#and i specifically liked him as a foil for hiccup

[westwiiind]

i know a lot of people think grimmel is just a worse version of viggo but i have to say. i think grimmel isn’t worse, he just gets WAY less time than viggo to develop and pique our interest. httyd dug itself into a hole with the slow burn genius crafting of the most perfect villain the series could possibly offer, so any villain that is introduced and then defeated in the last movie was of COURSE not gonna live up. it’s not that grimmels bad it’s just how do u come back from VIGGO.

[violet-moonstone]

I was thinking recently about how Viggo's physical prowess is a secondary aspect of what makes him a formidable enemy. It's really his charisma and cunning that's important. Yes, he's physically intimidating and clearly a strong fighter, but I don't think that's a defining trait.

I think it would be really interesting if instead of both Grimborn brothers being skilled fighters, Ryker were solely the brawn while Viggo only had his intellect and charisma to use. It would make them more clearly character foils and it might be interesting to see if Viggo had any bitterness about needing his brother as a source of physical intimidation/protection. It would also make their relationship much more about give and take rather than Viggo easily calling all the shots because he's both intelligent and strong (which again, would make him more bitter).

I also think it would create more parallels between him and Hiccup. Hiccup is pretty athletic in Race to the Edge, but he's not exactly relying on his strength - he's still very much mainly a thinker. It would be cool to see Viggo pointing out the similarities between them - especially if Viggo also had some kind of physical impairment that made people underestimate him/prevented him from being a strong fighter. (Like maybe if he'd been a burn victim much earlier but instead of it only affecting his face, it impacted larger parts of his body too, and he suffered from chronic pain and/or limited mobility?)

Anyway all this is basically to say that I would love to write/read a fic in which Viggo is more similar to Larys Strong (specifically the way he is in House of the Dragon). He'd totally have a torture dungeon and have a weird relationship with fire where he's deathly afraid of it but also enjoys burning other people.

I can absolutely see Viggo killing Ryker through arson to gain power too.

[filipinoizukuu]

I saw your post about the FA's translations, and I totally agree. Sometimes, when they do not translate accurately, is to make it sound better or cooler in English, but it just ends up taking away a lot from the context and characters. We know how one of the most affected character interpretations is Katsuki's, a main character, no less. And Izuku and Katsuki's relationship too, which is something super super wrong, considering is deeply intertwined with the main plot of the series, thus if someone misinterpreted their dynamic, this person would miss a bigass chunk of the message the story has.

Here is the panel you mentioned before btw

I remember when I read this, only 10 or 11 chapters into the manga (?), and I was like "...I'm...pretty sure this guy didn't say that" khshsjdhs

OK FIRST OF ALL LMAO HELLO MANG!! THANK YOU SO MUCH AND DW ABOUT IT I TOTALLY GET WHAT YOU MEAN !!

(this is your warning for a long post ahead!)

In any case, I still think you're very correct on this! Not to ramble a bit, but Horikoshi's particular talent in developing the plot of MHA is actually very very brilliant and there are a lot of blink-and-you'll-miss-it details that together, assemble the big picture of what MHA is.

Translations are such an integral part of being able to understand foreign media. MHA or otherwise. The simplest of details say a lot about a character and often times make or break a series because everyone knows that strong character dynamics are what carry even the shittiest of plots.

First and foremost, I want to clarify that because of the nature of fan translations and the fact that most of it is volunteer work/ written out of pure enjoyment of the manga--we shouldn't judge these fan translators too harshly (if at all) for interpreting it the way they want to. FA, as far as I can tell, is a fan-based group that works out of donations.

The first thing I wanna bring up is that when it comes to fandom and its works, there are two types: Curatorial and Transformative. Now, the transformative part is something that must be very familiar to a lot of you. Fanfiction, fanart, and most headcanons fall under Transformative Works (i.e. AO3) because they are all about transforming the canon world to fit each individual's personal preferences. Meta-analysis posts and Character Breakdowns are also classified under this.

Curatorial on the other hand are fandom interactions made with the explicit purpose of being as close to canon material as possible. This is working out the logic of quirks, for example, or memorizing as much canon content about your favorite villain as possible. These are more cold, hard undeniable facts that lend themselves to the DIRECT VISION the creator/author had while making this media. If you were to ask me my opinion on this, this would be the moment where I tell you that the Curatorial side of fandom is where fan translations should (for the most part) fall under.

What people need to know though is that oftentimes, fan translations do not.

Translating isn't and has never been a one-is-to-one process. There are hundreds of thousands of aspects in a language that make it so that it isn't perfectly translatable. Colloquialisms to sayings to dialects, to just plain-out words that don't have a proper English translation to them! Manga is made by and for a Japanese audience, so obviously in a lot of instances, there will be cultural nuances that will not be understood by anyone who hasn't immersed themselves in Japanese culture/language.

So what does this mean then for fan scanlations?

It means that a vast majority of translators teach themselves to only get the essence of the message. They take the dialogue as they understand it and translate it to something of their interpretation. When language and cultural barriers exist, translators do what they can in order to make it understandable to the general populace. This means making their own executive decisions on how they see a character speaking. In example, if they see Todoroki using very direct and impersonal Japanese--one translator might interpret it to mean that Shouto is stiff and overly formal, while another may see it as him being rude and aloof.

The problem is, translators are fans just like us.

Like with the image Mang posted above, the translator based the usage of curse words off of their understanding of Bakugou's character. The lack of foul language in the original Japanese might have made the translator think "Oh. There just aren't enough Japanese cusses for his character." And took that as an initiative to make Bakugou's lines more colorful and violent because this was working off of the image Bakugou had had at this point in canon.

But Codi! You may cry. Wasn't it proven multiple times that Bakugou prefers concise and short lines? They should've known better!

Yes. Maybe they should've known better. But tell me honestly in your first watch-through of MHA, did you perfectly understand Bakugou's character either? Did you catch the whole 'direct and no flowery language' aspect of his language when you first saw Season 2?

Most people don't. I only really understood this fact after I'd read multiple discussions of it and even double-checked the manga myself. These are the kinds of things that only become noticeable with a sharp eye and some time to scrutiny. But the fact of the matter is that when it comes to fan translations, the clout and recognition are always going to go to who can post the quickest.

Am I excusing erroneous translations? A bit, I guess. It's hard for us to go in and expect translators to catch all these errors before release when we ourselves only catch these errors like 4 months in with a hundred times more canon context than these scanlation groups did at the time of its release.

Still, there are plenty of harms that come with faulty translations.

When a translation is more divorced from the original's meaning than usual, it creates a dissonance between what is actually happening versus what the audience sees is happening. This looks like decently-written character arcs being overruled and rejected by most of the readers because of how 'jarring' and 'clumsy' it seems. By the time translators had caught on to the fact that Bakugou was more than just a ticking time bomb, we were already several steps into showing how significantly he cares for Deku.

The characters affected most by these translation errors are often those with the most subtle and well-written character arcs. A single mistake in how the source material is translated can make or break the international reception of a certain character to everyone who isn't invested enough in them to look deeper into the canon source.

It creates hiccups in plots. Things that seem out of character but really aren't. Going back to MHA in specific, the way that inaccurate translations hurt both the 'curatorial' and 'transformative' parts of the fandom is that people have begun to cite them as proof of the main cast's characterization.

Bakugou and Todoroki are undeniably some of the biggest examples of mistranslation injustices.

Katsuki, in a lot of people's minds, has yet to break out of the 'overly-aggressive rival' archetype box that people had been placing him in since Season 1. One of the most amazing aspects and biggest downfalls of Hori's writing was that at first, nearly every character fit into a very neat stereotype for Shonen Animes (Deku being the talking-no-jutsu sunshine MC, Uraraka being the overly bubbly main girl, Todoroki being the aloof and formal rival). He made the audience make assumptions about everyone's characters and then pulled the rug beneath our feet when he revealed deeper sides of them to play around within canon.

What made this part about Horikoshi's set-up so good though were the many clues we were given from the very beginning that these characters were more than what they acted like. Even from the very first chapters, for example, we learn that Katsuki (as much as he acts like a delinquent) dislikes smoking because it could get him in trouble.

That is just a single instance of MHA's use of dialogue to subtly divert our expectations of a character.

Another example is when they replaced 318's dialogue of the Second User saying that Katsuki "completes" Deku with him saying that Katsuki merely "bolsters" him. This presents a different situation, as that line was meant to reinforce the importance of those two's relationship as well as complete the character foils that MHA is partially centered around. By downplaying their developed connection, it becomes harder for the MHA manga scanlations to justify any future significance these two's words have on each other without mottling the pacing of the story.

AKA, it butchers the plot.

With every new volume, there are dozens and dozens more of these hints and bits scattered around! So many cues and subtle foreshadowing at the trajectory of everyone's character arcs--yet mistranslations or inaccurate scans make it so that we don't notice them. This is what I mean when I said that some character arcs are being done great injustices.

Until now, many people can't accept that Katsuki Bakugou cares for anyone other than himself (much less his rival and MC, Izuku Midoriya), nor can they accept that Todoroki would ever willingly work by Endeavor's side. The bottom-line then becomes that because of people missing heavy bits of characterization that become very plot-significant in the future.

When it comes to the point where people can no longer accept or fit their interpretation of the earlier manga events to what is happening in canon, the point of a translation fails completely because it has lead people to follow an entirely different story.

TL;DR - Fan scans are hard. Translating is hard. Don't get too mad at fan translations, but also maybe don't treat them as the catch-all for how characters truly operate. Thanks.

Side note: DO NOT harass FA for any of these things. FA is actually a pretty legit and okay source for scans (they've been operating since like 2014 ffs), but regardless of that they still don't deserve to get flack for their work. You can have any opinion or perspective of canon that you want, I don't care. These are just my two (more like two million tbh) cents on translations. I suggest reading takes from actual Japanese audiences tbh if you wanna know more about the source material of MHA. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

[echo-hiraeth]

Chapter 12: The Daughter

Part of the “Ilicit Limerence” series

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Summary: Having met Lorraine, the reader is quite startled, will the Texas retreat turn out disastrous?

Warnings: swearing, angst, vomiting, pregnancy symptoms

Masterlist

Previous chapter

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Javier cringed a bit noticing the shock in your eyes, one that you managed to play-off very gracefully. “Oh we-we’re not married”, you chuckled, shaking the husband’s hand next.

“Gotcha, alright. Well, let me go put the dessert in the freezer and we can catch up”, she chirped, carrying her freezer bag into the garage.

Chucho picked up on the change of atmosphere and ushered his son-in-law into the living room, giving the two of you some much-needed space. Javier took a deep breath.

“Did you know they were coming?”, you asked quietly, setting a timer for the oven.

He closed the kitchen door, turning around to face you. “Yes, but I didn’t want to stress you out.”

“Javi, you promised me no more surprises”, you chided, covering your face with your hands. “You need to tell me these kind of things! We just talked about this!”

“Querida, please. I wasn’t even sure if she’d still show and I didn’t want to cause you any unnecessary stress”, he reasoned.

“I’m aware, but even then, these are things you just tell me! I don’t care if she’s here or not, but I would’ve liked to know beforehand! It’s kind of awkward having to just suddenly stand in front of your ex-fiancée”, you explained, washing and drying your hands.

“I wanted to tell you but – but I just couldn’t figure out how, or when, it just never seemed like the right time.”

You took some steps towards him, threading your fingers with his. “I’m happy to know you tried, but next time, try to bring it up okay. I-I didn’t mean to go off as much as I did I’m just so fucking stressed.”

“But why, pop adores you! The hardest part is over with”, he tried to soothe you, squeezing your hand in his.

You scoffed a bit, shaking your head. “She’s so beautiful Javier, I can’t believe I’m saying this but I guess I’m jealous.”

He threw you a confused glance, stuttering a bit as he tried to fathom what you had just said. “You’re joking? Corazón, Lorraine and I are ancient history, there’s nothing there. I’m here with you, because I want you to meet my father. Lorraine’s just a family friend, nothing more, I promise you.”

“Shit Javi, sorry I-I didn’t mean to-“

“Hey, it’s okay, I understand”, he comforted you, wrapping his arms around you. “Take a deep breath okay, I love you.”

You grabbed a fistful of his shirt, hugging him a bit tighter. “I love you too, Javi. Thank you for bringing me here.”

He leaned into your touch, tilting your chin up to kiss you. It was a moment for him to convey just how much he adored you and just how sorry he was, lips moving against yours in an easy, soft rhythm. You pulled away with a muted sigh, looking into his eyes as you stepped back.

“You should check up on your dad, I’ll finish up in here”, you suggested, turning your attention back to the side dishes. “We can talk about it later.”

He gave a nod, more a formality than anything else and disappeared behind the wooden door. You drew in a deep breath, bracing yourself on the counter as you tried to comprehend everything that happened within that ten minute window.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on y’all, but I didn’t want to barge in mid conversation”, her voice sounded from behind you.

You jumped a bit, not exactly expecting for your boyfriend’s ex to sneak up on you like that. “I-it’s okay really”, you reassured her, covering the corn in tin foil.

“I can tell he hasn’t changed much”, she started, “He never was much of a talker.”

“He talks to me, it’s just not always as easy for him as it is for us”, you retorted, packing the other bowls in the fridge. “It’s a matter of mutual respect and understanding.”

She rested her hip against the counter, crossing her arms in front of her. “Well, respect is earned.”

You mentally knocked yourself on the head, not wanting to deal with this or spend a whole weekend biting back catty and snarky replies. “I’m sorry I didn’t mean for that to-“

“How far along are you?”, she interrupted, nodding towards your stomach.

You reflexive hand on your bump, feeling a bit uneasy. “Excuse me, w-what?”

“Oh come on, you’re not fooling anyone with the oversized shirt, I have two sisters with kids”, she explained, coming closer.

“W-we really-“, you started once again.

“Oh was it unexpected?”, she questioned, making somewhat of a face.

You set the last dishes in the sink, intent on getting out of this conversation. “Javier asked me to help in there, so, I’ll see you at the table.”

It was a poor excuse, but one that worked nonetheless. You hurried your way out of there, re-joining the three men in the living room, taking a seat on the couch next to Javier. He rested his arm on the cushion behind you, encouraging you to sit closer. He noticed you’d gone somewhat pale but didn’t decide to pursue his train of thought, instead listening to the other two go on about some truck repairs.

Lorraine joined a few minutes later, smiling at the two of you before sitting down next to her husband. “So, how’s Columbia been?”, she asked, not specifically looking at either of you.

“Closing in on Escobar and the cartel, but the situation is stable as of right now. Had some close calls but we mostly manage to come out on top”, Javier answered, looking at you during the second part.

The three of them looked at you now, and you answered the question before any of them could ask it. “I work at the embassy as well, DEA, same division and office.”

“But you’re quitting, right?”, Lorraine pressed, pouring herself a glass of whiskey.

“Depends, but for now I have no intention of resigning.”

That seemed to set the husband off a bit, who leaned forward more, actively engaging in the ongoing conversation. “That’s kind of irresponsible, don’t you think? Exposing yourself and your child to all that corruption, drug use and violence.”

You noticed the way Javier’s jaw tightened, his fingers balled up into a fist. “We’re not just throwing her out there. There’s barely any field work to do now and she’s not putting herself at risk.”

You laid a hand on his thigh, hoping to calm him even just the tiniest bit. “I stick to mainly office jobs now, but if I do go out I have Javier and my other partner right alongside me.”

Chucho shot you a wink, assuring you that you were doing great. “She can handle herself just fine out there, pregnant or not. One of the best damn agents we have out there”, Javier continued, now wrapping his arm around your shoulder.

“Does the embassy know about you two then?” You both nodded. “Sounds like one heck of a complicated mess to me”, Lorraine chuckled.

“If anything, I think she’s keeping him sane down there”, Chucho intervened. “They can’t have much of an objection to that, she’s saving them heaps of therapy bills.”

You and Javier both softly laughed at that, lacing your fingers with one another. “It’s nice to have someone down there. If I didn’t have him to come home to every night I wouldn’t know how I’d survive down there”, you confessed.

The hearts in his eyes were nearly visible as he just plainly admired you. He drank in your praising words as he tried his best not to show just how flustered he was. Chucho knew his son better than that, grinning at the two of you as he raised his glass. “Bueno, bienvenida a la familia, mi hija.” (Well, welcome to the family my girl/daughter.)

You blushed a bit at Chucho’s words, staring down at your lap as you tried to keep yourself from grinning like an idiot. Javier pecked your cheek, muttering something about appetizers. You sat next to him at the table as well, right in front of Lorraine as Chucho seated himself at the head of the table. The atmosphere seemed to have finally turned around and there was some light-hearted conversation going on, with an occasional burst of laughter.

The rest of the evening went by just as smoothly, the only hiccup when you and Lorraine were alone in the kitchen, plating the turkey and getting the heated dishes out of the oven or off the stove.

“I’m sorry for being nasty earlier tonight, I just want the best for Javier”, she explained, shrugging off her oven mittens. “He’s a very complicated man, but it seems like you’ve got him figured out.”

“Thank you for apologizing, I’d hate for us to not get along”, you smiled, grabbing a hold of a kitchen towel. “And I’m sorry Javi was such a prick to you back in the day.”

She chuckled. “It’s all good, I’m very happy with my husband, we just haven’t been blessed with kids yet.”

“Well, when you least expect it, it might just happen”, you joked, softly stroking your own bump.

“I can tell he really cares about you, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous.”

You both laughed at that. “How do you think I felt when I saw you walk in? Such a gorgeous Texan woman, tough competition.”

“Now, now, don’t be silly. You’re much more his type! Adventurous, sexy, witty, tough, independent.. you could teach me a lesson or two”, she replied, handing you a pair of mittens yourself.

“Whatever the case, I need some dinner first – I’m starving.”

The table was covered in little plates and bowls, the smell of turkey and gravy lingering in the dining room as you joined the others there. You sat down once again, practically drooling as you looked over the absolute feast in front of you. Chucho started off with a little speech, expressing how grateful he was to have you all there and how happy he was to have a new addition to the family. There wasn’t much talk during dinner, all of you eager to just dig in and have at it. Javier had an amused look on his face as he watched you go for a third serving of that creamy mash, giving you an extra big scoop as you pouted at him. By the end of your main course, your bump had nearly doubled in size, your oversized shirt more regular sized that intended. Javier was right there with you, leant back in his chair with his belt unbuckled.

Lorraine’s husband, David, was already up and carrying dishes into the kitchen and when you go up to do the same, you felt a gentle hand on your arm. Chucho was sweetly smiling at you. “Why don’t you sit down for a bit, you’ve been on your feet for way too long.”

Javier went to stand as well, grabbing a hold of both your plates until his father cleared his throat once more. “Go join your girl, we’ll take care of it.”

You really tried, but protests didn’t get you very far in this house. So you eventually ended up on the couch, curled up in Javier’s side, a soft quilt covering your legs. He slowly but surely started laying down more flat, subtly taking you with him, until eventually you both fell asleep on the couch. He had his arms wrapped around your back, his cheek resting against your head as your nose was nuzzled into the collar of his shirt.

Lorraine and David were headed out for a walk, leaving only Chucho. Upon finding the two of you, he grabbed a second quilt, snatching the camera off the dresser to snap a picture of the both of you. It all felt very surreal to him, his son coming back from Columbia a better version of himself, but as he saw the two of you laid there, a pure depiction of intimacy and care, he sure as hell believed it. His boy was in love and worse than he probably realised himself.

You woke up to the screen door falling shut, successfully jolting you awake. This sudden motion in turn caused Javier to wake up as well, immediately putting his hands on you. You quickly reassured him, giggling a little as he fixed your dishevelled hair. The sun was setting by now, an orange hue filtering in through the drawn curtains.

Dessert was filled with more small-talk, Javier eventually zoning out, not being the overly social type. You put a hand on his thigh under the table, sending an encouraging smile his way, reminding him that it was almost over. But when David suggested some more drinks on the couch, you could tell your boyfriend was getting annoyed. Deciding to be a good girlfriend, you stepped in.

As you went to stand you let out a purposely loud wince and hissed a breath. All eyes were on you, entirely according to plan. Even Javier thought you were serious, immediately holding out a hand to steady you.

“Querida?”, he asked.

“I’m okay Javi – just my back”, you lied, placing a hand there yourself.

Chucho put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Hijo, debes cuidar a tu esposa.” (Son, you should go take care of your wife.)

“Oh no – I don’t want to cut things short”, you continued, bracing your other hand on the table.

Lorraine moved to stand on your other side, grabbing a hold of your arm. “Nonsense, let’s get you to bed. Javier can help you up and I’ll get you a heating pad”, she tutted, guiding you into his arms.

