trousers like a cheap whore. He is pretty sure even the cheapest whores get to clean up afterwards, wondering what he is then.

The day after he is sent a video file, not even opening it as he knows what it is. He caught a glimpse of the camera lens in the midst of the fucking, tears streaming down his face as he reads the attached message.

“Wouldn’t want this online, I assume.”

He doesn’t. When Geralt is parked outside of school a week later, he doesn’t even meet his eyes, just hops into the car and sits in silence. Just like last time, the brothers have their turn with him before inviting in the mastiff. It continues like that for over a year, Jaskier fucked by various animals as he is tied to the breeding bench. He is recorded as he takes their dog and stallions, Jaskier barely even questioning it when the goats and pigs have their turn on him as well. It’s not like he can stop now, he thinks.

When he graduates, it’s not even a question of if, but when he will be approached by Geralt for the “job offer”. They had joked about it many times, said he would be a good cum bucket for their male livestock once school wouldn’t keep him occupied. So when Geralt calls him up, he just sighs and leaves his apartment, entering the car outside and is driven back to the farm.

He knows he can’t get out of the bonds holding him to the bench, but he sure as hell tries one last time when he sees the branding iron, glowing hot red in Geralt’s hands.It takes Lambert and Eskel holding him down firmly before they can press it against his arse, the skin sizzling and melting around it as Jaskier passes out from the pain. He wakes up with his thighs and arse in bandages, blood seeping into the cloth as he sees the sharp knives on the floor by his feet. A week later he is permitted to see for himself the carvings and his mark, Geralt and his brothers owning his body fully now.