You apologized another couple of times before Chucho ushered you upstairs as well, insisting you needed some rest. Halfway up the stairs, hidden from view, Javier let go of you letting you walk the rest of the way by yourself. Once inside the room, with the door shut, he pulled you flush against him, capturing your lips with yours for a saccharine kiss.

“Thank you”, he muttered, stepping away from you as he heard some steps down the hall.

Lorraine knocked before entering, handing Javier the heating pad. “We’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

As the door shut again, he threw it right at you, sighing as he rested his head against the door. “I made the right decision at that altar. She doesn’t shut up, does she?”

You threw the pad right back, shaking your head as he caught it. “Manners, Peña.”

 The next morning you were hit with karma, hard karma. You were just in time, registering the familiar nausea and biting acidic feeling in the back of your throat and flailing the covers off of your body, rushing into the bathroom. You fell to your knees, so hard they’d be bruised, bracing yourself on the porcelain as you emptied out your guts. Your morning sickness was still around, but it wasn’t a daily reoccurrence anymore. But this very morning, it hit your hard, your back arching with the intensity of it all, legs shaking.

With the door wide open, Javier woke as well, hearing you wretch and hurl in the other room. He decided to give you some space, knowing you didn’t enjoy him seeing you like that. But when after ten minutes, it still wasn’t over and you were still heaving every thirty seconds, he decided the head downstairs.

He was greeted by his father, who sat at the kitchen table in a flannel, reading a newspaper. “Hoy te has levantado pronto. Something wrong?” (Well, you’re up early.)

“You have any mint tea or something?”, he asked, frantically flipping through the cabinets, “Usually helps her out.”

“Throwing up?”, Chucho questioned, folding his paper in half. “Go take care of her, I’ll bring something up.”

Javier just nodded, quickly grabbing a glass from the cupboard before sprinting up the steps again. He found you completely out of breath, head leaned on your forearms as your chest heaved up and down. He knelt down beside you, gently helping you into his arms, letting you lean back against him.

“Take a deep breath, I’m right here, corazón”, he shushed, wiping your forehead and mouth with the little hand towel.

You pushed his arms aside, sitting back up as you felt another wave of nausea hit you. He closed his eyes, annoyed there wasn’t more for him to do or help you. He fished a hair tie out of your make-up bag, tying your hair back before stroking up and down your back. It hadn’t been this bad since that day of the raid and he bit his lip as he tried to keep his worries to a minimum.

There was a knock at the door and Javier left your side only to see his father standing there, with a tray of stuff. “Have her drink those and eat that, she should be okay then.”

Without any more words he handed the tray over to his son, patting his shoulder before taking his leave again. Once back in the bathroom he noticed you were sat back against the wall, wiping your mouth down with the towel once again. He handed you one of the glasses and you tipped it back, scrunching up your nose at the sour taste. Javier encouraged you to keep going, handing you to second glass before also handing you the stack of saltines.

Once you managed to get all of that down, you took a deep breath, resting your cheek against the cold tiles on the wall. “This baby better be the cutest one ever.”

“How’re you feeling?”, he asked, kneeling down in front of you.

“I don’t know what was in those horrendous drinks, but it sure did something”, you chuckled, letting him pull you to your feet. Once up you reached for your toothbrush, eager to get the weird mixture of flavours out of your mouth.

He wrapped his arms around you again, sighing into your hair. “You’re shaking, querida. Get back in bed.”

“I’m fine Javi, just let me put on some clothes and we can get some breakfast”, you explained, turning around to face him.

He carefully knocked his forehead against yours. “Okay.. but if you so much as feel dizzy you’re laying the fuck down.”

There was something sweet about how protective Javier got at that times. It had started even before the two of you got in a bed together, within the first weeks of you working with the two of them. Whether it was giving you the newest and best vest or going into raids in front of you, he always made sure he had you covered. It didn’t stop there, that side of Javier started to come up more and more, whether it was defending you from patronizing glances and comments at the office or sex-crazed sicarios at the bar, he was always there. And now, as you were walking down the staircase of his childhood home, nearly three months pregnant, he was there as well. His broad palm engulfed yours as he guided you down the steps, telling you to watch out for the carpet on the last four of them.

Chucho was stood in the kitchen, bent over the stove stirring in a pan. He gave you a smile and a wink as you took a seat at the kitchen table, Javier disappearing into the garage.

“Feeling better?”, he asked with an amused tone.

You crossed your legs, skimming over the headlines on the front page of the newspaper. “Loads. How’d you know what to do?”

He set a plate of breakfast down in front of you and himself, sitting next to you. “My wife.. she had really bad morning sickness when she was pregnant with Javier. Doctor gave us a whole list of home remedies to try. It’s the sour foods you need.”

You listened intently, surprised by his knowledge and experience with pregnancy as a whole. “It worked like a charm, tasted putrid but did the job.”

“Remind me to write it down for you, got something to counter the swelling as well”, he told you, swinging his fork as he spoke.

Before you could thank him Javier walked back in with a bottle of milk. Filling a plate for himself before taking a seat across from you, next to his father. “Fence looks pretty banged up, had a storm recently?”, he asked, shoving a forkful of bacon and eggs in his mouth.

“Earlier this week, meant to fix it before you came but didn’t have time.”

“Oh”, you chimed in, “we could give you a hand, I mean we’re here anyways, might as well help out.”

Chucho put a hand over yours. “Hija, you helped enough with dinner yesterday, take the day off.”

Javier cut you off before you could even so much as begin to protest, talking to his dad himself. “She’s right pop, we’ve fixed it before, no reason we can’t do it again. Weather’s nice enough today.”

 It was uncharacteristically warm today, the beaming sun making it feel like a nice late summer day. You were sat up against a tree, comfortably watching from a distance as the two men worked on some replacements for the fence. Being the stubborn woman that you are, you’d insisted that you could at least do something, so Chucho shut you up by giving you some of his work shirts. They all needed some repairs, just simple patchwork and some sewing, nothing you couldn’t handle.

They worked on the fence all day, so you offered to make some dinner, using some of the Thanksgiving leftovers. By the time you were done cooking and heating everything up it was about six and the two men still weren’t back. So you went out again, making your way over to the edge of the fence, by the water. You were greeted by your boyfriend, aviators perched on his nose. His shirt had some sweat stains by now, strands of his dark hair plastered against his glimmering forehead.

“Dinner’s ready, you two can finish up tomorrow”, you suggested, leaning up against the good part of the fence. “I set the outside table, so the floors won’t get too dirty.”

To say Chucho was happy to have you here would’ve been an understatement. It hadn’t even been forty-eight hours, but the man was no fool. It was almost magical, the way you could just conjure up a day filled with smiles and joyful banter, it had been too long since that was the case. He’d been somewhat anxious to hear his son had put himself out there again, fearing another Lorraine might be the case, but seeing the way you took care of one another, the old man recognized a fairy-tale when he saw one.

The next day you managed to sleep in, being woken up by the dipping of the mattress. When you opened your eyes you were met with a sweaty Javier and a tray of food. He muttered something about eating lunch in bed before heading for the shower. You just laid back, slowly waking up more as he rinsed the sweat and dirt off of his golden skin, remerging in a flannel and some boxers.

“Why didn’t you wake me up”, you asked, sitting up against the headboard before glancing over the tray.

He sat down next to you, moving the tray as he did. “You needed the rest and we needed to finish the work on the fence. Didn’t think you’d sleep in past lunch though.”

“Javier Peña are you insinuating that I’m lazy?”, you giggled, grabbing the sandwich off the plate.

“I’m insinuating that you’re working too much”, he started, pushing you back into the pillows, “and that you need to take it easy.”

He grabbed a sandwich himself, laying back next to you, wrapping one of his arms around you. “How’s your dad?”

“Pop’s fine, out for the rest of the day”, he sighed, “Which means that I have all day to spend with you. Wherever and however we want.”

You playfully rolled your eyes, nudging his leg with your foot. “We have time for that tomorrow, when we’re home. Let’s soak up some more of the town before we leave instead.”

The two finished lunch together, got dressed and headed out. It was another warm afternoon, a pleasant breeze hitting the apples of your cheeks as the two of you strolled along the local shops. You looked so much like a couple in that instant, his arm slung across your shoulders, fingers fumbling with the strap of your purse. The two of you were talking and laughing about something work-related, his adorable dimple on full display as he smiled at you. He noticed you squinting, eyes struggling to stay open against the sun, so he grabbed the aviators out of his breast-pocket, gently placing them on the bridge of your nose, along with a kiss.

You were blushing like a teenager. Cheeks rosy with adoration and giddiness as you enjoyed the quality time with your boyfriend. The two of you would spend Christmas down in Bogotá, so you figured some early Christmas shopping was in order. Connie and you had a tradition of giving each other the essentials, good wine, some nice candles and soap and something blingy. Hence why you were stood in front of a jeweller, gazing in the window. Javier stood behind you, looking over your left shoulder with both hands resting on your hips.

“See something you like?”, he asked, lips ghosting over your ear.

You bit your lip, looking over the shiny bracelets and necklaces. “Do you think she’d like one of those engraved name bracelets for Liv?”

“What? I thought you were picking something out for yourself”, he chuckled in confusion.

You spun around, bracing your hands on his chest. “And what exactly would I need?”

“A ring maybe? I-I don’t really know what your taste in jewellery is”, he stuttered, scratching the back of his head.

“Why would I want a ring, I barely wear any – oh OH”, you replied, suddenly realizing what he was getting at. “I – what?”

He immediately started shifting, his confidence seemingly leaving his body. “You know, if we’re gonna raise a kid together and be together, might as well tie the knot. It’ll save us a lot of questions and weird looks.”

Your mouth hung open, eyes staring straight at him through the tinted glasses. “That is just the worst way of doing this. But I really like the gemstone rings”, the last part was more of a whisper, your hand on the doorhandle as you walked into the shop.

He smirked to himself, shaking his head as he followed you. “So not big on diamonds, huh?”

“Putting down thousands of dollars for some broken glass? Now, I thought you knew me better than that, Peña”, you teased, peering over at the displays.

Some sales assistant soon greeted the two of you, flashing you a bright, teeth-baring grin. “Good afternoon, can I help you?”

“Hi, yes”, you replied, smiling as well, “I’m looking for a bracelet to engrave, something cute and simple, adjustable as well.”

And with that the two of you were off, leaving Javier to look at all the shiny displays and windows surrounding him. You never ceased to amaze him, mocking him for his impromptu “proposal”. He chuckled into his hand as he looked over the rings. The two of you would get your little moment, he was sure of it, but some grand, big gesture wasn’t exactly in the cards, though he supposed a nice ring would mean a lot on its own. He spotted a thing band with three stones, a bigger one surrounded by two smaller ones. The middle stone had somewhat of a darker, deep purple/pink to it, a colour he found himself deeply attracted to. It had character yet subtlety, refinement yet something robust. It stood out but not because of the size or design, it stood out because it embodied you.

A second sales assistant was helping him now and he discreetly pointed over at you, asking the employee if they could estimate your ring size from here. There was a bit of laughter, but ultimately Javier walked out with a tiny box, lucky enough to have a suitable size in stock. You’d slipped the employee your actual size while Javi thought he was being slick.

The rest of the afternoon you were on the lookout for something for Steve and Javi. But soon you decided to stop at a little café, needing to be of your aching feet for a while. You sat in a booth alongside Javier, thigh to thigh with his arms around your waist. You shared a slice of cake with him, talking about a shop you’d seen in passing. A few shopping bags sat among you, mainly presents and necessities, seeing how the market for maternity clothing and necessities wasn’t as varied as the one here in Laredo.

By the time the two of you got back to the ranch it was already dark. You walked in through the backdoor, Javier’s jacket wrapped around you as it cooled off a lot more outside. Chucho was sat at the kitchen table, oiling up some of his tools.

“Have a nice day?”, he asked with a half-sided smile.

You plopped down in the seat across from him, letting out a deep breath. “I never knew Laredo was so fun.”

“Well, feel free to visit more often, especially if you need help with that little one”, the old man pointed out, gesturing to your bump.

“Trust me, I’ll drag Javi here myself if need be”, you whispered, raising your eyebrows in the direction of your boyfriend. “Let me write down the address for you as well, just in case.”

 Later that night, when Javier was already fast asleep you snuck back downstairs. You were still hungry, the whole “eating for two” thing clearly no understatement. When you were in the living room you noticed the light in the kitchen was still on. You carefully approached the door, relaxing when you saw it was just Javier’s father.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt”, you softly spoke, bracing your hands on the doorframe.

He shut the tiny television off, beckoning for you to have a seat. “You’re not, hija. Why are you still up?”

You swiped a strand of hair behind your ear, stopping a yawn from slipping out. “Was feeling hungry, baby is like a bottomless pit.”

The two of you quietly laughed at that, Chucho gesturing towards the fridge. “By all means.. Unless you want me to make you something?”

“Oh no, no, you’ve done so much already, Sir, some bread will do”, you assured him, grabbing the bread from the cupboard.

“Call me Pop, sweetheart, we’re a family now”, he reminded you, getting up to get you some cheese and ham. “You need the fats, they’ll keep the cravings away for a while.”

You gratefully took his advice, shoving a first bite into your mouth. “I’m sorry Javier’s been so distant, he gets caught up in his own head down there.”

“I’m glad he came, it’s been years”, he put a hand on your cheek, making you look right at him. “Thank you for giving me back my boy.”

Whatever you expected it wasn’t that. You put the sandwich on the counter, wrapping your arms around the man, trying to keep yourself from crying. “Thank you for giving me a family.”

 Leaving that Sunday morning was harder than you’d expected. Chucho couldn’t resist as he stocked your bag up with some home goodies, stressing once again that you should call more often. There were no tears, only genuine smiles and warm hugs as he dropped you off at the airport. The flight back was easy and nice, giving the two of you the opportunity to rest some more. Your drive back to the apartment was prolonged by the afternoon traffic, successfully annoying your partner.

“Do you want to come tomorrow night?”, you asked, trying to distract him from the person cutting him off.

“What’s tomorrow?”, the hand on your thigh moved to the stick, putting it in neutral as the car stopped yet again.

“I have my twelve week check-up, for the baby”, you clarified, sprawling a hand over your lower gut.

He grabbed a hold of your hand, gently pressing his lips to your knuckles. “Of course, querida, I’d love to go.”

You’d noticed his eagerness as soon as you set foot off that airplane, his hands seemingly both everywhere and nowhere at once. Sure the two of you weren’t teenagers anymore, but four days without any actions was even starting to get to you. His hand on your knee was enough to send that familiar electricity coursing through your veins. He was right there with you, the shirt you were wearing oversized to a point where the neckline slid down just enough to show off the top of your breasts. It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried back in Texas, it was that you’d slapped his wrist away as soon as he did so.

He cursed the Columbian traffic, fingers tapping on the steering wheel as he tried to control the aching need to lose himself within you. Even just the sight of you, comfortably resting your head against the window was enticing. Once of the main road, it went a bit faster, his foot pressing down on the pedal a bit harder on the last street. He parked the car in one motion, not bothering to check if he was in between the lines. You got out of the passenger side, walking back to the trunk to get your bags, but Javier grabbed your hand before you could. The look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know: get to the apartment now.

The door closed as he pushed you up against it, pressing needy open-mouthed kisses to the crook of your neck while his hands worked on the buttons of his shirt. You briefly pushed him off, ripping your own shirt off before unclasping your bra behind your back. He let out a low groan at the sight of it, letting his own shirt drop to the floor as he surged forwards, capturing your lips in a heated kiss. His hands found themselves on your breasts, squeezing the tender flesh as he pressed his groin into your hip.

“I fucking need you, baby”, he growled, literally sweeping you off your feet.

You let out a squeal, immediately wrapping your arms around his neck. “You seriously need to stop doing that! There’s a reason your back always hurts!”

“And I’m sure you’ll take care of it later”, he chuckled, setting you down in front of the bed.

He pushed you onto the mattress, immediately following suit, kissing up every inch of your body, paying special attention to your bump. “Oh don’t tease now”, you whined, sitting up to drag his face over to yours. “Fuck me, Javi.”

“Don’t you blow your back out now.”

Taglist: @pedritomando @peterhollandkait @radiowallet @ophelia-ingenue @phoenixhalliwell @diogodxlot @rosiefridayrogersunday @a-court-of-feysand-and-elorcan @asta-lily @the-bottom-of-the-abyss @missstef23 @jasmincita @dobbyjen @kesskirata​ 

[andypantsx3]

ab intra | 2 | de minimis

pairing: Shinsou Hitoshi / Reader

length: 18,811 words / 6 chapters

summary: When a wave of disturbing crimes sweep the city, underground hero Hitoshi Shinsou is assigned to work the case with you. What’s even more frustrating than his obnoxious personality is the fact no one will tell you why he’s involved. Things only get more suspicious from there.

tags: romance, thriller, misunderstandings, pro hero AU, reader-insert

warnings: aged up characters, eventual smut, suicide mentions, brainwashing, consensual mind control, some violence

You’d thought you’d have time the next morning to mentally brace for seeing Shinsou again. You were wrong.

At four thirty in the morning, the shrill tone of your work phone cut through the dark of your room. You shot up out of your bed, grasping blindly for your nightstand.

“They struck again,” your captain’s gravelly voice carried over the line. He rattled off the name and address of a casino in the heart of downtown, demanding you get there immediately, then hung up on you. You groaned and rolled off your mattress, dressing blindly in the dark. You threw your hair into a messy approximation of a ponytail, then ran out the door.

You managed to get to the station just in time to catch a subway headed into downtown and spent the entire ride anxiously tapping your foot, wondering how many people had been hurt this time.

At downtown, it was immediately clear something horrible had happened. Just outside the station, ambulance and police lights flashed in the pre-dawn dark, and a tangled knot of nearly a hundred people choked the sidewalk. They overflowed onto the main road, which had been blocked off with neon cones, a sleepy-looking officer waving traffic around into the opposite lane.

You trotted up to the police tape, spotting several patrol cops huddled in a group with Aya and another team member. A head of untidy indigo hair towered over the bunch. You suppressed a groan and picked your way over.

“What happened?” you asked.

One of the patrol officers detailed an eerily familiar situation for you; three people who had killed themselves, tables and tills emptied, security footage missing, and close to thirty minutes erased from almost fifty minds. Your stomach churned as a splint was carried out of the casino’s main entrance, a thick layer of dark fabric over a still form.

You caught a hard look passing over Shinsou’s face as he watched the paramedics pile the splint into the back of an ambulance. He was dressed in the same uniform you’d seen him in yesterday, scarf and that strange mask hanging from his throat. You wondered for just a brief moment what they had in common, and what kind of quirk they supported. Then he looked at you, raising a dark eyebrow, and the moment was gone.

“Who were the witnesses whose memories were tampered with?” you asked, turning back to the officer. The officer directed you over to a throng of people standing just over to the side, some of them still being looked over by a set of EMTs.

You broke off from the group, pacing over to where the witnesses huddled. The heat of a tall body at your back told you Shinsou was following you closely.

“If you have some kind of time rewind quirk, now would be a good time to tell me,” you said, turning to him, trying to tamp down on your frustration. Showing up at a still-warm crime scene like this was always upsetting, and it was hard to reign your emotions in. “Or something useful in catching a criminal like this.”

Shinsou’s purple eyes flickered over you. “Afraid not, kitten. And don’t think you’re getting anything out of me.”

You sighed. Hundreds of quirks at their disposal and the Public Safety Commission had sent you some jerk who, as far as you could tell, either had a quirk to do with scarves or a quirk to do with being incredibly annoying. You wished, not for the first time, for a quirk of your own. You’d never needed anything more than your brain and your handgun to straighten out a case before, but you wouldn’t say no to something that would help you solve this one and make Shinsou disappear.

You stepped up to the huddled group of witnesses, asking for those who had yet to give their statements. The first people to volunteer themselves were a pair of college girls, clearly barely over the drinking age, dressed in slinky, sequined dresses with slight variation in the cut and colors. It was clear they had planned a fun night on the town that had ended very, very badly.

You opened up a recording app on your phone, and introduced yourself and Shinsou. Then you launched into the standard line of question, Shinsou a tall, silent warmth at your back.

“Can you recount for me what happened?” you asked the girls.

One of them shook her dyed blond locks. “No, not really. One minute we were at the bar, ordering more shots because we had just lost really badly at roulette, and the next I was on the floor and Eriko was all the way across the room, huddled in a corner,” she gestured to her friend.

“What was in between for you? Did you register time passing at all and just didn’t know what happened?”

She shook her head. “No. It was like….” she thought for a moment, “....like when you’re really drunk and you get black out. Like stuff maybe happened but when you wake up the next morning, there’s like a black hole in your brain and you can’t tell if there was time in between or not.”

Her friend Eriko nodded. “Literally just like that. It feels the same way. The last thing I remember was feeling really weird, like my vision went all crazy? And then I woke up on the other side of the bar.”

Shinsou made a noise low in his throat and leaned over your shoulder. He was close, close enough that you could feel his chest brush your back and catch the soft scent of something light, like citrus. “Something happened to your vision?” he asked.

Eriko looked up at him, and you spied something like a blush spreading across her nose. “Y-yeah. Like I don’t know if it was because we were already kind of drunk or whatever. But I lost focus for a second, and stuff got kind of hazy?”

You looked up into Shinsou’s face, interested in why he’d seized on this detail. He stared cooly back at you, his purple eyes dark in the pre-dawn gloom. He offered no explanation, instead turning to look at the blonde girl.

“Did something happen to your vision too?” he asked.

Her delicate brow furrowed. “I’m...not sure. It’s hard to think back to right before...”

Shinsou leaned in. “Remember for me,” he said.

Your own brow creased at the strange, indelicate nature of the phrasing. He sounded almost like he was ordering her, and your temper flared. It wasn’t protocol to shape queries into demands, especially given the often fragile state of victims, and you made a mental note to ream him out for it later.

The girl didn’t seem to mind him, though, eyes fogging with the memory. “I...yes. All I remember before the black out was feeling like the room had gotten wobbly. Hazy is a good way to describe it.”

Shinsou nodded, seeming satisfied. “Thanks.”

Now this was an interesting detail. Nowhere in the mountain of paperwork you’d been able to collect from the investigators dispatched to the first two locations had you spotted any information like this.

“We should ask the others if this was the case for them as well. Could be the alcohol, but it’s worth finding out more,” you said begrudgingly.

It seemed maybe Shinsou knew his way around the finer details of mental quirks, then. You wondered if the Commission had sent him not because of his own quirk, whatever it was that the fucking scarf had to do with it, but because he had experience dealing with similar villains? That could be useful, more useful than you had thought he might be.

Still, his bedside manner was going to need some work.

You asked the girls a couple of follow up questions and took down their contact information, then moved on to another witness. You were surprised to find that this witness too, and a fair few others after, claimed the same effect on their vision, when probed on the finer details.

The most difficult part of the questioning by far was having to interview the friends of the people who’d killed themselves. You almost wanted to delay speaking to them until the end, but it would be cruel to make them wait any longer when so much had happened. One man had been with two of the women who had taken their own lives, and he was hardly able to choke out any information between sobs. You’d gone to fetch him a foil shock blanket, and after that he was a little better, just coherent enough to run you through the victims’ actions prior to their death.

“I just can’t believe someone could make them do this,” he said shakily. “They were both just so tough, so strong. They just had it together, you know? I don’t understand what kind of a quirk could make someone kill themselves. Why someone would even want to...?”

This train of thought seemed to set him off again, igniting a series of small, hiccuping sobs, and you tried to reroute him. Shinsou shifted uncomfortably at your shoulder.

“Can you tell me about what happened to you, just before your memory blanks out?” you asked gently.

The man took a breath. “I saw Yuki, one of my friends. One of the ones who….well. She was looking at something across the room and it looked like she was gonna pass out for a second. Then it was like she snapped out of it, and she started to yell something. That’s where it ends for me…”

Shinsou’s keen eyes flickered over the man. “Did you see what she was looking at?”

The man shook his head. “I turned to look but I don’t know. I remember moving my head but that’s it.”

You nodded and jotted down a couple notes. Shinsou asked him a couple more questions in his low tone, seeming very intent on the man’s movements, the movements and minute reactions of his friends. He dug fairly deep on any strange feelings or impressions the man had, even on things earlier in the evening, and he--weirdly--asked a lot specific questions on how the man had been feeling just before it all happened--had he had any weird shifts in thought pattern? Had he been feeling a little anxious or uncomfortable, like he’d forgotten something?

After that, it took you a fair few hours to cycle through all the rest of the people who had been at the scene, but by the end of it you’d collected a lot of interesting new information. Shinsou made a few other brusque demands, which annoyed you, but overall it didn’t seem to affect the witnesses much, who still compliantly answered to his requests.

The sun was well up in the sky by the time you finished, and you were almost too exhausted without your usual coffee in hand to start an argument with Shinsou.

You did anyway.

“Okay, you can’t just order witnesses around,” you hissed when you’d wrapped up with the last person and started towards the precinct. “You need to treat them with delicacy or it could mess with the veracity of the information they give us. If you’re going to be working my case, you’re going to follow procedure.”

Shinsou smirked down at you, lifting a corded arm to tousle his hair in unconcern. “You don’t call the shots, kitten.”

You glared up at him. With the morning sun washing over the planes of his face and catching in the violet of his eyes, he looked even prettier than yesterday, and you could easily understand why the blonde girl had blushed at being addressed by him. The thought irritated you further.

“You might think that you have all the power right now,” you intoned, “but make no mistake. I am the professional here, and you are a contractor on loan. You will listen to me.”

This seemed to amuse him.

“You’re quite accustomed to being the one in charge, aren’t you?” he asked, a peculiar little smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

You suppressed an eye roll. There was a reason a case of this complexity had been assigned to you, why all your reports were so neatly handled. You were good at leading things, particularly investigations, so the question hardly needed posing.

“Yes, and you would do well to remember that,” you said.

A strange feeling washed over you suddenly, a small tension at the back of your mind just before a feeling of vertigo hit you. You stumbled a little, almost tripping, and Shinsou curled an arm around you, catching you easily like this was something you did all the time, something that he was expecting.

“Your concern for me is adorable, kitten,” he said. His arm tightened around you for just a moment, pressing you into him. You had just long enough to note how warm he was, his lean body unexpectedly hard with dense muscle, and catch a hint of that light scent again. And then he was moving, stepping away to pace ahead of you. “I think you will find, however, that I am even more accustomed to control.”

You stared after him, mood darkening like the sky before a storm. You didn’t know what kind of backing he thought he had from the Public Safety Commission that gave him such smug self-assurance, but he was in for a rude fucking awakening.

A plan began to form in the back of your mind as you trailed after him, stepping back into the precinct offices. Though clearly not well known, Shinsou was a hero, which meant that some ranking and information must be out there about him. He might not want to tell you anything himself, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t a wealth of dirt for you to find on him, details for you to track down to finally, finally get some measure of a handle on him.

He might think he was in charge, might think he was holding all the cards right now.

But if you were good at one thing, it was investigating.

[musicfren]

to be heard

There are so many hopes that exist in one heart, so many expectations that pull them apart, so many people they’re desperate to be, so many voices they’ll never flee. They’re shrouded in secrets they can’t quite explain, but if there’s a person where they can abstain, avoid the disdain, inane, insane, and find a way to be human again, then they’ll take it with both hands outstretched, and hold on before they find themselves wrecked.

We really were gonna not to a colab this time! We weren’t! Oops  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ This is a companion piece with to be seen, for which @nottesilhouette wrote far too many words for and I am so so sorry. Also she’s amazing and I love her <3 Happy @felinettenovember y’all!

Showcase night is finally here. Felix’s fingers dig into the strings of his exorbitantly expensive violin like a drowning man grasping at shore. He is prepared of course; he’s done scarcely anything else for the last month. He knows every twist, every wrinkle, every potential hiccup of his piece, and has ironed it all so flat it barely has any texture at all. There is nothing left to criticize, which is precisely as it should be. Maybe this one will be good enough.

Felix’s parents will hear about his project for the first time tonight, maybe think about it at all for the first time. That’s how they tend to approach his projects, from behind a well-stocked fortress of disregard. They can always pay the attention back afterwards, if it turned out to be worthwhile. Given such a small window to make an impression, he damned well better make sure it’s good. He wants a return on his investment, just this once. 

As he steps out onto the stage, into the burning, blinding heat of the spotlight, Felix gives himself ten whole seconds to panic. He is allowed this much at least, in the few moments left before the doors open and the showcase begins. He stares blankly out at his classmates --amatures all-- who have already set up at their stations, gluing the last foil stars onto their posters or whatever it is they’re doing. His white-knuckled fingers, almost translucent in the harsh glare, clutch his instrument so tight it might snap. He will be better than them. He will stand out. 

When those doors open and they see him for the first time, everything will be perfect, calm, effortless. It will all pretend, of course, but that’s for the best. No one needs to bother with his real, trembling self.

Then the parents flood into the room, and chaos ensues. 

The showcase passes in a blur as he waits for his turn on stage. Everything is irrelevant noise, everything is distracting. He tries desperately to keep his focus but he can’t help staring at the girl, Marinette, presenting with a veritable seraglio of models and mannequins standing behind her in silent support. She seems so sure of herself, so unconcerned by the dozens of hungry eyes on her. Well, if a second-rate like her can pull it off, maybe he can as well.

And then all at once it’s his turn. He hopes these notes won’t flow from his fingers like ketchup from a bottle: awkwardly and in sudden spurts, making a big mess and staining his clothes with blood and shame. 

It goes so much worse than he expected. He is nanoseconds too late on his transitions, millimeters imprecise in his fingering. Once, he almost plays an emotion. 

When it’s done, he doesn’t even wait for the applause, just turns to his right and strides off stage. He needs to find his parents.

“Oh, we could hear it well enough from over here,” says his father, who has spent the entire performance by the snack table.

“I wrote this piece specifically for you. I thought you’d... appreciate it. I was hoping you’d get to hear it tonight.” 

“Oh, how lovely.” His father takes another sip of his martini. Felix shuffles uncomfortably before him. His mother offers a wan, thin-lipped grin. 

“What did you… think of it?”

“Well, it was certainly very clear it was written by you.” For a moment, Felix is hopeful-- did they understand it? Has he finally managed to be heard, under all of the pretense? Have they managed to care? “The... childlike quality of the melody was very prevalent, but you played it rather stiff.” Another careless sip. 

His mother cuts in. “I’ve never been a big fan of that trill thing you do, it always feels so pretentious. Still, I suppose it marks your… creation… as your own, so that’s quite the effect, certainly.”

His fingers are white on the strings and his teeth are slowly grinding themselves into a fine powder. At long last he chokes out a reply.

“Th… thank you for your feedback.” 

His father munches on an olive. “Glad we could help.”

He makes his exit before his façade can crack. The crowd of excited, babbling parents flows around him in a blur as he flees into the auditorium. He doesn’t know where he’s going but eventually the sound of the last presentation still going reaches his ears. He shoves through the throng and finds Marinette, as calm as before, still jabbering on to the sycophantic oohs and aahs of the crowd. As Felix listens, a thick sludge of resentment starts to fill up his stomach. Her presentation is talentless, amateur, and yet somehow she is loved and admired. As the final cycle ends, he strides forward.

“How quaint of you.” 

Marinette doesn’t bother to turn around. “Thank you. I liked yours a lot, Felix.” 

Felix’s fingers whiten further against the violin still gripped in his hand. Her words are dull, generic, pulled out of a convenient box of well-worn phrases. How like his parents. Well, here’s someone he can speak his mind to.

“No, you didn’t. You have no appreciation for true art. You think this is art? This is derivative. This is… this is nothing more than a false pretense of an understanding you don’t have in a failed effort to curry favor with someone who is never going to notice you.” 

Goodness, it feels good to say it. He stands there, breathing heavily in the ensuing silence. But then, she knocks him clean off his high horse.

“I liked the way your composition sounded in the rehearsal room.”

Felix’s already spinning world spins ever faster. “What.” 

“I’ve spent most of class time sitting outside the rehearsal room you always choose-- you’re very predictable, Felix-- and sketching there. That’s what my designs are based on: that mournful, hopeful, determined, resigned haunting tune that you practiced day by painstaking day. That’s how I imagine the heroes feel. I can understand how you’d know that. I do too.”  

He tries to argue, to push back against her words, but they have already sunk well past his mask. Yes, this has the ring of truth. Never in his life has Felt this understood. Why did it have to be by this girl, of all people?

“I wish you had played it like that today.” She says, and he finds he wishes that too.

She’s a lot like him, he thinks. All they ever wanted was to be known. Maybe they can do that for each other.

“I wish you would’ve worn these yourself.”

[stevie-kd]

“Feral”

Part 2

Read part 1 here

::In which, after Bakugou was hit by a quirk that made him go feral and attack his bestie, Bakugou is detained and Kirishima worries over his bff, and we witness the aftermath and head back to UA::

+++++++++++++

Kirishima woke to distant sounds. Unfamiliar voices, though he was having trouble making out what they were saying through the ringing in his ears.

He blinked. He was looking up at the gray ceiling of a vehicle he didn’t recognize, and he was lying across a row of leather seats with a thin blanket spread over him.

He sat up, his vision swimming. He had a weird taste in his mouth like aluminum foil, and his throat felt like it was full of cotton. His brain too. Everything was fuzzy.

He popped open the door and clambered out into the street. The muscles in his legs wouldn’t cooperate and he buckled, but it was Aizawa who managed to catch him before he fell.

“Steady,” his teacher said in that monotone voice of his. “You just about got filleted, kid. Get back in the car and rest. We’ll leave for the dorms shortly.”

Kirishima rubbed his stinging chest. There was gauze wrapped around his upper body, so he must have already been treated by a medic. Everything was coming back to Kirishima so slowly. He was grappling to remember.

Then it hit him. Bakugou.

“Katsuki,” he said. “Where—”

“He’s fine,” his teacher managed as he attempted to corral Kirishima back into the car, but it was no use. Kirishima needed to see Bakugou with his own eyes, needed to know he was okay.

Kirishima caught sight of his best friend on the other side of the street, tied up like a wild animal. His hands were still black and clawed, but they were cuffed behind his back so he couldn’t hurt anyone else with them. The worst part was the muzzle they had him wearing. It hurt Kirishima to see Bakugou like this.

“No,” Kirishima said, his eyes beginning to sting. “No, no, no. You can’t—they can’t do this to him!”

Kirishima managed to slip away from Aizawa and the other heroes he’d been talking to who didn’t even bother to try to hold him back. He couldn’t leave Bakugou like this. They couldn’t do this.

“Kirishima, wait!” Aizawa called to him, but there was no stopping him.

Bakugou was sitting on the sidewalk, a grumpy look on his face, and his eyes followed Kirishima the whole way. Kirishima knelt down to his level so they could be face to face, and the tears were really threatening to make an appearance now.

Kirishima hated the way Bakugou’s eyes looked. He wanted them to go back to the way they were. He wanted Bakugou to go back to the way he was supposed to be. Not this… this monster.

“They didn’t catch her, did they?” Kirishima asked. Bakugou’s eyebrow twitched and he shook his head.

Kirishima hiccuped. He couldn’t hold back any longer. He wrapped his arms around Bakugou as the tears finally slipped.

“I’m sorry, Katsuki,” he said in a whisper.

“Not—your fault,” Bakugou managed.

Kirishima only squeezed tighter once he heard Aizawa’s voice behind him. “Kirishima,” he said disapprovingly. “I know what you’re feeling, but he’s dangerous. We have to keep him restrained.”

“What’s going to happen to him? Where will you take him?”

Aizawa sighed. “We’re taking him back to UA. We have a holding cell we can keep him in until he’s better. We don’t know how long the quirk’s effects will last, so we’re going to be keeping a close eye on him.”

That made Kirishima feel a lot better. He’d still be at UA, close to everyone else. Kirishima didn’t like the idea of Bakugou being stuck in a cage, but at least Kirishima could be by his side the whole time.

… Right?

Kirishima turned to Aizawa, the question forming on his lips, but Aizawa beat him to the punch. “Yes, you can visit Bakugou, but you’re still expected to be in class everyday.”

Bakugou dropped his forehead on Kirishima’s shoulder. He let out a shaky breath. He was still battling to stay in control of himself against that quirk.

Aizawa put a hand on Kirishima’s other shoulder and squeezed. “Let’s get him out of here.”

Kirishima wiped at his eyes. “I want to ride with him.”

Aizawa breathed out through his nose. “Sure, kid.”

Kirishima wouldn’t let go of Bakugou as they stumbled across the street to Aizawa’s vehicle. He helped buckle Bakugou into the back seat, surprised how cooperative he was being. The blond would never have let Kirishima take care of him like this if he was in his right mind. It was probably taking everything in him not to go full feral mode again.

Kirishima climbed in on the other side, buckling himself up and leaning back, finally able to relax if only a little. He couldn’t take his eyes off Bakugou. It was so unnerving to see him this way. Kirishima hated it.

Aizawa got in after a minute and took off for the school. He was quiet as he drove, but Kirishima took this moment to ask the questions floating around in his head.

“My classmates. Are they alright?”

“Everyone is fine,” Aizawa answered. “You two were the only ones with any injuries. Todoroki, Iida, Midoriya and Uraraka are with All Might at the police station a few blocks from the school giving their stories. The others were sent back to the dorms.”

Kirishima only nodded. He was glad to hear they were alright. He wanted to find Kaminari as soon as he could, just to make sure he wasn’t beating himself up over the accidental electrocution.

“Make sure you take notes for Bakugou in classes until he’s able to return,” Aizawa said then, breaking Kirishima out of his thoughts. “He’d hate to fall behind his classmates.”

Wasn’t that the truth. Bakugou was third in the class, with Midoriya just behind. If he fell behind his rival, that might just be a blow he couldn’t recover from. Or, maybe a blow Midoriya wouldn’t recover from after Bakugou inevitably slaughtered him for surpassing himself.

“Have we learned anything about this quirk yet?” Kirishima pressed. “Do we know how long it’ll last?”

Aizawa sighed out through his nose. “The police informed me that this is far from the first time they’ve seen this specific quirk. It can last from anywhere between two days and two weeks. The victims can be very responsive to familiar faces and those they have strong feelings for. You’re the first one of us that has been able to get Bakugou to act of sound mind. No one else has been able to get near him after he woke up from Kaminari’s electrocution.”

Kirishima blinked. Bakugou had strong enough feelings for Kirishima that just being in his presence was enough to calm him down? He almost couldn’t believe it. He looked over to Bakugou again, only to find the ash blond’s crimson eyes resting on Kirishima’s bandaged chest. There was no facial expression beneath the muzzle he still wore, but Kirishima could swear he felt the emotions radiating from Bakugou’s skin. It made his throat constrict. It felt somewhere between disgust and melancholy.

“Will he remember any of this?” Kirishima asked, not taking his eyes off his best friend even for a second.

There was no hesitation when Aizawa answered, “Yes.”

Great. Bakugou was going to be livid when he was back to normal.

Kirishima rubbed his burning chest. He couldn’t wait to see Recovery Girl and get fixed up. The pain wasn’t unbearable, just demanding. Bakugou’s eyebrow twitched then and his eyes tightened, still staring at Kirishima’s bandaging. Then the eyes flicked up to Kirishima’s, a silent question.

“Oh!” Kirishima exclaimed, catching on after a moment. “No, dude, don’t worry! I’m okay.”

Bakugou’s eyes remained on Kirishima, who felt heat rise to his cheeks. He wasn’t sure what Bakugou was thinking, but he didn’t seem to relax at his friend’s words. Kirishima couldn’t think of anything else he could say to reassure him, so he grabbed hold of Bakugou’s wrist and squeezed.

The boy slumped back in his seat, seemingly satisfied with this. He blinked slowly, letting his head loll against the headrest.

“Don’t take it too hard if Bakugou denies how he feels for you when he’s back to himself,” Aizawa says, eyes meeting Kirishima’s in the rear view mirror. “You know how stubborn he is. This is proof enough that he cares about you.”

He cares about you. Bakugou. Cares about him. It made Kirishima’s heart stumble.

He only nodded, however. He didn’t plan on bringing it up after they had Bakugou back. If Bakugou wanted to talk about it, he could approach Kirishima.

Once they reached UA, Kirishima rounded the car and helped Bakugou out, lacing his arm with Bakugou’s and walking side by side to wherever it was Aizawa was leading them.

They ended up in a faculty building, stepped into an elevator that Aizawa had to use a keycard to access, and they descended three floors below ground level.

This place was like a max prison, Kirishima noted. There were six cells, and Aizawa opened the door to the first. Kirishima hesitantly tugged Bakugou inside with him, taking in the white walls, the single cot in the corner, and the metal toilet and sink on the other side of the room. There was a one way mirror beside the door so the teachers could observe Bakugou, but he wouldn’t be able to see them and go feral.

Aizawa held a small key out to Kirishima, who accepted it with a questioning look. Aizawa answered with, “He won’t let anyone else touch him. This is the key to his cuffs and muzzle. Go ahead and take them off so he’ll be more comfortable.”

Kirishima nodded and did just that. He handed the objects to Aizawa, then brought Bakugou to the other side of the room to sit together on the lonely cot.

They sat together in silence for a few minutes, Bakugou clutching his pants in tight grips while Kirishima rubbed gentle circles into his back to hopefully help ease him.

Kirishima wasn’t sure what to say. He was busy contemplating when, surprisingly, it was Bakugou who spoke up first. “Go,” he said in a gentle tone. “Please.”

“Katsuki.” Kirishima was going to argue, but Bakugou stopped him.

“I can’t—hold on anymore. I-I don’t want—to hurt you again. Please, just—just go, Eijirou.”

Kirishima noticed he was shaking with the effort it took to restrain himself. It dawned on him then that he was probably hurting Bakugou by being here.

“Okay,” he said, the word barely audible. “I’ll come back tomorrow after breakfast. Get some rest.”

Bakugou hummed in response. He wouldn’t look at Kirishima.

The red-haired boy finally left the small cell, the door latching shut behind him. Aizawa was still there, arms folded and leaning against the wall across the hall.

“Kirishima,” he started, then sighed. “I’m sorry it has to be this way. He’s dangerous right now. Look.”

Kirishima’s eyebrows scrunched together. He turned to look through the one-way mirror at his friend, but Bakugou wasn’t sitting on the bed where he’d left him. Instead, the blond was tearing it to shreds.

Kirishima’s eyes filled with unshed tears. He swallowed, his throat feeling tight and constructed, and the memory of Bakugou choking him resurfaced, making him feel nauseous.

“I’ll contact you in the morning when you can visit again,” Aizawa continued. “I’m going to make sure he gets some rest. He’ll be on twenty-four hour surveillance.”

Kirishima turned away, unable to watch any longer. “Thank you, sir. I’m pretty beat too. I think I’ll go get some sleep.”

“Not before you visit Recovery Girl.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. The cuts stung, but not as bad as before. He’d go see Recovery Girl, sneak through the dorms to his room, and finally get some sleep.

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, sir.”

“Goodnight, Kirishima.”

He headed out and made for Recovery Girl’s office. It was a short walk, and he was too lost in his head to realize he’d made it until he was lying on one of the beds and Recovery Girl was waving a flashlight between his eyes.

“Kirishima,” she was saying when he finally snapped out of it. “You with me, sonny?”

“Uh—yeah! Sorry.”

She chuckled. “It’s okay. You’ve had a long day. Aizawa told me you’d be coming. Did you take a hit to the head in the fight?”

He took too long to think about it. “Um, no. Maybe? I don’t remember.”

“Mm. Your pupils aren’t quite dilating properly. I’d like to keep you here overnight, if that’s alright.”

Part of Kirishima wanted to protest, but another part was relieved. He wasn’t sure he had the energy to make it across campus to the dorms before he passed out, especially if she was going to use her quirk on him. He’d be totally drained. He gave Recovery Girl a nod.

“Good, because it wasn’t up for debate. I was just being formal. So, I hear you took a nasty cut across the chest. Shirt off, please.”

With sore arms, he pulled his tattered, bloody shirt over his head and tossed it onto the floor. Recovery Girl removed the old gauze with steady hands. They were just beginning to soak through with his blood, and taking them off made them sting with a new passion. Recovery Girl spread some ointment over the cuts and placed some butterfly bandages over the worst spots, but she said he wouldn’t need stitches.

“A good night’s rest and a kiss from granny should do it,” she said, then leaned closer and placed a soft kiss on his forehead.

The effects were almost immediate. His chest was already starting to feel better and the drowsiness of her quirk set in. He leaned back, and within seconds he was asleep.

He awoke sometime in the middle of the night, because the room was dark and the moon could be seen through the far window. He was still groggy and keeping his eyes open took effort, but he needed to see who it was snoring at his feet.

He had to blink a few times to adjust to the dim lighting, but the soft light peering in from Recovery Girl’s office was enough for him to make out that it wasn’t just one body but three.

At his feet, Sero and Kaminari were sat upright on a couple of chairs, but they leaned against each other for support as they slept. Sero was the snorer while Kaminari drooled on his friend’s shoulder.

To Kirishima’s left, Ashido had her own chair pushed up to his bed, and she laid her head on his leg as a makeshift pillow for the night. She breathed in and out through gentle puffs, sleeping so soundly. Kirishima couldn’t help but smile as he drifted off once more.

He really did have the greatest friends.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Ayooo two updates in one day woo wee. I hope you guys liked part 2 (there will be more but it’s definitely not gonna be tonight). Probably gonna jot out part 3 in the next couple days, and I’m leaning towards five parts total ? Maybe ten or twenty but idk haha I have other fics I really wanna write these boys into too. Have a lovely day! Muah ~

Read part 3 here

Read part 4 here

Read part 5 here

Read part 6 here

8/18/2020

[paranoia-assault]

Fate/Stay Night Review

I've been meaning to get around to this for a while, so this post will contain my thoughts on Fate/Stay Night. I'll be going in order of how you're supposed to play the routes. Massive spoilers btw. Also this is copied over from Twitter, so sorry for any weird formatting.

Keep in mind I enjoyed every route, so any negative points I bring up never made me think the route wasn't worth reading. That said, UBW > HF > Fate, so we'll be starting with my least favorite route.

There's 2 reasons why the Fate route is my least favorite. The first is that is has to explain a lot, so it feels like not much happens in it compared to the other two routes. The second is Shirou's "girls can't fight" bullshit. I can't stand Shirou in the 1st half of the route.  Shirou does get better, but this is probably my least favorite version of him. I cannot stand every moment he tries to hold Saber back from fighting and almost gets himself killed because "girls can't fight." It is extremely aggravating.

That said, Shirou is fantastic in the second half of the route. The Fate route is Saber's story, and he plays the perfect part in it. His dream of being a super hero goes perfectly with her wish of being a great king. Seeing these ideologies clash, then come together, is amazing. It's why I like the Shirou/Saber ship despite Shirou/Rin being my favorite. These two were practically made for each other. Last Episode only adds to this, and it made me retroactively like the Fate route more. Saber's ending was beautiful and their eventual reunion even more so.

Illya was also great as a villain. I do think Gilgamesh and Kirei both have routes where they shine better as villains, so when I think "the villain of the Fate route," it's Ilya who comes to mind. Berserker was the perfect threat, and the two together were genuinely terrifying.

Summed up thoughts on the Fate route: Good starting point. A bit slow, and Shirou is very annoying in the first half, but the Saber/Shirou dynamic in the second half makes the route worth playing. 7/10.

Time for my favorite route: Unlimited Blade Works. I fucking adore this route. When I think "Fate/Stay Night," this is the route that comes to mind. If I were to recommend one route, it would be this one. I even plan on watching the anime for it at some point.

The main reason I love this route is Shirou. UBW Shioru specifically is one of my favorite Fate characters. He is confronted with a massive challenge to his ideals. He's pretty much shown they're flawed. But rather than toss them aside, he strengthens his convictions. He denies his future self, determined to be different. Yeah, his ideals might have flaws, but why should that matter? Carrying on Kiritsugu's dream is meaningful to him. The pain is worth saving those he can. Even if it's a thankless, miserable task, he won't turn away from it.

Oh, and let's talk about Archer. I love him. Seeing a pessimistic side of Shirou, a potential result of his ideals, was fascinating. I was genuinely shocked when the twist happened, and it made me deeply appreciate Archer's character. Archer is another of my favorite F/SN chars.

Now, let's talk about my favorite F/SN character, Rin. Rin is great. She was trained to understand and accomplish what has to be done, but has a soft spot not unlike Shirou's that leads her to help others. She had a painful upbringing, but doesn't regret a second of it.

She is the perfect foil for Shirou. She recognizes the pain his ideals are putting him through, but rather than force him to throw them away, she decides to stay with him to make sure he doesn't push himself too far. She tries to help Shriou learn to enjoy himself. Shirou/Rin is my favorite ship in the VN for this reason. They compliment each other so well. Their personalities clash in a way that lets them both grow, and they're genuinely cute together, though you can say that last part about any of the 3 main Shirou ships.

The villains are also great. Caster isn't the same type of threat as Illya/Berserker, but her backstory and dynamic with her Master is really interesting to see. I enjoyed her moments on screen. Gilgamesh was the perfect final boss for this route though. Specifically for Shirou. Gilgamesh' powers match Shirou's reality marble perfectly. Infinite Noble Phantasms. Gilgamesh calls Shirou fake, but that leads to Shirou showing how an imitation can outclass the original. It's such a smart hero/villain dynamic, and the perfect end to Shirou's story in UBW.

Saber even gets some closure in this route, though not as much as in Fate. She gets to be Rin's Servant at the end (which I adored btw), and once again chooses to destroy the girl, moving on from her past. Also, she lives in the good ending which makes me happy.

I also need to talk about Illya. Her scene with Berserker is one of her best scenes in the entire VN. She's barely on screen in this route compared to the other routes, but somehow she made just as much of an impact with that time. I felt so bad for her in that last scene.

Summed up thoughts on the UBW route: This route is where all the characters shone their brightest. Shirou's ideals are handled perfectly, almost every Servant gets the attention they deserve, and the writing is overall high quality the entire route. 9/10.

Finally, Heaven's Feel...I think my thoughts on this route will be the most controversial, as I have very mixed feelings. 

I do want to say this first. I love Sakura. She is a fantastic character, and she deserves the world. I'm glad she gets the spotlight in this route.

I also think Kirei was at his best this route. His backstory, along with his final confrontation with Shirou, were both extremely well written. He went from a despicable villain to a despicable written I love to hate. He almost stole the show as much as Sakura did, honestly.

Rider was great this route. I love the twist that Sakura is her true master, and her protective nature over Sakura was great to see. This is the only route where she manages to stand her ground against Saber for a decent period of time, too. I'm glad she lives to the end.

The highlight of the route, however, has to be Sakura and Rin's bond. Learning that they were sisters, and seeing them slowly and awkwardly get closer, is fantastic. That final confrontation between the two of them blew me away with the spectacle & Rin using the second sorcery. Of course, the hug that ended the fight was the best part. Rin realizing she can't kill Sakura after all, despite everything she said to Shirou, was beautiful. Sakura's horror at thinking she killed her sister, showing she's not a full monster yet, was tragically heartwarming.

Them bringing the sorceries in with Illya and Rin was nice. I like how we got an epilogue that took place two years after the final battle rather than a few months. There is a lot to like about this route. 

...But there's also a lot I don't like.

Zouken and Assassin are just...okay villains. I don't think they're terrible, but they're not as interesting as any of the other villains in F/SN. 

My main complaint is that this route introduced too much. So many elements are here that aren't even touched on in previous routes. Zouken, true Assassin, the crest worms, the true Holy Grail, Angru Mainyu, these are all elements of the route that I'm just supposed to accept only come into play under these circumstances. Sometimes it feels like they came up with it all after the other two routes were written. None of them are badly written per se, it just feels so out of nowhere that I couldn't fully get into the story here. 

As for what I do think is badly written...I don't like Shirou in this route. He feels more selfish than in the others, often pushing aside others' feelings. The main moment that comes to mind is when Illya goes with Sakura. When Shirou finds her, he slaps her and yells at her, not accepting her feelings of wanting the end of her life to be meaningful. And there is no way to escape her death. The route makes that clear. Shirou also throws away his ideals for Sakura, which I don't like. The route before this one had him stick to his ideals despite being given evidence of the despair it will lead to. Yet here he tosses them aside without that, simply for one person.

Maybe badly written was too harsh. Shirou's fine, I like him more than in the first half of the Fate route, but he just doesn't seem to fit with the other instances of Shirou, and there were often times he frustrated me. Again, I did love his confrontation with Kirei though.

Now for the romance of this route. Shirou/Sakura. I'm sorry, but...I'm not a fan of this one. It's cute, even made me emotional at times. I think these two can have a great relationship. The thing is, I don't like how it happens here specifically. I think these two are way too dependent on each other, to the point that one can't live without the other. Just look at the bad ending where Rin kills Sakura and Shirou gives up entirely, or the normal ending where Sakura wastes away her life after Shirou's death. There's even a physical dependence due to the state of Shirou's body at the end of the route. It's honestly worrying how much they need one another.

I think they can grow past this, and I'm sure they do since the true end is a happy one. I don't hate their ship. It's my least favorite of the three, but I can easily see it being someone's favorite. Hell, I know someone for who it is. The ship isn't awful, just has some issues.

Back to the route as a whole, it is certainly the most ambitious, but I think they got carried away at times. It's certainly more geared toward horror as well, especially with those bad endings. Not that that's a bad thing, even if I'm not often into horror.

Summed up thoughts on the HF route: A spectacular finale to the VN, but it has a few hiccups along the way. There are a lot of great character moments and interesting ideas that make it worth the time. The true ending is beautiful as well. 8/10.

Overall thoughts on F/SN: A great time that I would recommend to anyone who can get it working on their computer. Fantastic characters and cool concepts drive what can be just decent writing at times, and the high points are really high. Definitely worth the lows. 8/10.

Quick add on for my thoughts on the prequel, Fate/Zero: An amazing first half that got me attached to so many characters, but it falls apart in the second half due to Gen Urobuchi's more problematic writing tendencies. Those have been discussed to death, so I won’t go into detail on them here, Still, the show has enough moments that make it worth watching. 6/10.

That's my experience with Fate so far. I'm about halfway through the first arc of FGO, so I'll make a thread summarizing my thoughts on each singularity when the time comes. Also I want to read Fate/Hollow Ataraxia if I can. Overall I can say I’m glad I got into this franchise, and I’m excited to engage in more Fate content.

Anyway, this review took me 80 minutes to write, and another 15 to copy over here. Clearly I’m pretty passionate about this franchise.

[yukisohmasmokesweed]

heeey... so, might be still a bit early to ask, but: top 10 "things" about season 2? could be eps, moments, characters, things they did, whatever you feel like, literally ur top 10 favorites from it

i interpreted this to mean top 10 moments so....top 10 moments!

10. (from 2x4)

i love this whole fight so much. it’s kind of an unspoken thing after it’s first established that they have to hide a huge part of their lives from everyone around them since it’s a given, so i like this bottled-up frustration over having to live constantly walking on eggshells coming out. i also really really like that we get to see haru acting genuinely scary as dark haru; it’s introduced as a comedic thing and haru is a generally well-adjusted character compared to the rest of the zodiac, and so i like that we get to see just how destructive and chaotic his coping mechanism really is. filmmaking-wise it’s a little boring but i don’t really mind because it’s tense enough that i don’t really notice it.

9. (from 2x17)

this is the only funny one on my list because i live for the drama haha but i like this scene for more than its humor! this episode takes place at a point in the season where yuki has been able to accept that he is allowed to put himself and his recovery first, and has spent enough time with others and pushed himself out of his comfort zone enough to shake off the instantaneous automatic fear of rejection that his social anxiety manifests as. because of the slow undoing of this hardwired reaction and because he’s become very comfortable around kakeru, though, his real, unrestrained personality as well as his actual opinions start slipping out. i like that this scene shows us 1. that he cares for tohru so deeply that he would end a friendship over her getting hurt, even though he thinks it’s childish after he says it and 2. that not even yuki knows what his real personality is like because he’s kept it repressed for so long. and i think for people with social anxiety the reaction to this kind of thing is embarrassment, but despite his embarrassment kakeru accepts what he says at face value because he likes yuki for who he is, not who he pretends to be for other people’s comfort. this is a very sweet moment between the two of them even if it’s buried a bit underneath the humor and kakeru’s easy acceptance of yuki’s more dramatic and snarky side is one of the reasons yuki trusts him so much when it comes to heavy stuff. i don’t love the bg changes to this cartoony thing in fb but in comedic scenes like this one it didn’t bother me, and i thought all of the art in this episode was really nice. this was also one of my favorite voice acting moments from shimazaki, i looooved loved loved him stuttering as he turns around right after he has this revelation, i think it’s super funny and also very natural-sounding, plus it’s a different kind of delivery from yuki but it fits him so well.

8. (from 2x19)

i love this little moment between shigure and hatori. the way they talk about the curse in this scene is very indicative of their characters and how they feel about the curse: shigure is flippant and casual when he says rin visits him to see if he knows how to break it, and hatori is shocked at the idea of it, then instantly becomes resigned, claiming it’s not possible. but this moment right at the end is just *chefs kiss* the way shigure says hatori’s name so weighty, and the delivery of “...do you hear it?” is curious if not hesitantly hopeful, some of my fav line readings in the whole show. i also really love the pan up the stairs back up to the house when he says “the sound of breaking,” the implication of tohru’s involvement in this clear. this scene is also visually stunning and i like the track under it a lot.

7. (from 2x18)

i’m obsessed with this scene and i’m obsessed with every line reading from nakamura, he is so incredible. i thought the art in this scene was gorgeous and every blocking choice was amazing, the body language and where they moved and when was perfect. also one of my favorite tracks off the ost plays under this scene, and i love that it ends just before shigure delivers his line, “i’m the worst.” and rin looks over her shoulder in silence other than the sound of the door(!) sliding closed as shigure exits. you can feel in this scene how desperate rin is and how frustrated shigure’s flippancy is making her. i also really like rin’s body language in general, she’s a good amount touchier than anyone else, and she’s all over shigure in this scene, both because she’s propositioning him but also because of her implied closeness (gure-nii) to him.

this is an excellent shigure scene, and i love these lines included in particular as well as the repeat of them in the finale. it’s a moment of actual self-awareness and self-reflection from shigure for sure, you can tell by his face, but in true shigure form he is not saying it because he’s trying to be emotionally open with rin; he’s saying it to get her off his back. he knows that the curse is weakening but he also knows that the harder he pushes people and the harder they struggle to get out, the more likely the curse is to break. it’s cruel and manipulative and the most painful way to go about things, but hey at least he knows it!

6. (from 2x25)

this whole scene between shigure and hatori in the finale is a super hard hitter; they both know everything about one another and have nothing to hide and they are also very desensitized to cruelty, and so their conversations are incredibly frank, and they don’t skirt around anything, either. i like that hatori doesn’t hesitate to put shigure in his place regarding akito’s status (a good example of hatori as akito’s enabler and the upkeeper of the status quo in order to keep everyone’s lives as calm as possible at the cost of his own happiness), and i like that shigure immediately gives it back by calling out hatori’s attachment to the bond—which is an interesting thing to bring up and speaks to the bond as not just a curse, but of how it is also their family and community. their lives do revolve around it, so the curse breaking would be an unthinkable change to something integral to their existence. 

i chose this moment in particular because it’s a great insight into shigure’s emotional state, one of deep jealousy and pain over akito’s rejection of him. i like that it’s a close-up of his eyes here; shigure’s eyes are important in the reboot, and seeing them here tells us that this is his emotional truth. when hatori calls him out, though, they are hidden again. these lines are also delivered so well, i love how low in his register he’s speaking, it’s not something we hear from shigure a lot. it’s very heavy and very indicative of his pain.

also, i like when they copy things exactly from the manga, so i liked this shot a lot as the closer of the scene:

5. (from 2x21)

ok obviously i had to put this because it’s my favorite scene in the manga...i thought this was very visually beautiful, loved that they had yuki standing in darkness (in front of a door!) and kyo illuminated by the light, but a light from a place he’s not allowed to enter. i think the lighting design speaks to how yuki views kyo, not only when he’s a little older as someone who is naturally charismatic and attractive, but in the moment, as a potential ray of light, a possible friend who could understand his situation through shared life experience. i just love the puff of breath yuki gives in reaction to kyo confirming what akito has been saying to him about how everyone hates him and everything is his fault, and i love yuki’s hands folded in front of his chest, protecting the most vulnerable part of his body as a reflex to words that deeply wounded him. 

i like this scene for its function of the root of yuki and kyo’s conflict: that kyo needs to hate yuki and scapegoat him for his own problems due to yuki’s status in the family, and yuki hates kyo back to protect himself. it’s a very nuanced and deep take on a fictional rivalry that comes from a very realistic place of maladaptive coping and morphs into something more habitual and every day over time. also big love the casting choices for these two as children. this scene was amazing, it’s super short but i like this specific moment in it because it does a great job visually showcasing yuki and kyo’s immediate reactions and emotions to meeting one another for the first time.

4. (from 2x25)

i thought this whole sequence was incredibly well-done, but specifically i loved this part where the music swells and the loom crashes down onto the floor over akito’s repeated lines. also one of my favorite voice acting moments of the season, i loved akito delivering these lines through hiccups and sobs and trailing off into childish crying, and the art and animation was very visceral. seeing akito this out of control was amazing and kureno’s reactions to akito hit very very hard; it’s easy to sympathize with him and see why he would agree to this, and it contextualizes his decision to do so when all we the audience has seen before this is akito’s terrible and abusive behavior. 

i also really liked kureno’s hands coming in towards akito to comfort, it reminded me of this

from 1x9 but flipped; instead of kureno’s hands coming forward to comfort akito but representing his choice to trap himself in the curse, it’s akito’s hands coming from behind to force yuki to stay with akito against his will. they also both cut off very suddenly, which i like a lot.

3. (from 2x8)

this transition makes me go absolutely ballistic. visually i love akito and tohru turning to look over their shoulders in opposite directions, i just think it looks very sexy and it was a cool way to transition out of one scene and into another. i also like the mirrored body language to set them up as each other’s foils in these two scenes. akito brings kureno, who is functionally their love interest, out for a walk and then proceeds to belittle him, his status, and his opinions. tohru goes out with kyo, her love interest, so they can have a nice time at the beach. they have a very open conversation about the “monstrous” aspect to kyo where tohru validates and appreciates his thoughts and emotions. having these two scenes back to back was a really smart move to contrast our protagonist and antagonist and set them up as each other’s foils, and it’s definitely my favorite scene transition in the season.

2. (from 2x10)

i loooove how insanely tense this scene is. i really like that shigure and akito are sitting in silence here until akito starts their monologue in full, and then the track is cut off at its crescendo by kureno’s knocking. the track being bookended by low ambient sound from outside makes it more impactful when it does start playing, and the track cutting off with the knocking makes the sound of akito’s clothes moving as they get up and the door sliding open while the camera is still trained on shigure’s expression deafening. i also like the shot choices in this scene, particularly the close-up of akito’s hands around shigure’s jaw and that we can only see their mouths, as well as the shot of shigure seething but partially blocked by akito’s torso. the voice acting in this scene is also bonkers good, particularly yuichi nakamura’s shigure.

this is the first time the audience has seen shigure mad, not just annoyed or frustrated, and that’s definitely a big part of why i love this scene. his conflict with akito adds a lot of depth to his character and i like seeing a different range of emotion from him than normal. i also just love the introduction of their whole relationship drama love triangle thing going on with the adults, i honestly think it’s hilarious that takaya baits the audience into thinking it’s going to be a love triangle between the teens and it just completely is not but is instead a deeply fucked up one between the older characters. truly a stroke of genius

1. (from 2x8)

i love this whole scene so much. i think cinematically it’s gorgeous, i love that they’re surrounded by greenery and i really like the leaves starting to fall around them and the beams of sunlight behind tohru. those choices could have come off flashy and overdone but i feel the way it was directed was subtle enough that it didn’t feel like ibata was holding my hand through my emotions, but impactful enough that it’s an emotional gut punch every time i watch it. the moment where the flute ends with tohru’s internal line and transitions into strings/chimes mixed with the sfx of the wind rustling through the leaves is beautiful and probably my favorite use of soundtrack this season. 

the reason i love this moment in particular so much is because it so encapsulates yuki and tohru’s relationship. she sees him so clearly and has been in his life long enough to tell that his reaction to rin is a marked change from who he was when they first met. she also knows that yuki working through his trauma over akito is something he needs to do on his own, and that the best thing she can do for him is to support him and show him that she loves him. on yuki’s end, he already knows tohru will support him unconditionally, but he’s now at a place where he’s able to accept it in stride and knows without a doubt that she’s there for him. this little moment really showcases what their whole relationship is about and was gorgeously done. this scene very quickly became one of my favorites when the episode came out and i’m pleasantly surprised that it’s stayed there; in fact, it was totally enhanced by the development of their relationship this season, which has undoubtedly become my favorite relationship in all of fruits basket. i think a friendship as deep as this one is a rare gem in fiction, let alone one between a man and a woman. this whole exchange is very beautiful and touching and a great summation of what they both mean to each other.

[weregreatatcrime]

Tfp changeling kids are Not sweet and harmless they are changelings they're dangerous and fighting machines

Raf doesn't like fighting, but he will. He's big. They think he's got some krubera in him, his senses are Really good and he can track anything. But all he's gotta do is change shape and he's a great meat shield and battering ram in one giant pacifist body. Miko and Jack take advantage of this and they're all about the three of them working together, so if Raf doesn't wanna fight and he'd rather do tracking and shielding and be backup, they'll let him sit out fights. He's very strong though. The one time MECH tries getting the bots Raf rips their shit apart like it's made of foil. Doesn't need weapons bcz he got these hands

Jack's got wings and otherwise he's like the kind of troll Jim turns into - Jack is speed and condensed strength and he's a damn speed junkie. Once the bots learn about them being changelings he's always in his troll form so he can fly and literally hop fly between bot shoulders like some terrifying stone bird. He loves being up high and he's good at getting a vantage point. He's a LOT stronger than he looks and he is 100% able to take a staff and whap the shit out of someone, he's good with spears and staves. Throws a javelin like a boss. He is the hit fast and hit hard type of the three

Miko is the oldest and the craftiest and the one most likely to do something like a changeling. She's deadly. Four arms for throwing four sharp items at once. Four arms for four swords. Four arms for grappling with sharp claws. She's scary. She's the eldest and has 700+ years in the Darklands to back up her viciousness. Miko as a human is fun and goofy, Miko as a Changeling is dangerous and will gut you with a grin. She's small and thin and very agile, very fast. She tries to hide this from the bots bcz she Knows they wouldn't exactly approve of someone like her who embodies changeling perfection so well

Jack and Raf let her be the leader bcz she Won the position in a fight. (Raf actually took one look at Jack and Miko raring for a fight and took a step back like "you two go at it, I don't mind". Miko won. Easy. Jack was trounced like the whelp he is next to her and Raf.) She's very specific about her leadership though - if it's a changeling thing? Her word is law, because she knows changeling stuff best. If it's a moral thing?? Group discussion.

As far as the trio cares, compare the trolls and bots and they're the Decepticons. And they don't like it. They don't LIKE the way changelings treat each other. They don't LIKE the way trolls treat changelings. They look at the Autobots and they just went "We wanna be more like that" and have been modifying their behavior accordingly, with some hiccups. Like Miko is actively trying to stop the "kill everything that could endanger me" instinct, she nearly killed Fowler like five times and the others held her back and they're literally this

Raf's already pretty chill so he's the only one of them not having a problem with the "let's all become Autobots" plan. Jack's an angry violent fucker bcz he hit changeling puberty and is filled with magical hormonal rage and furious injustice at all times. Miko and him scrap all the time just to keep their cool. Like, changelings Gotta try to murder someone at least once a day or they get Twitchy and that's dangerous for everyone involved. Even Raf joins in on the sparring every now and then

[lovemesomesurveys]

1—are you moody in the morning? Yep. I’m moody throughout the day, but it’s a given before I’ve had my coffee.  2—have you ever behaved like a stalker? Uh, no. 3—do you appreciate other people’s opinions? In the general sense, I accept we all have different opinions and we’re not all going to agree on everything. As for on a more personal level, if I ask for someone’s opinion on something then sure. And even if I don’t on certain things. There’s also certain things I don’t care to hear other people’s opinion on. 4—does baby corn freak you out? No?  5—can you lie and keep a straight face? I’m a bad liar. I used to be good at lying about things like my feelings and saying I’m fine when I’m not, but not so much anymore. My emotions get the best of me now and it shows on my face.

6—have you ever feared for somebody else’s life? Yes. 7—do you prefer honesty, even when it hurts? “Well, if you wanted honesty that’s all you had to say.” Generally, yes. If it’s something sensitive, give it to me gently. If it doesn’t benefit me in any way to know, maybe just not even tell me.  8—have you ever consulted a psychic? Nope. I don’t believe in that. 9—if yes, do you consider yourself a moron? 10—does the opposite sex’s bo turn you on? Ew, no. 11—have you ever stayed in a relationship out of habit? I kind of felt that way with a friendship. I don’t know if habit is the right word, but we had been friends for so long and it was just comfortable and familiar. I also felt bad about ending a friendship just cause I outgrew it or whatever the reason. I ended up doing it, though. I didn’t plan to, but that’s what happened with all my friendships a few years ago. 12—have you ever deliberately not told someone that they had something in their teeth? Ahhh, yes. :X I’m so awkward about that. 13—what was the best decision you ever made? I don’t know. 14—do you have a father- or mother- complex? No. 15—if you could pick your own pet name, what would it be? Something my boyfriend and I come up with. I don’t care for like babe or baby.  16—have you ever masturbated while driving? Um, no. You shouldn’t text or masturbate and drive. 17—how do you feel when someone takes the last of something? It sucks if it’s something I wanted. I’ll be like, “oh no, it’s okay”, but I’m actually kinda bummed haha. 18—how do you feel when people tell you “bless you” or “gesundheit” when you sneeze? I appreciate it. 19—what are you supposed to say when somebody coughs? I don’t say anything unless they’re having a coughing fit. I’ll ask if they’re okay or need something to drink. 20—do you care what’s going on in the world? I do, but I admit that I don’t follow up on that as much as I should. I see stuff in the news, but I’m not very on top of it like I should and used to be.  21—do you pronounce a second “r” in “sherbet” or an “r” in wash? Yeah, I say “sherbert.” I don’t add an “r” to wash. My grandparents pronounce it like “warsh.” 22—do you throw temper tantrums? I get in moody, irritable moods where I feel like a big sensitive, moody baby. 23—have you ever committed a violent crime because of a video game or rap song? No. 24—have you ever actually overheard one of your friends talking shit about you? Yes. 25—how many partners is too many? I don’t care what others do. 26—do you know what the “myspace angles” are? Yeppp.  27—is tom still your friend? if yes, why? I don’t go on Myspace anymore (it’s been over 10 years now), but back when I did I think I ended up deleting him. 28—do you have a sponge frog next to your sink? What’s a sponge frog? 29—do you believe that wearing an aluminum foil hat will stop the government from reading your thoughts? I don’t think they’re reading my thoughts. It does seem that way online, though. Like seriously there have been things I don’t recall ever talking about and there will be an ad for it on Facebook or Instagram. 30—would you rather have a hook for a hand or a peg leg? Peg leg I guess. A hook hand would greatly impact me as a paraplegic who relies on my arms and upper body strength.  31—do you tip the carhops at sonic? I think I did, but I haven’t been to Sonic in like 10 years so I’m not sure. 32—have you gotten drunk specifically to lower your inhibitions? Yes. 33—how close does someone have to be for you to feel obligated to wait and hold the door for them? If they’re behind me or close enough. 34—do you give “breaks” to people who don’t deserve them? (i.e. are you a sucker?) I did that a lot. 35—have you ever been walked in on? Not while having sex if that’s what you’re getting at, but while getting dressed or using the restroom or something. 36—honestly, do you think you’re better than everyone? Absolutely not. I don’t think I’m better than anyone. 37—what do you take to a pot luck? Probably an appetizer platter or dessert. 38—do you examine the tissue after you blow your nose? Ew, no. 39—how do you know when you are an adult? I’m 30 and I’m still not sure, ha. 40—what is your cure for the hiccups? Ugh, I hate the hiccups. Nothing ever helps to get rid of them for me.

[writing-royza]

Royai Week: Day Three: Whispers

Neither Confirm Nor Deny

“Lieutenant, how long has it been since the fight against Lust?”

Casting him an odd look out of the corner of her eye, Riza paused a moment, trying to figure out where he was going with this. “…Just over seven months, sir. Why do you ask?”

Roy thought about it for a moment, not acknowledging the question, then nodded decisively. “When I was injured,” he began, “the doctor ordered me off alcohol for three months, while my wounds healed. Medically speaking, I could have started drinking again three months ago.”

“Haven’t you?”

“Nope. The whole span of time leading up to the Promised Day, I stayed sober as a judge. I figured I needed all the brain cells I had to plan for what the Homonculi were up to.” Tossing her a grin, he started for the bar to one side of the room. “But now, we’re at a Presidental inauguration party, there’s an open bar, and I have zero responsibilities to deal with tomorrow. No Homonculi, no evil plot to foil….” He turned, walking backward, and pointed to himself with a boyish grin. “No sobriety!”

Riza rolled her eyes with a smile and started after him.

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

“She hasn’t left him alone all night,” Rebecca pouted, watching the black and blonde heads bent together in conversation in the line for the bar. She propped her chin in one hand, elbow resting on the black tablecloth. “I know she says she’s his babysitter, but I always thought she was joking about that!”

“Yeah, there’s less joking than you might think,” Breda commented, picking up the half-full beer mug in front of him. “More so when there’s alcohol involved, though. Boss never really remembers exactly how much is his limit before he gets all… loopy.”

“It’s kind of fun to watch, though,” Fuery murmured into his glass, beginning to tilt slightly to the right. Breda caught him by the elbow and steadied him.

“Okay, but she ought to help her girl friends out, too,” Rebecca fumed, reaching for her own drink. “Where’s the sisterhood solidarity?!”

Her glass was halfway to her mouth before she froze, a thought occurring. Her hand lowered, no sip taken, as her eyes stole back to the intent conversation between Colonel and Lieutenant. “Wait a minute…. They’ve always been close. Joined at the freaking hip.”

Breda started grinning, but Fuery flushed bright red. Rebecca set her glass back on the table, and leaned toward them, her voice conspiratorial. “Maybe they’re joined in other places.”

Fuery turned a deeper shade of red, uttering a strangled squeak at the same time as Breda’s derisive snort fogged the interior of his beer mug. Rebecca scowled instantly. “What?! You don’t think it’s possible?”

“Oh, it’s possible,” Breda answered, still smiling. “I’d go so far as to say ‘probable’… under a specific set of circumstances.” He lifted fingers one at a time. “For it to happen, they’d need three things: nerve, total privacy, and no small amount of booze.” He shrugged, letting his hand drop to the table. “Hawkeye lives alone, so there’s the privacy. They’re both drinking tonight, so there’s the booze.”

Rebecca grinned broadly. “Then I say we help them find the nerve.”

Shaking his head, Fuery leaned heavily against the table. “Not gonna work,” he said solemnly. “You can’t talk people like them together. Suggestions, coaxing, assur —” He hiccupped, loudly. “Assurances…. Doesn’t work. You can’t make people have….” The blush, beginning to fade, resurged. “…you know….”

“He’s got a point.” Breda nodded sagely. “He’s drunk, but he’s not wrong. And as long as they’ve been a team, if they were going to hop into bed together, they would have done it long before now and we’d probably never know. They’re sneaky.”

“Who’s sneaky?”

Immersed in their conversation, leaned together in conspiratorial fashion, they hadn’t noticed the two subjects of discussion start in their direction. Now, both Colonel and Lieutenant joined them at the little standing-height table, setting their drinks among the others.

Roy lifted a questioning eyebrow. “Well?”

Breda dropped his gaze guiltily to his drink; Fuery looked as though he wanted nothing more than to sink out of sight beneath the floorboards. Rebecca, however, turned to her best friend with a narrow look of suspicion.

“I am going to ask you one question,” she said evenly. Riza’s expression turned instantly wary, her whole body tensing. “You are not allowed to answer as anything other than ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ and you’re not allowed to lie.” A warning finger waved under the blonde woman’s nose. “No. Lying. Got it?”

Brown eyes relaxed to a look of cool indifference, and Riza reached a casual hand for her glass of white wine. “Rebecca, I’ve told you before, whatever State secrets I heard in Bradley’s office aren’t for sale.”

“Quit joking, this is serious!” the brunette said firmly, among snorts and snickers from the others at the table. “I want to know: are you and your pretty-boy boss getting it on, or what?”

Riza’s fingers clenched on the stem of the wine glass, her eyes staring in wide, blank shock at the forwardness of the question. Beside her, Roy half-choked on a sip of his own drink, lapsing into a coughing fit. Rebecca stared down both of them, her eyes narrowed intently.

“What’s it gonna be, Riza?”

Just as she was opening her mouth for an unequivocal denial, Roy’s hand settled on his Lieutenant’s shoulder. “I can handle this one,” he said. “Second Lieutenant Catalina, let me take this opportunity to, once and for all, put an end to the rumours that Lieutenant Hawkeye and I are sleeping together.”

He smiled, that easy, charming, ‘hey-you-can-trust-me’ grin that was capable of disarming civilians and superiors alike. “Yes, I’m aware that those rumours have been floating around for nearly as long as the two of us have worked in the same office. Hell, I’m sure they were there in Ishval. But they’re just that: rumours. And rumours very rarely have truth to them.”

Rebecca thought that over for a moment…. Then nodded slowly. “All right, I see what you’re saying.”

“Do you?” Breda shrugged. “All I heard was him talking in circles and not really answering. A ‘yes, no, maybe so.’”

The smile disappeared, and Roy shot him an annoyed look. “It was a no,” he said flatly. “And I’m sure we all have much more intelligent topics we can discuss instead of pointless rumours.”

“Ah, Colonel! Here you are!” The group turned as one to see the towering figure of Alex Louis Armstrong motioning from the side of the grouping of tables; the furniture and people around them provided too much of a roadblock for the easy passage of such a figure as his. “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but our new Führer-President would like a word with you and Lieutenant Hawkeye, if you have a moment?”

They took the exit gratefully, despite Rebecca’s whispered assertion that ‘this isn’t over!’ Making their way toward the Major, Riza murmured, “That was nicely dodged, sir. Though if anyone were going to pick up on it, it would be Breda.”

“Yeah, I should’ve figured on that,” he said quietly. “Oh well; we’re out of it now anyway.”

“For now, yes.” A smile tugged at her mouth. “But you broke the rules. Rebecca said it had to be yes or no, and no lying. You didn’t follow either of those.”

“Nah, I’m home free.” Roy smirked. “She told you that. Not me.”

[merrybrides]

REAL WEDDING: SAMANTHA & MITCHELL IN MONTARA, CA

After a romantic marriage proposal at her family’s lake house, Samantha Starkey and Mitchell Milner decided to plan a destination wedding in Northern California. The couple, who met during a documentary filmmaking course in India, scoured home-rental sites, hoping to find a private property that would accommodate a wedding. As chance would have it, a listing for Villa Montara—an architectural, rustic-modern home located 20 miles south of San Francisco—popped up and the couple jumped on the opportunity. And on a breezy, blue-sky afternoon in October, the couple exchanged vows in front of their 90 guests on a coastal bluff overlooking the Pacific.

Bride and groom: Samantha and Mitchell  Wedding date: October 7, 2017 Venue: Villa Montara, Montara, Calif. Number of guests: 90 Minted wedding invitation: “Oceans” (foil-pressed) by Wildfield Paper Co. Wedding details card: “Elegant Angles” by Peony Papeterie Wedding response card: “Mountain Sky” by Summer Winkelman (hand-cut by the bride)

How did you and Mitchell meet?

Mitch and I met during a documentary filmmaking course traveling through India.

Tell us about the proposal!

My family has a lake house I grew up going to in Indiana and that we still visit every summer. This particular summer Mitch was unable to go (or so I thought). I arrived at the lake house, and was immediately sent on a scavenger hunt around town. At the time, I was thinking Mitch was just sorry that he couldn’t make it and set up this fun gift for me. At the end of the scavenger hunt I found him in the middle of the lake on a floating platform decorated in lights and flowers!

Since you’re in the wedding industry yourself (Samantha is a wedding videographer), what were your main priorities in planning your own nuptials?

I didn’t want to get caught up in the details, or to overdo it. I know how easy it can be to be upsold on so many things during the wedding planning process, and then suddenly realize you’ve lost the original vision. With that said, my priorities were keeping it beautiful and as simple as possible!

Did you encounter any hiccups along the way?

My only advice is to not wait to the last minute for the smaller details. For example, I did my programs about a month before the wedding and the blue I picked wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but I didn’t give myself time to customize it further.

How did you find your wedding venue?

I originally found it on VRBO. It’s a rental house, unfortunately the owners just sold it though!

Who made your wedding dress?

It was by Flora and was the second dress I tried on.

What did Mitch wear?

A navy suit from Nordstrom.

What did your wedding party wear?

Bridesmaids wore mixed dresses from Show Me Your Mumu and the guys rented suits from The Black Tux.

How did you choose your wedding invitation?

This actually took me a long time, because I liked so many of the designs. It was hard to choose! I narrowed it down to my top three picks, and then compared them to my style board to see which ones worked best. The nicest part is how customizable everything is—I loved that I could mix and match to make my own unique invitation suite.

Were your invitations letterpressed, flat-printed, or foil-pressed?

They were foil-pressed. I love the special touch the gold adds.

Did you add any special touches to your invitations to make them your own?

I had a lot of geometric shapes already going on with my wedding design, so I specifically looked for something on  that I could easily cut into a geometric shape. And that RSVP design (“Mountain Sky” by Summer Winkelman) was perfect to cut!

How did the invitation tie in to the wedding’s overall look and feel?

I wanted our wedding style to incorporate organic movement, contrasted with simple, geometric lines. The invite I chose had watercolor at the bottom that spoke to the “movement” aspect of my wedding style, and then I chose “Details” and “Rsvp” cards with clean lines to bring in the geometric aesthetic.

Who officiated the ceremony?

My father-in-law.

What were some of your favorite wedding-day decorations and/or details?

My favorite was our tripod-shaped altar, because my mom and aunt helped me build it!

Did you exchange traditional vows or did you write them yourselves?

We wrote our vows. I’ve been to so many weddings, and I’ve always felt that it’s more special and touching that way.

Please share some memorable moments from the wedding ceremony.

One of my favorite moments from the day was standing with my dad right before I walked down the aisle. We were in the house looking out this big window that overlooked the ceremony. It was set up in a way that I had a perfect bird’s-eye view of ceremony and everyone else walking down the aisle without them seeing me. We just looked at each other and started to cry.

Did you incorporate any meaningful family or cultural traditions into the wedding day?

We both come from families where faith is very important, and it’s a big part of who we are as well. I’m not very traditional, but I knew I wanted the ceremony to reflect our love for God. So, we took a moment and asked our parents to come up and pray for us privately during the ceremony while music played in the background. It was a really special moment to look back on for all of us!

Did you serve signature cocktails?

Yes! We did a Scottish Ale (his) and a Garden Cooler (hers).

What was on the dinner menu?

We did a family-style dinner—I honestly can’t even tell you what was served, I just remember that it was all insanely good.

Tell us more about your escort-card display. 

I made the escort cards out of hexagon-shaped tiles. I needed something small that wouldn’t blow in the wind easily, so it was the perfect solution.

What were some of your fondest memories from the day?

All our family and friends from all different parts of life coming together and having fun. It’s truly something that will never happen again, so I cherished every moment!

Did you have a first dance?

Yes, our first dance was to “Northern Wind” by City and Colour.

Did you have any after-party?

Montara is a very small coastal town and there is only one bar! So we had a bus at the end of the night that took people there for the after-party. It was honestly so fun to be all dressed up in wedding attire and all show up at this little dive bar!

Where did you go on your honeymoon?

We went to Phuket and the Phi Phi Islands in Thailand. It was SO beautiful!

Any advice for couples who are starting to plan their wedding?

You’ve spent a year plus planning your dream wedding, and so much work and time goes into it. However, being in the industry I know how easy it is for the little things to not go as planned. On the wedding day, my advice is to just relax and go with the flow. All the little stuff that didn’t go as planned is nothing in comparison to the declaration of a lifetime you are making to your love.  

[accio-ambition]

Knowing Little Notes

For those, like me, who are only interested in the Super Bowl for the commercials and the halftime show, I come to you this overly commercialized day with my contribution to @captainswanbigbang‘s CS Little Bang. A super special shout out to @technicallysizzlingcloud for beta-ing this monstrosity and @mrs-emma-swan-jones for a lovely art piece. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: Emma Swan doesn’t do kids. Or, more accurately, she hasn’t done kids. But when a friend in need asks her to do kids - more specifically teach them - Emma dips her toes into the education field. Her first foray into substitute teaching is for Mr K. Jones, who proves to be a great asset in this whole “learning to teach” thing. It helps Emma understand what her friends get out of the job: that the best life lessons sometimes come from students and a nice little note. Rated: T for language Read it here or on AO3, whatever floats your boat

By trade - if you could call it that - Emma is a bail bondsperson. She chases after skips who’ve failed to pay her back: an irony in the fact that she has nothing, money or otherwise. She’s got an apartment the size of a comfortable closet and enough to eat takeout on occasion. Still, it doesn’t  require a college degree that she doesn’t have and it’s active enough for her. It’s great for the lifestyle she leads. She can find a gig in any city, no matter where she might find herself. It’s awesome.

Until it isn’t.

She’s sprained her ankle one too many times and this time around she’s got a broken wrist to accompany with it. Her skip decided to get a little rougher with her than usual, slamming her wrist into a granite counter. She’s lucky it was only her wrist with the heels she was wearing.

Still, a broken wrist means a cast: which means she’s out of the bail bonds game for at least the next two months, probably longer. Her office won’t pay her rent or her bills, to the surprise of no one, and she’s not moving out of the only little square of the world she’s ever been able to call her own.

That’s how she falls into substitute teaching.

Mary Margaret tells her about it one evening soon after Emma gets her cast on, taking on the role of pseudo-mother caring for her healing daughter.

(She even signs the cast, and Emma can’t quite quell the feeling of a little girl excited to have everyone at school sign her cast.)

It’s an easy way to make money, Mary Margaret insists - solid hours, a schedule that changes, yet stays the same and the properly-trained regular teacher comes up with all the plans.

“All you have to do is follow them,” her friend tells her.

She helps Emma cut the plastic bag off her arm after showering all the sweat and hospital grime of her body. A timer goes off in the kitchen, Emma’s rickety oven on the verge of catching fire with the casserole Mary Margaret’s got cooking away in it. With an thrilled little noise, she goes off to check dinner.

(Emma is consistently surprised she isn’t actually Mary Margaret’s child with her husband David. With the way they all act around each other, they might as well be.)

“I don’t know,” Emma shouts into the other room, ripping the remainder of the shopping bag off her arm. “I don’t really do kids.”

“You haven’t really done kids,” Mary Margaret corrects her. The top of her head pokes from around the door jamb to glare at the other woman. “That doesn’t mean you can’t do them.”

She disappears again and Emma can hear the oven door screech open, slam shut, and her friend place whatever was heating up on the stovetop. A drawer opens and Mary Margaret returns to her living room to take the seat next to Emma’s, an empathetic expression on her face.

“Give it a try. I’ll put your name in the system for some coworkers of mine and you can try it out. If you don’t like it, you don’t like it. But at least it’ll get you out of the house.”

“And the money,” Emma adds, pointing a finger down the plane of her face. “Gotta pay rent somehow.”

Mary Margaret’s hand comes to rest on the hand of hers that isn’t wrapped up in plaster. “We can help you out this month if you need it,” she offers. “You just figure yourself out first and then we can deal with everything else.”

“Thanks Mary Margaret.” Sighing, Emma relaxes into the couch cushion, enjoying the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen. Her eyes slide shut for a moment, merely taking in the aroma mixed with the warmth of her seat, and the nice little cocktail of pain meds she’s got in her system right now. When she opens her eyes, Mary Margaret’s expression has morphed into something weirder, like she’s holding back a secret, which she never does.

(She tries, bless her honest heart, but Emma knows from experience that if you share a secret with Mary Margaret, you share a secret with David and all of his work friends, and sooner rather than later, all of Storybrooke knows.)

“You don’t happen to have an ulterior motive, do you?” she asks. Hesitantly, Mary Margaret shakes her head, but her eyes widen and she’s biting her lip and her cheeks are starting to grow red.

She’s lying.

“Mary Margaret,” Emma chides, drawing out the final syllable of her name.

Her friend shrugs. “Well, you need a gig,” she says slowly. “And I’m going to need a long-term sub in the near future.”

Long term? Not that she didn’t already suspect it, but now Emma knew something was off. In all the days and months and years that she’s known Mary Margaret, she’s never known her to skip out on school. She loved those kids as if she had carried and borne them herself, every single one of them. “How near?” Emma asks.

Shrugging, a small grin starts to grow on Mary Margaret’s’ lips. “About five or six months,” she says. That only further confuses Emma. Mary Margaret giggles and slaps her knee. “Oh, did I forget to mention I’m pregnant?”

Emma’s silent with shock, her jaw dropped. She’s not quite sure why: it is the next natural chapter in their story. Both of them would be - will be, she supposes now - wonderful parents.  Mary Margaret with the summers off and David as overprotective as he is make the perfect combination. Not to mention they’ve both got so much love, they aren’t sure where to put it.

And she gets to be cool Aunt Emma. All the perks of having a kid with the option of returning him or her to their biological parents.

But her silence apparently lasts too long as Mary Margaret’s expression begins to fall. It seems she’s taken Emma’s moment to process the wrong way. “Look, just try it out,” she insists, her hands coming up between them. “If you don’t like it, I’ll find another sub, but you’re going to love it and you’ll love my class this year. I promise, I don’t trust anyone else but someone close to me with-”

Emma interrupts her unnecessarily hurried words with a hug despite both sets of knees impeding them. “I’m so happy for you,” she says into the fabric of Mary Margaret’s shirt shoulder.

It sounds like Mary Margaret’s crying, or trying not to and failing to do so. She’s making little sobbing-hiccup noises into Emma’s ear.

When they pull away from each other, Emma’s proven right: Mary Margaret’s eyes are red around the rims and she wipes at what may or may not have been full-fledged tears. Emma nods, feeling her smile grow on her face.

“Yeah, I’ll give it a try, but don’t you worry about what comes after.” Taking her hands, Emma squeezes them. “You’re having a baby!”

Mary Margaret nods enthusiastically, still wiping at the remnants of tears. “Yeah.”

“How’d David react?” Emma asks excitedly. If she knows David at all, she knows that his reaction to the news of impending fatherhood would rank high on the list of adorable videos on YouTube.

“Oh, I’ve got a video.” Mary Margaret digs beneath her for her phone, chuckling the entire time. Once she’s unearthed it, she unlocks the phone and hands it over to Emma. “It’s only the latter part of his reaction, but it was wonderful.”

In the video, David’s already kneeling on the ground, his face painfully contorted into something precious, with a little onesie in his hands.

“It’s a Huskies jersey,” Mary Margaret explains. “It’s got Nolan and the number three on the back.”

“That’s too cute,” Emma replies, her eyes still transfixed on the phone screen. It’s sweet, even if the jersey idea is a little cliche for her taste. UConn’s basketball team is David’s favorite, a relic of his glory days of college, and it was the first round of the 2004 NCAA tournament that he met Mary Margaret in a Boston bar. The Huskies went on to win that year, and, rumor has it, David proposed the night they did.

She definitely spots tears rolling down David’s face as Mary Margaret’s recorded giggle comes from the speaker. He keeps asking, “Really? Are you serious? No joke?” and Emma can’t help but feel her own eyes begin to water.

(She blames it on the painkillers, messing with her natural emotional state.)

Thankfully, the video ends, and she has to take a moment to collect herself before turning back to her friend. During her life, Emma’s friends have been few and far between, but since the moment she accidentally spilled coffee on Mary Margaret’s skirt while running after a skip, she’s known the woman’s heart was two sizes too big. Her reaction had been to worry about Emma and her hand drenched in scalding coffee over the fabric dripping down her legs and the stain ruining it.

“You’re going to be an amazing mother, Mary Margaret.”

Mary Margaret’s smile is watery, her eyes shining with joy. “I have as much confidence in you as you have in me,” she assures Emma. With a final pat to her hand, she stands and begins to pack up her things. “You need to rest now. I’ll text you the details of a job and you can ask all your questions later.” She points toward the kitchen. “Dinner should be cool and ready to eat in five minutes. Just throw some tin foil on top and put it in the fridge when you’re done.”

Emma hums, the thought of sleep quite inviting, as she settles into the couch cushions. “Thanks, Mom,” she mumbles. “Congratulations.”

0000

Of course, the classroom door is locked when Emma finally finds it, which forces her to wander about even longer until she discovers the front office again. When the custodian graciously opens the door and flips on the lights, she’s only got about fifteen minutes until first bell.

“Great,” she mumbles to herself. “Off to a great start.”

She’s still got the cast on her wrist, weeks one through four checked off on her road to recovery. At her last visit, the doctor told her things were looking good, but due to her age, the bones were resetting slower than normal.

(That’s something every late 20s, early 30s woman wants to hear. “You’re too old for your bone to move like they used to, so hope you like not being able to wash your hands properly.”)

But for now, Emma’s got her first gig as a substitute teacher to tackle. Hopefully more in the psychological and mental aspects and not so much in the physical one. According to the text Mary Margaret sent her last week, she’s subbing in on a fifth grade class today.

Better for novice subs, she wrote. They’re pretty smart and they know how to use the bathroom by themselves.

Didn’t know that was an issue I might be facing, Emma responded, but awesome.

As Mary Margaret had informed her, the teacher’s left the lesson plans on his desk, front and center, an array of worksheets and handouts surrounding it. This teacher, a Mr Jones, has labeled every pile with the period it had to be handed out with a sticky note. It was all so precise, she can’t quite believe that this man is a teacher and not the commander of an army. If she was a more ambitious and less anxious person at the moment, she might pull out a ruler and measure exactly how far apart each pile is from the other.

(She’s willing to bet it’s equivalent all the way around.)

Granted, she thinks as she quickly skims the plans and shuffles the piles around, keeping order in a classroom might be worse than any war zone at certain times.

She reaches the end of her agenda for the day and finds a handwritten note added after the typed postscript asking for notes throughout the day.

‘Many thanks for helping a dashing rapscallion out. Mary Margaret spoke quite highly of you. They’re good kids. You’ll do wonderfully. K. Jones.’

Emma sighs and slumps down into the rolling chair behind his desk. “Well at least he’s confident enough for the both of us,” she grumbles to herself.

Flicking her eyes to her watch, she finds she’s still got a few minutes. She breathes deeply, mentally giving herself a pep talk while taking in the rest of the room. What looks like a reading nook - bookshelves and small bean bags - crowds the corner next to her. Cabinets and closets line the other side of the room until they reach the door diagonal to her current seat. There’s a question of the day written on the board, awaiting students to answer it in order to inform her of their attendance. Each clustered table of desks has a sign dangled over it, what look game pieces from Battleship, if Emma’s not mistaken.

In front of her, it’s a surprisingly clean desk, save for the teaching supplies K. Jones has left out for her. A pencil holder with a few writing utensils and some scissors is the only teacher-like decoration - the only decoration at all, save for two framed photos. One of the frames holds the picture of a boat and the other is of two men on what’s presumably the same boat. They’ve both got dark hair, one more so than the other. They’re both quite handsome, with striking blue eyes and wide grins across their faces.

The mess of the maniac - whether K. Jones be the curly haired one or the black haired one in the photo - is behind the desk: piles of papers and trays, books and clipboards. How anyone could find a single thing in that mess, Emma decides as she stands, is a fucking miracle. She doesn’t even want to contemplate that part of teaching, the grading and commenting and whatever.

She’s writing her name toward the top of the chalkboard when she hears “Who are you?” from behind her. Emma turns to find a boy, backpack heavy and jacket nearly swallowing him up, standing in the doorway.

“Are you our substitute?” he asks.

Emma nods, gulping away her nerves. “Yeah.” Her voice wavers, so she clears her throat and tries again. “Yeah, Mr Jones is out today. I’m Ms Swan.”

The kid walks up to a desk at the cluster of tables beneath the aircraft carrier sign, close to the front, and sets his backpack on top. “Cool.” He says it so nonchalantly that Emma wonders if she was that calm and collected when she had a substitute at school. She remembers bits and pieces of elementary school, most memories tainted by bad group homes or unworthy foster parents. To be honest, thinking back on it now, Emma’s pretty sure she spent most of her grade school days daydreaming in fairy tales.

The zip of the boy’s backpack wakes her up a little bit, and Emma shakes her head. As he’s putting books and journals in his desk, he asks, “Are we gonna watch movies all day?”

Emma chuckles, setting the chalk down on the blackboard shelf. “Sorry, kid, but Mr Jones actually left us a bunch of stuff to do.” He groans, the arms of his jacket shushing as his shoulders slump. “Don’t worry, there’s a game or two, I think,” she assures him. The boy goes on, grumbling to himself as he hangs up his jacket and backpack. Curiosity strikes her as she shoots another glance at the classroom clock. “What are you doing here? I didn’t hear the bell ring.”

“My mom’s the principal, so we come in early and I go and count the buses.” He pushes his chair in beneath his desk, then comes up to her with an outstretched hand. “I’m Henry.”

“Oh, cool,” she says, very adultlike and not at all frightened by the fact that the principal’s son is in her class today. “Hi.”

He stares, assessing her with his wide brown eyes. Henry squints at her and Emma can’t help but try and swallow away the lump that’s gotten stuck in her throat. “You’re a new substitute, aren’t you?” he inquires slowly.

Guilty, Emma grimaces. “Is it that easy to tell?”

Henry shrugs, finally releasing her hand. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” He points toward a couple of desks in the back of the room, near the reading corner. “These kids are going to give you the most trouble, but if you threaten them with walking the plank, they usually hush.”

“Walking the plank?” she asks, confusion coloring her voice. It sounds like a reprimanding tactic, but she would have thought that something like a plank to be walked across should’ve been mentioned in the lesson plan.

(Not to mention it sounds kind of humiliating. While Emma wouldn’t have put it past the administration back in her schooling days, it sounds a little too corporal punishment-y for the school system Mary Margaret has described.)

“It’s basically a detention. Mr Jones sends someone to the lunchroom to sit with Lunch Lady Cora.” He turns back to her, lifting his hand up to hide his mouth from the side. Dramatically, Henry whispers, “Sometimes, the kids come back crying.”

“What? Is he allowed to do that?”

“Mhm,” Henry hums with a nod. “They usually just help count the lunch money or clean the lunch trays, but Cora is not a nice lady.”

Emma scoffs and goes to stand by Mr Jones’ desk. “Doesn’t sound like it.”

She jumps a bit when Henry pats her on the arm. “You’re going to do great, Ms Swan. I believe in you,” he tells her.

As silly as it may seem, one of her temporary students having such innocent confidence in her does make her heartbeat slow just a tad and her nerves settle. Plus, it bodes well for how she deals with kids.

(Maybe Mary Margaret is right; maybe she just hasn’t had the opportunity to do this child caring thing.)

“Thanks, Henry,” she says quietly. “That really means a lot.”

He smiles. “Well, I’ve got to get to work. I’ll be back before the morning announcements.”

“Alright,” she says with a sigh. “Be good.”

Nodding, Henry salutes her. “Yes ma'am.”

As Henry leaves the classroom, the morning bell rings. He’ll have to fight against the stream of kids heading to their rooms, chatting about last night’s football game, or the pros and cons of certain Pokemon.

(That’s something kids talk about, right?)

In the few precious moments of solitude she has left, Emma takes another deep breath.

“Here goes nothing,” she murmurs.

0000

She sits down at the teacher’s desk after seeing the students off to their busses. Heels were a poor choice today and she’s got the start of a migraine brewing behind her eyelids.

Despite all that, Emma hasn’t felt so accomplished in a long time. Even before she spent the last month sitting on her couch, watching Netflix and trying to avoid the unscratchable itch on her forearm. While the bail bonds business was always booming, the rush of adrenaline attained by catching a skip was nothing compared to the camaraderie and naivete an elementary school supplied her with in one day.

For the moment, Emma slides her feet from her shoes, letting the blood flow back to the places where the nerves have been pinched for the majority of the day. Sighing, she reads over the handwriting scrawled across the bottom of the lesson plan again. Then she flips the little packet over. She contemplates what to write - whether to tell him that Henry was a great asset and helper today, how far they got in the science lesson, and the like - but she settles on the simplest of comments.

‘You’re right: they’re great kids. I’d be happy to come back. E. Swan.’

And it feels right, scribbling that out at the bottom of the page. But then she feels a little guilty, not leaving details about their lesson on photosynthesis, or that his math class managed to trick her into playing Jeopardy the entire time; so Emma goes back and leaves some notations along the side of Mr Jones’ outline. Little things, nothing extensive, but it is her first time subbing. How is she supposed to know what to do?

When Emma feels that all is said and done, she packs up her purse, straightens up the piles of papers, and heads back into the empty hallway, the room darkening behind her. Her heels are back on, their click-clacks slow and measured now that her feet ache and she doesn’t have to walk from desk to desk explaining certain questions.

“So?” The voice comes from ahead of her, raising in question. Mary Margaret’s locking up her own classroom, two bags hanging from her shoulder with another one on the ground beneath her feet. Despite being busy with her own class, Mary Margaret made sure to check up on Emma during her planning period. She’s got a smile on her face right now, shouldering her third bag as she asks more leadingly: “How’d it go?”

Emma laughs, giving up the battle with her heels. When she meets up with her friend, she leans against the wall and takes her shoes off until the coolness of the linoleum soothes her feet. “It all makes sense now,” she says.

Mary Margaret chuckles, hitching her bags up higher. “And what, exactly, does that mean?”

Taking pity on her friend, Emma grabs one of the bags from her hand and throws it over her own shoulder.

She ponders over her words before responding. “You always tell me how tired you are and how your feet hurt and I never understood because I thought you spent all day playing Legos with a bunch of kids,” she explains. “But now I get it.”

“That’s all I wanted to hear.” Together, they walk - or stumble, more suitably for Emma - down the hall, bidding goodbye to other teachers and staff members as they make their ways outside.

With a sigh, Emma’s forced to take a seat inside the front office to don her shoes once more.

“So?” Mary Margaret asks, pushing open the front door.

The afternoon sun burns Emma’s eyes after a day spent indoors under artificial light, and that along with her friend’s hanging question cause her to grunt.

Mary Margaret sighs and nudges her arm. “Did you like it? Can I count on you to sub for me?”

Her immediate answer is no - it goes unspoken, but Emma’s first response is always to avoid change. Especially change that might benefit her. She’s been a runner all her life, which made bail bonds a wonderful option from her. She could pick up and move, find other skips to chase in any city in and state, no matter what problem she might have been running from at the time: relationships, dreams, emotional trauma, just to name a few.

But this is Mary Margaret, her closest friend in the world, one of two people she’d do anything for. And she did have a wonderful time today. Her comment to Mr Jones was the furthest thing from a lie, surprisingly enough.

When they reach their cars, Emma takes a deep breath and turns to her friend. “I’ll do it,” she says, confident grin across her face. “It was great. So when little Emmett comes, I’ll sub for you.”

Furrowing her brows, Mary Margaret repeats, “Emmett?”

“Well, it kind of seems like you guys are set on a little dude and you’re obviously going to name him after the most important person in your life,” she reasons, smile growing wider.

“My husband?” she says. “My father, or his?”

Emma scoffs, opening the driver’s door with a flourish. Brushing her hair off her shoulder, she says, “Me, obviously.”

“Of course.” Mary Margaret comes over and hugs Emma, squeezing her a little tighter than considered normal. “How could I be so obtuse?”

“It’s okay,” Emma says, patting her on the back. “You’ve obviously got a bad case of pregnancy brain.”

That earns Emma a slap to the shoulder, and chuckles break from her mouth before she can stop them.

“It’s not that bad,” Mary Margaret complains, her voice high and on the edge of whining. Her hand falls to her stomach, just a hint of a bump there, easily mistaken for a food baby or even a trick of the light.

“Not yet,” Emma corrects her. “But if pop culture is to be believed, the worst is yet to come.”

0000

Emma’s enjoying the bright and warm sunshine as she steps outside of the doctor’s office when her phone rings.

“So much for nice things,” she grumbles.

Fishing her phone out of her bag with her new cast around her wrist, Emma sighs when she reads the caller ID. As much as she loves the woman, Mary Margaret has been beginning to get on her nerves in the last couple of weeks. She calls every couple of hours, asking her if she’d be okay with doing this when she’s out because the rest of her team wants to do it or if she wants to take over for so-and-so who’s got an emergency root canal in the morning. And that’s only the school-related calls. The other ones are pregnancy scares or new things she learned while researching during lunch.

She’s a mess, in Emma’s opinion. A big happy mess.

So when her friend calls on her afternoon off, Emma picks up, no matter how much she wants to just ignore it, go home, and nap on the couch until dinner.

“What’s up?” Emma greets, walking up to her Bug and leaning against it.

“What are you doing Thursday?” Mary Margaret’s words are said without preamble, as if this were a major emergency.

(It better be for something good. There is precious nap time to be spent on the couch.)

“Umm, nothing, I don’t think,” Emma replies. “Why?”

There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line, as if Mary Margaret is moving quickly or trying to hide her voice. “I ran into Mr Jones in the hallway and he’s had something come up suddenly,” she explains. “Asked if you were available to sub for him.”

“Oh.” She can’t say she wasn’t expecting this, but Emma is still kind of surprised. A person with absolutely no training in the field is a little - she doesn’t want to say unwise seeing as she’s benefitting from it, but that’s the only word she can think of at the moment. But it’s nice to know that she did something right the first time around. “Sure. Yeah, I can do that,” she finally decides.

On the other side of the line, Mary Margaret makes some little whooping news. “Great, I’ll let him know,” she says. “Would you like me to pass on your number so he can contact you directly next time?”

“No!” Emma yells, unintentionally scaring the man three cars down trying to load groceries in the trunk. “No, I don’t even know the man. That can’t be protocol or something. Tell him to leave any more dates he knows with his plans and I’ll get back to him.”

Mary Margaret hums in agreement, her tone a little different when she says, “Okay.”

“Thanks, Mary Margaret,” Emma offers, opening the car door. “I just got out from the doctors’, so thank you for calling me, but I need to get home before I pass out behind the wheel.”

“Oh! Of course!” And with a quick farewell, Mary Margaret’s back to work and Emma’s on her way home.

0000

This time, Mr Jones’ door is unlocked when Emma makes her way in to school Thursday morning. She’s feeling a little more comfortable with the whole situation, having already gotten over those first time jitters. These kids know her a little better now, and she’d like to think - or maybe hope is the correct terminology - that she has no qualms in making them walk the plank if they act out of order today.

Just as before, Emma finds a pile of materials on the otherwise clean desk. She sets down her bag atop the mess behind the desk, slightly more organized than it was the last time she subbed, and begins to read the lesson plans Mr Jones left behind, adorn with a handwritten note at the top.

‘Ms Swan - or who I hope is Ms Swan.’

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, seeing her name scrawled across the top of the page in this elegant script. He specifically asked Mary Margaret to contact her and his students had to have mentioned her name. But still, something happens inside her when she reads the greeting of his note.

‘Thank you for coming in again. You seem to have made quite the impression on my class, for they asked for you by name,” his note goes on to say. “I consider myself a strong man, but when 23 fifth graders plead with their best puppy dog eyes, I am weak-willed and hopeless.’

The image she conjures up is of the men staring at her from the picture on the desk, all bravado and masculinity, going to complete puddy at those kids’ request. It does something weird to her stomach, makes it flip and contort into an unusual shape, not unlike how reading her own name in his writing did.

His note easily leads into today’s lessons - fractions in math, harms of smoking during health, nothing she doesn’t think she can’t handle - before signing off as he did before: ‘You’ll do wonderfully. K. Jones.’

There are many things in life that Emma considers luxuries that some of these kids wouldn’t. She never had any guardians that were so flawless and incredibly confident in her as Henry’s mother. She never really had parents at all: the first time Emma felt like someone actually cared about her was when she met Mary Margaret and David.

And now, Mr Jones seems to believe in her as well.

“Ms Swan!” Looking up from the notes, Emma’s pleased to find Henry standing in the doorway, his backpack dragging on the ground. “You’re back!”

Emma can’t help the wide smile that crosses her face at his sentiments. “Yeah, kid. I’m back.”

And surprising her even further, Henry jogs across the room, dropping his bag near the front before embracing her tightly. Tentatively, she pats his back, her hand coming to cradle the base of his head.

“Well, this is a very nice welcome back,” she says.

Henry steps back, a little breathless. “I’ve got to count the buses, but I’m really excited that Mr Jones asked you to come back.” He’s gone as quick as he’s come, leaving Emma to chuckle to herself. She takes a seat at the teacher’s desk, grabbing a pen from the supplies holder, ready to write down today’s first note.

“Mr Jones,” she writes, mumbling to herself. “I was honored to hear that your kids wanted me back. I really enjoyed them the first time around and I’m sure I will even more so this time. I’m afraid if I keep coming back, they’ll get the best of me and prove me wrong.” Sticking her tongue out, Emma debates writing the next words, but decides she really has nothing to lose. “But thanks for your bid of confidence. I don’t think I can actually explain to you how much that means to me.”

The bell rings, the sound of kids on their way to class start echoing through the hall, and the school day is off to a rousing start for Emma.

Homeroom bleeds into social studies which bleeds into math. It’s been a while since she’s had the opportunity to do anything with fractions besides try to suss out whether she’s consumed a legitimate half bottle of wine in any one sitting. But going over it in pizzas - something that hasn’t changed since she was in school - opens her eyes and does make simple math a little more welcoming.

Mr Jones left behind a worksheet to cement the information in their fifth grade brains, and after Emma explains it, she claps her hands.

“When you guys are finished, you can do something quietly,” she adds, rolling her wrists. “Read, take a nap, doodle, whatever. Just stay quiet.”

As she takes a seat at her desk, the scritching of pencils overtakes the room. Mumblings of math questions asked to neighbors die off into silence as the students start, focus, and finish up their work. Always a bit paranoid of what’s to come and making sure she has enough time to get through everything she needs to, Emma flips through the lesson plans again. This time around, she notices that, as she told Mary Margaret to pass along, Mr Jones has included a few more days he’d request her services. She joins the chorus of busy pencils by writing down the days he’s asked her to come in in her planner.

(She bought a planner for this whole endeavor and, damn, does it make her feel professional.)

Just as she’s penciling in the penultimate date, Henry clears his throat on the other side of the desk. When she looks up, he hands her the piece of paper he’s got in hand.

“Are you done already?” she asks.

“Yeah, but this isn’t that.” Henry shakes it a bit. “Take it. I drew you something.”

“Really?” Emma’s never had anything drawn for her. Granted, she’s never really spent enough time with children to give them the opportunity. Still, she’s oddly honored. “Well, let’s see it.”

Taking the paper from his hand, Emma looks at it all. He’s obviously put a lot of work in to it, whipping out the crayons and even signing his name at the bottom in his best attempt at cursive. It’s a drawing with a house and some pretty good stick people, and Emma considers herself to be a stick people connoisseur.

“It’s lovely, Henry,” she tells him, meaning every one of those three words.

“Good.” She sets it on the desk, trying to take in all the little things he’s included. The house has a chimney with smoke billowing out of it. It even looks like there’s city skyline in the background.

(How he managed to do all this work and finish his math worksheet in the allotted amount of time has to be a trick of magic.)

Henry points to the figures, standing in front of the house. “This is you, of course,” he explains. “You can tell by the blonde hair and the red jacket.”

She chuckles at that. “That’s what I was thinking. It’s cool that you noticed I always wear that jacket.”

Shrugging, Henry merely says, “It’s very hard to miss.” And then he gestures to the other figure, standing beside her little stick on the paper. “And this is Mr Jones.”

“Oh.” She can see it. The dark hair and what looks like equally as dark clothes on his stick could easily be the men in the photo on Mr Jones’ desk. Henry’s depiction makes it seem like his teacher has curly hair, making Emma believe she’s finally discovered which man in the picture is actually Mr Jones. “And what are we doing?” she asks.

“You guys are going home.”

“Yeah?” The one thing that Mary Margaret told her before becoming a substitute was the innocence Emma would encounter in the school. When she was a child, Emma remembers believing that teachers lived and slept at school as well. But Henry’s a smart kid - surely his mother would’ve explained that teachers don’t all live together, especially not in the school building. “You know me and Mr Jones don’t live together, right? We have different homes.”

“I know,” he assures her. “But I think you would be happy having the same home.”

Emma mulls over his comment as Henry makes his way back to his desk. She thinks about it even harder when she comes in a couple days later - at this rate, she’s concerned about whether or not Mr Jones is trying to get himself fired. It seems like she’s spending more time teaching his class than he is and that has to be a liability of some sort - and finds a line in his customary note that doesn’t necessarily shock her, but does mildly surprise her.

‘Please, love. The only time you need refer to me as Mr Jones is around the children. Otherwise, please call me Killian.’

Oh, she thinks, taking a seat on Mr Jones’ chair.

“Killian,” she corrects herself aloud.

The only other person she calls by first name in this school is Mary Margaret, but that’s because she’s Mary Margaret. And Lunch Lady Cora, Emma supposes, but that’s because at this point, she’s convinced the food service manager doesn’t have a last name. Everyone, even principal Regina Mills, calls her Lunch Lady Cora.

But now there’s Mr Jones - Killian.

Now this is an interesting development.

(Maybe Mr Jones and she could be happy in the same home.)

0000

Though Storybrooke Elementary’s environment is quickly becoming her home turf, there are days where no one - not even Mr Jones, the enigma himself - needs a substitute. And though her wrist is nearly healed completely, Emma’s told her boss she’s taking a little bit of time for herself, exploring other options, something prophetic like that.

That being said, there were still bills to be paid and food to be eaten. Christmas presents to save up for that weren’t going to pay for themselves. So she expands her horizons: reaching out to other local schools in the district, picking up the odd jobs here and there, but always more than happy to come back to her Storybrooke home away from home.

It makes her days at the elementary school - especially with Mr Jones’ class - all the more precious and enjoyable.

She’s pulling double duty one day in January, the morning as Mr Jones while he, apparently, attends to his brother during a bad bout of illness, and the afternoon in the art room. In his plans, Mr Jones - Killian - said he would be back in time for him to escort the students down to the lunch room. Emma’s got them all lined up, ready and quiet for him, but he’s late. And she’s hungry.

Luckily, Emma spots Mary Margaret down the hallway, her belly proceeding her in every direction she turns and action she takes. Close to frantically, Emma waves her over.

“Are you going somewhere important right now?” Emma asks.

Mary Margaret shakes her head. “I was going to see if the vending machine in the lounge had any Cheetos,” she replies.

Emma sighs with relief. “Would you mind watching Jones’ class until he gets here? He’s running late and I’ve got other plans to familiarize myself with. I can bring some Chee - “

“No, Ms Swan, you have to stay for just a little while longer!” some of the kids whine. They’re getting restless, discussion striking up over the entirety of the line. They’ve been good all morning, so it’s sort of unsettling that they’ve decided to act up now as their teacher could literally be walking down the hall for them.

“Why?” Emma asks of the children. Their line is no longer straight and neat; instead, it zig zags, with a few kids here and there straying to the side of their peers to watch her. “What are you kids up to?”

She’s seen their innocent faces before, when she’s spoken to them about a project they were supposed to have previous information on and didn’t. These farces of faces are nowhere close to those looks. “Nothing, we just don’t want you to leave,” the general class mumbles.

“Well, I’ve got to go,” she tells them, taking a step further away from the classroom and closer to the fridge that holds last night’s leftovers-turned-lunch. “My time with you guys is up today and I’ve got to go grab some lunch before I have to be Mr Jefferson down in the art room.”

“You can’t!” Henry yells finally. He’s right on the other side of Mary Margaret, taking this week’s assigned job of line leader very seriously. Everyone’s sort of stunned into silence, children and adults alike. “Mr Jones is coming back,” he says in place of an explanation.

“I know,” Emma responds slowly, trying not to show her frustration just as her stomach rumbles. “That’s why I’m leaving.”

“No,” Henry grouses. “Ms Swan, you’ve really got to meet him.”

“I will, one day.” She can feel her expression soften. Though these kids can’t see inside her mind - thank god - but she gets the feeling. For planting himself so solidly in a place in her life, it is a bit of a shame that she and Mr Jones never met in person, only talked through Mary Margaret or his lesson plans. “But right now, I need to eat,” she says gently, her stomach growling quite audibly, further accentuating her point. “Now, be good for Mrs Nolan until Mr Jones comes. Then you can moan and groan to your hearts’ content.” Giving them a smile, Emma sets her hand on her friend’s shoulder and squeezes. “Thanks, Mary Margaret.”

She tries to hide her laughter, one hand covering her grin and the other resting on her stomach. “No problem,” she says, waving her off. “Go eat.”

Emma’s halfway to the lounge, Mary Margaret barely in sight, when she shouts back, “I’ll get you the Cheetos, I promise!”

0000

In the months that she’s been substituting, Emma’s learned quite a lot. She’s learned the basics of each grades’ curriculum, the generic schedule of the day, and most of the names of the rest of the staff.

(She’s pretty impressed with herself.)

(She’s also learned a lot more about the man who’s chair she often sits in while watching his class. And he writes like he’s got a stick up his ass, but in that whole Jane Austen, kind of romantic way.)

(Her heart speeds up every time she reads his customary last line - you’ll do wonderfully. K. Jones - even if she doesn’t admit it aloud or to herself.)

But the hardest lesson she’s learned during her time is that even the best situations come to a harsh head at some point in time. On a late winter day, something has ruined the feng shui or the status quo or whatever else you might want to call the vibe Jones’ class has managed to pull off every time Emma’s come in to sub. Today was a shitshow, and that’s putting it lightly.

From the moment Henry walked in this morning, already running behind and in a grumpy mood because his mother wouldn’t allow him to go to a sleepover later that night, Emma knew it was going to be a bad day. It was gray and rainy outside, her shoes were soaked through, and something just felt off.

It only went downhill from there.

Lily threw up in the classroom sink, setting off commiserative vomiting from Austin and Camille.  Though the custodian tried to clean it up while the classroom was empty, the smell lingered, making it the only thing Jones’s kids would talk about for the rest of the day. Every sentence example, math problem, anything, had to do with puke.

It made Emma not only feel crappier than she’d been feeling earlier, but it all made her feel nauseous herself, as well as develop a headache. When she realizes two and a half hours are still left in the school day, it takes incredible effort not to collapse in Killian’s chair and break down.

After drudging back in from the pouring rain that greeted her at dismissal time, Emma is a step and a half away from murdering the next person who speaks to her. She needs to punch something or scream, anything to rid herself of this frustration and anger making her vision red. She should use this mood to fuel a gym workout, but she knows she’ll barely make it to the liquor store before going back to her place and drinking it all, whatever it is, in one sitting.

She takes a moment to collect herself, taking some deep breaths at Killian’s desk, his lesson plans staring up at her. She has to write the day’s notes and, as she’s been since the start, Emma’s going to be honest.

Completely foregoing her customary greeting, Emma gets to the point. ‘I take it all back. Your kids are little shits.’ Solid start, she thinks to herself.

Her anger floods out of her without any real permission. ‘God, I don’t know what happened to them, but I wanted to strangle them all, and I know I shouldn’t be telling you this because you love them and they love you, you’re their captain and they’re your crew but they’re all little shits. And I know that was a run on sentence BUT THAT’S HOW FRUSTRATED I AM.’ Hand beginning to cramp, Emma leans on the back fo the chair and sighs.

During her past gigs, she’s sometimes held back the darker parts of the day - if they didn’t get to a certain activity or if she had to send someone to detention - because, overall, his class was wonderful. She thought so, especially after visiting other school with classes not nearly as tame.

Today was just too much, though. Putting pen back to paper, Emma begins again. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be writing this down, but I’ve got no other way to tell you. And I wanted to tell you, but not in a tattle tale sort of way.’ She sighs again, her frustration nearly drained away now. ‘I really do like your kids and I know that everyone has bad days, but the chances that all 23 of them were having a bad day on the same day are odds practically worth playing the lottery on.’

Mary Margaret knocks on the door, asking her if she’s ready to head home yet, and Emma quickly ends her note with her signature. Packing up her stuff, she debates telling her friend about the circus she was ringmaster of today, but she doesn’t.

(If she doesn’t tell him that she feels like he’d understand her feelings better than Mary Margaret or any of the other teachers, that’s her business.

And his, if he wants it to be.)

0000

For some reason, spring in an elementary school is a better place. Not that there’s any scientific proof that accompanies Emma’s conclusion, but she can safely say that she hasn’t experienced a spring like this one. The kids are happier, especially since they can start going back outside for recess after the horrible winter. The teachers are excited to see the end of the school year in sight.

There’s one thing specifically that makes this spring the best one yet, though.

Once again, she’s subbing for Mr Jones on a Thursday. His excuse is that he’s cashing in some vacation days to clean up his ship before he and his brother take out it out on the waters for the first time in the season.

(The vacation time this man has saved up…honestly, he must’ve worked for fifteen years straight to earn this much time off.)

But if it weren’t for him, Emma wouldn’t feel nearly as prepared to take over for Mary Margaret when her time comes. Her due date fast approaches, but the devoted teacher she is, Mary Margaret has insisted on working until the baby pops out of her. She’s big as a small whale, not that Emma would ever tell her that, and it’s beginning to wear on her. She gets grumpy a lot easier than Emma thought she’d ever see and every time Emma runs into her, Mary Margaret is grumbling and complaining for the baby to get out.

Emma’s eating lunch in the teachers’ lounge, her sandwich halfway to her mouth, when Mary Margaret finds her, face red and eyes wide.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Emma asks, setting her sandwich down and dusting off her hands. She knows Mary Margaret’s due date is this week or next, and her all last night about killing feet was an unforgettable rant Emma could never unhear.

Mary Margaret leans against the back of a chair in front of her, her breathing a little heavy.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” she inquiries.

Brows furrowing in confusion and concern, Emma says, “Um, I’ve got a gig at Fairy Forest Elemen-”

“Cancel it.” Mary Margaret closes her eyes and takes a deep breath through her nose. “Your long-term sub starts now.”

“Now?” Emma can’t help but repeat her friend’s words. Mary Margaret’s still here, how can Emma sub for her unless -

Then everything clicks. “Mary Margaret, are you in labor?” she asks gently.

Mary Margaret nods her head. “It’s gotten really bad in the last half hour, but the kids are in art class now.” Pausing again to catch her breath and, Emma can only assume, survive another contraction. “Regina can find someone to cover me for the afternoon, but it’s all you tomorrow.”

Emma chuckles hysterically, head falling back. “The last thing you should be worried about is me,” she says, packing up the rest of her lunch. She’s had enough to last her. Emma’s foremost concern right now is the woman across the table. “Is David coming for you? Can you drive? I can take you to the hospital, I’ll ask Kathryn to cover for me.”

But Mary Margaret waves her off. “David’s going to meet me at the hospital. I can drive myself there.”

“Oh, hell no, not on my watch.” Throwing her trash in the bin, Emma comes around the table. She turns Mary Margaret toward her, trying to be as comforting as the woman’s always been for her as she leans against Emma. “Grab your stuff from the classroom and meet me in the front office. I’ll tell them what’s going on.”

Mary Margaret nods before leaning her head against Emma’s collarbone. Emma can feel her stuttered breathing on her skin, and all she can think to do is rub her friend’s back. “Everything’s going to be great. You and David are the only people I know who are already the best parents in eh world.”

“You think so?” Mary Margaret whimpers.

“I know so.” Carefully, Emma pushes Mary Margaret up. Her friend’s got tears in her eyes, welling up from red-rimmed lids. Emma couldn’t begin to contemplate whether those are from excruciating pain or bubbling emotions. With a watery smile of her own, Emma cups Mary Margaret’s cheek. “We’ve got a hospital to go to. Let’s not fuck around.”

That makes Mary Margaret laugh, tears spilling over. “An elementary school, Emma,” she reminds her. “We’re in an elementary school.”

“I’ve heard much more creative and worse things from the second graders,” Emma jokes. “C’mon.”

Emma escorts Mary Margaret to her classroom and leaves to deal with her own situation. She all but jogs back to Killian’s room and throws her belongings in her bag. Swiftly, she sits down and scrawls out her own note on the back of the lesson plans.

‘Mr Jones,’ but then Emma scribbles that out because her best friends is having a baby and there are just as many emotions coursing through her body as in Mary Margaret’s, and writes ‘Killian.

‘I’m really really sorry, but I had to leave early. Mary Margaret’s in labor and she was going to drive herself to the hospital and you and I both know I wasn’t going to let that happen. Kathryn Griffith’s gonna take over for the rest of the day, I think.’ She should probably cement that plan before leaving school premises. ‘Please apologize to the kids for me. I couldn’t wait to play Jeopardy with them. Just, you know…’

Emma doesn’t really know how to end that sentence. She’s never met this guy in person, but he and his class have become such a huge part of her life that leaving like this is a bit of a shame. Just, such a lackluster ending to this adventure.

There isn’t time to find the right words, or even time for the struggle. She quickly ends her note with, ‘I’ll be around for a while, so if they want to visit Mrs Nolan’s room, they’re more than welcome. Thanks.’

And then, because she’s already in a weird sentimental mood, Emma smiles as she writes out, You can visit, too, if you need some pointers. I know you haven’t been here in a while, but don’t worry: you’ll do wonderfully.”

She tidies up the desk, making sure the plans are front and center for whoever takes her place this afternoon, before she grabs her stuff and whisks down to the front office. Just as she’s turning the corner - she can literally see one of the secretaries easing Mary Margaret into a chair through the window - Emma literally bumps into Henry, on his way back to the cafeteria from a hop to the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” he asks, his little face scrunched up in confusion.

Emma stops her stride long enough to explain, “Mrs Nolan’s having her baby and I have to drive her to the hospital.” She pats him on the head before kneeling down to his level. “I’m not going to be in for Mr Jones anymore, but I want you to tell your whole class I’m sorry, but they can come visit me.” She raises her brows to accentuate her point. “Okay?”

Henry nods in understanding. “Go. Babies don’t wait for a long time.”

Laughing aloud, Emma pulls Henry in for a quick hug. “You are wise beyond your years, Henry Mills,” she compliments. “Get back to lunch.”

With a last grin, Henry waves and heads back to the cafeteria while Emma makes her way to the front office. She enters with a smile and a clap of her hands. Looking at Mary Margaret, she tries to put as much excitement into her voice as she can.

(It’s really not that hard to do. It’s a very exciting time.)

“Alright, let’s go have a baby!”

0000

Little Robbie Nolan has the charm of his father and the sweetness of his mother. Barely a couple hours old, Emma finds herself already head-over-heels in love with the infant. When Mary Margaret gifted her a newborn photo, it immediately finds a permanent home in Emma’s wallet. A blown up copy of it hangs on the blackboard of Mrs Nolan’s classroom, much to the pleasure of her students.

It’s not too difficult to transition from teaching Jones’ fifth grade class to the Mary Margaret’s third grade class. It helps that Emma’s been around the curriculum before and, despite being on maternity leave, Mary Margaret is more than willing to help her write out lesson plans.

(They’re such a bitch, lesson plans. Even with professional training, Mary Margaret admits they suck, which means they suck even more for an amateur like Emma.)

Other than that, Emma’s first foray into long-term teaching is off to a resounding start. It doesn’t hurt that she gets to drop by and see the proud parents and their sweet son whenever she’s got the time after school.

(Her phone background may or may not be a picture of him sleeping in her arms. She’s got absolutely no shame. He’s just so stinking cute.)

One morning, Emma hears the classroom door open while her back is turned, writing the current math problem on the board. She continues to ignore the visitor because, if she’s learned anything in the last couple months, it’s not to let anything or anyone interrupt her train of thought in the middle of a lesson. If it’s that important, they can send an email or still wait until she writes an equal sign.

“Alright, I’ll give you a couple minutes to figure out the answer to this one,” she tells the class, finally turning around to face them. “Remember what we’re learning today. Find the answer using exponents, not the calculator.”

With a clap of her hands, the gentle hum of pencils scratching out figures and students whispering to their neighbors take over the classroom. Only then does Emma turn her attention to the man in the back of the classroom.

He’s sitting against the ledge, his legs stretched out and his arms crossed over his chest. There’s something about him that keeps Emma from immediately throwing him into the hallway. There’s a silly kind of smile on his face, his head tilted to one side as if he’s taking his time in assessing her.

It’s unnerving. She knows she was never formally educated in teaching, but she’s learned a lot, she’s comfortable with what she’s teaching, who is this guy to judge her?

Emma makes her way around the tables, checking how some of the more troublesome students are doing and making sure some of the more distracted kids keep to their assignment, and all the while this strange man stares at her. When she finally gets to the back of the classroom, she stands directly in front of him.

“Can I help you?” she asks sternly.

The man’s tongue peeks out from between his grinning lips. “Not particularly, love.” Though the tone of his voice matches his looks, the accent throws Emma off. In the middle of Maine, the last thing she was expecting to come out of this man’s mouth was a vaguely English accent. “I finished all my planning early,” he continues, “and, since you so kindly invited me, I thought I’d come and see the woman my students keep fawning over.”

She can feel her cheeks redden as she gulps. That’s why the dark, messy hair and bracingly blue eyes look familiar: they’ve stared her down from the framed picture on Mr Jones’ desk. So that could only mean one thing.

“Mr K. Jones, I‘m guessing?”

He sticks out his hand, standing up. “You’d be correct.” She takes his hand and, out of nowhere, he kisses her knuckles, causing her blush to deepen. “Although I’ve told you, you are more than welcome to call me Killian.”

“Killian.” She’s only said his name aloud a few times, but this is by far the  most swoon-worthy it’s ever left her mouth. She shakes her head. “Emma Swan,” she tells him back.

“Oh, I’m well aware,” he says with a raised brow. Settling back against the shelf, Killian gestures toward the blackboard. “I do have to admit, I can see why my class would rather have you than me teaching.”

“Please,” she scoffs, finding it much easier to throw away his compliment than to take it at face value. “Those kids adore you. The first couple times I subbed for you, it was ‘Mr Jones does this for us’ and ‘That’s not how Mr Jones does it.’” Emma rolls her eyes. “I swear, it was a miracle we ever got anything accomplished.”

Shaking his head, Killian chuckles to himself. “That’s exactly the type of thing a teacher loves hearing.” A student, Violet, if Emma remembers her name correctly, comes up to them and asks a question that Emma - not to toot her own horn or anything - answers quite expertly. Only after she answers Violet’s question does she realize that the rest of the class has progressively gotten louder, obviously finished or close to finishing their practice worksheets.

Killian, it seems, has noticed as well. “It sounds like the natives are getting restless,” he comments, pushing off the shelf. He leans closer to her, his voice getting deeper and quieter. “I’ll let you get back to this riveting lesson.”

Emma can’t help but groan a little bit and complain, “Do you have to?”

He laughs. “That is what they’re paying you for, isn’t it, Swan?” Another student comes up to her, asking if he can make a trip to the bathroom. Emma permits it, and the student leaves just as Killian clicks his tongue. “Well, I heard you were in the building and I didn’t want to waste an opportunity to put a lovely face to the name.”

She rolls her eyes, resting her hand on his arm. “Alright, Romeo, you’ve already had English class, from what I remember. No time to be poetic now.”

“Right, serious stuff, maths.” He claps his hands, gathering the attention of the class. They turn in their seats and quiet down, something she’s yet to accomplish as quickly as he has now. “Alright, mateys, I hope you’re on your best behaviors for Ms Swan here. I don’t want her to have to call Mrs Nolan and advise her who should walk the plank.”

Someone in the room gasps. “You wouldn’t, Mr Jones!” someone shouts while another student yells, “Ms Swan can’t call Mrs Nolan. She doesn’t have her number!”

He raises an eyebrow. “Is that something you want to try?” The children start mumbling to each other, some saying how they’ve seen Emma with Mary Margaret in the past and others who are saying they’ve never met in their life.

Killian, however, leans to whisper into her ear. “If you find yourself a tad bored after school or during planning, you know where to find me.” His hand lands on her bicep, giving it a light squeeze to get her attention. He winks at her one last time before sneaking out of the room, leaving her to deal with the tizzy he’s riled her students up into.

Come the end of the day, Emma’s feet hurt, she’s got papers to grade, and she has to get up and do it all over again tomorrow, but the intrigue behind Mr Jones’ offer is just too much to pass up. So after she waves goodbye to the buses, she slowly makes her way to the back of the school building. Most of the teachers leave shortly after the students, making the hallways slightly darker as she wanders through them now. At the end of the corridor, Mr Jones’ room is quite literally the only light at the end of the tunnel.

His door is wide open, but she knocks hesitantly anyway. He looks up from his pile of papers, the pen that was scratching away at written remarks coming to a halt. Killian smiles.

“Surprised to see me?” she asks shyly.

“In all honestly, yes,” he answers. “I thought I may have come on too strong,” he admits. His hands land on the top of the desk as he goes to push himself out of his desk chair, but Emma holds up her hands to stop him.

“No, don’t stop grading on my account,” she insists, walking toward him. “I’m learning how hard it is to get back to grading once you stop.” When she reaches the other side of his desk, Emma slides atop one of the desks nearby. “What are we reading?” she asks.

“This month’s book reports,” Killian says, settling back into his seat with a sigh. “You would think I handed them the book and asked for the report all in the same hour.”

“I’m sure that’s how it seemed for some of the kids.”

He hums, returning to the paper in front of him to quickly write something across it before  turning back to her. “I’m wonderfully pleased that you stopped by, but you really don’t have to stay. I don’t want to keep you from any plans.”

“Well it’s your lucky day,” she replies without much thought. “I find myself a free agent this evening.”

She does, kind of. She was going to swing by and let Mary Margaret and David, who knows, go to the grocery store on a date or something while Emma watched Robbie. But she didn’t set her plans in stone, so she can technically push it off until tomorrow.

(And if she plays hooky to finally talk to this man in person, then sue her.)

Sliding off the desk, Emma grabs the student’s desk chair and swings it until it’s around the side of the teacher’s desk. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks.

Killian’s brows crawl up his forehead. It seems she’s caught a little off guard. “Um, not particularly,” he says, surveying the piles on his desk. “Your company is more than enough assistance.”

She blushes. “Are you sure? You don’t want me to put stickers on good papers or draw little monsters on the bad ones?”

Laughing, Killian sets his pen down again. “As much as I would enjoy that, I don’t think the administration would be too fond of the monsters.” He gestures at the pen in front of him, blue ink bubbled up at the tip. “Can’t even use red pen anymore because it’s been shown to be too angry or some shit like that.”

Emma gasps, her hand covering her mouth for effect. “Such language,” she says, her hand falling from her mouth to her chest. “Think of the children.”

“After hours,” he reminds her with a smirk. “You’ve roamed these halls long enough to hear something along those lines. You’ve worked with some of those kids. Called them little shits, if I remember correctly.”

Emma shrugs. “As true as that might be,” she admits, “doesn’t it feel wrong?”

This time, Killian shrugs. “We are the adults in this realm. We’re the ones that rule the school.”

“Isn’t that what the psychiatrists say when the patients run the asylum?”

“Probably.” They both fall into silence as Killian goes back to grading. Emma, trying not to bother or creep him out too much, watches over his shoulder as he writes out comments. He sighs, putting the pen down again and scaring her a bit. “How about I finish up this assignment and then we can do something outside of school property?” he suggests. Raising an eyebrow, Killian adds, “Perhaps grab a drink.”

Pretending to be scandalized, Emma scolds him: “Mr Jones, it’s a school night.”

He smirks, his hands coming to rest wide at the back of his head. “All the more reason, Ms Swan.”

Rolling her eyes, Emma gets more comfortable in her chair. “Now I understand why you needed me so often,” she reasons, crossing her arms over her chest, feeling a little self-satisfied. “I bet shrill fifth grade voices do wonders to a hangover headache.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe, love,” Killian grumbles. “Although, to be completely transparent, the thought has crossed my mind that those students of mine are trying to replace me with you. They practically forced me out of the classroom when I so much as sneezed.”

Emma laughs. “I kind of get that impression too. They always wanted me to stay longer on half days so we could meet.”

Killian hums. “Maybe we shouldn’t tell them that we have then,” he suggests. “Leave them in suspense.”

While he goes back to working diligently, Emma tries to focus her attention on something productive, like perhaps cleaning up the counter on the other side of the room, but ends up getting distracted instead.

“Where’s the accent come from?” she asks. It’s something that’s been as on-and-off a thought as he has since they met in person earlier in the day.

(Mostly on.)

(He’s been very difficult to get off her mind.)

“My upbringing, I should believe,” he answers, not looking up from the paper before him. “I was raised in Kingston, outside of London.” Glancing up at her briefly, Killian asks, “Is that a problem, Swan?”

“No, of course not. I just wasn’t expecting it.” Under her breath, she adds, “Certainly isn’t unattractive, but whatever.”

By the way he chuckles as he marks a less-than-good grade on the paper before him, Emma’s assuming her attempts at subtly aren’t that at all.

“Who’s the other guy in the picture?” she asks, avoiding the tension that might arise as well as the warmth rising on her cheeks at being caught.

“Liam, my brother.” Emma sighs, because that makes a lot of sense. They look enough alike and Killian has mentioned his existence in many of his notes. “We sail out on the Jolly Roger during the summer,” he explains.

“Ah, that explains the boat picture.”

“Ship,” he’s quick to correct her.

“Ship?” Killian looks up briefly again to nod at his correction.“Ship. Where’s she these days?”

“Oregon coast, if you can believe it.” Sighing, Killian put the cap on his pen and sets it down. “As much as I love this nice tete-a-tete we’ve got going here, I would be more than happy to discuss it after I finish these last five papers.” He taps his fingers on said papers, his brow arching with challenge.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Emma chuckles, getting up and walking backward toward the dirty counter. Pointing over her shoulder, she says, “I’ll go busy myself over here. Let you get your work done, I guess.”

“That’s all I was asking, darling.”

0000

“Is this seat taken?” Killian’s voice startles her, deep and closer than she could’ve expected. Not that she was expecting his voice at all. Per the daily staff email, he was supposed to be out sick this morning, shouldn’t be on school property until quarter after noon.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, looking up at him from her seat.

He searches the room, confusion clear on his face. “This is the teachers’ lounge, Swan,” he says gently, as if she’s the one who shouldn’t be here. “It’s a public space.”

“But your kids are in your classroom,” she reasons. “And the email said you were out sick.”

Killian shrugs, setting his bag on the table space next to her. “Took the morning off for professional development but thought I’d come in anyway,” he says. His hand rests on the back of the chair next to her as his eyes widened in entreaty. “So may I sit here?”

Still a little stunned and not yet rid of the goosebumps from her earlier surprise, Emma nods. “Yeah, sure.”

Not that there was anything really to go off of before, but something changed inherently between them that night they went for drinks once he finally finished grading book reports. Their banter evolved before Emma’s eyes, from the long distance banter of their little notes to the quick-as-a-whip sarcasm and smartassery of real life interactions.

That night, after he treated her to a drink - or four, as it ended up being - Emma’s found him in her pathway more often than not. They’ve taken to counting the number of times in a day they see each other and Emma would be wrong to say that she doesn’t look forward to that little game of theirs.

(Their record so far is 13. They were both pretty impressed with themselves.)

(She treated him to drinks that night.)

(And dinner.)

(It might have been a date.)

And then the texts start and Mary Margaret still helps her with lesson plans on occasion, but now that Robbie’s a little colicky and her and David are a little more sleep deprived, Killian’s more of her go-to guy for that.

(Among other things…)

He’s scooting into the chair beside her, the legs of the furniture scratching against the linoleum, as he asks, “How is the little Nolan babe these days?”

“Robbie.” He knows the baby’s name: Emma’s told him time after time, especially when Mary Margaret sends her a new picture. And she can tell that Killian’s just pulling her leg by the sly grin growing on his face as he looks at her. Rolling her eyes, Emma can’t help from smiling herself. “He’s wonderful. All three of them are great.”

“That’s excellent to hear.”

“So were you just too upset at the prospect of not seeing me today that you had to come in?” she asks goadingly.

The one day she’d called in sick a couple days ago, her phone had nearly shut down with the sheer number of texts and missed calls she gotten when she finally decided to get up from her bed and shower. Sure, she expected the handful from David and Mary Margaret, the one or two from Regina saying that her sick leave was approved and to feel better, but she thought Killian might die without seeing her. It’s how his dramatic messages came off. Despite her telling him not to, he stopped over after work just to make sure she had everything she could’ve possibly needed.

“Would it put you off completely if I admit, yes, a wee bit?” he admits sheepishly, his tongue running across his lower lip. “You’re quite enchanting, love. No matter what’s already happened, you make any given day a hell of a lot better.”

Emma blushes, focusing back on the emails that awaited responses. “That still doesn’t really answer my question.”

“Yes it does.”

Starting to get frustrated, Emma finally huffs, “Then why exactly do I see you so much even when you should be with your kids and you aren’t off on P.D.?” It’s been on her mind as often as his accent when she showers or his blue eyes in her dreams. The instructional assistant has their desk in her classroom and she doesn’t even see them 13 times in one day. Something odd is afoot with their little game, and Emma knows it’s almost certainly Killian’s doing, because it sure as hell isn’t hers.

He sighs, opening his laptop. “I might, on occasion, ask someone to watch my classroom under the pretense that I need to visit the restroom.”

“And you come find me instead,” she extrapolates.

His hand reaches up to scratch behind his ear, a nervous tick Emma’s learned in their time together. “Guilty as charged,” he admits shyly.

Emma tsks at him. “You’re going to get in trouble one of these days,” she tells him, her voice melodic, almost gloating.

This time when he leans in to whisper in her ear, at least she’s got some warning: his jacket shushes up against the fabric of the chair. “Life’s not worth living without a little risk,” he murmurs enticingly. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Killian pulls away, much to her chagrin, although it’s probably for the best. She isn’t quite sure she could be held accountable for anything she may or may not have done if they’d maintained their proximity.

(She hasn’t had the pleasure of experiencing much of a romance with Killian thus far, but she certainly has enough fantasies to fulfill to give her a good idea of how it might have happened.)

And as he goes to putter about on his laptop, Emma hopes that Killian isn’t talking about only risking a few minutes with his students to see her. It sounds like he plans on jumping out of a plane, or swimming with sharks, or something even more life-changing than that.

(She can’t help but be curious as to what he might be thinking. Because if she’s on his wavelength, his and her little life-changing risk might coincide.)

(Or at least she hopes they do.)

0000

It’s a rainy Saturday, which hopefully bodes well if old wives’ tales should be trusted. Emma’s dress is perfectly white, probably the only solid white piece of clothing she owns that doesn’t have food stains or art project remains on it. It’s a hazard of teaching she’s gotten used to in her time as a substitute and then a fully-certified teacher, but seeing this pristine dress on, reflected back at her in the mirror, makes her wish that maybe she had a couple more shirts and pants that were at least this close to clean.

(Thank goodness she had had the foresight to ask to get ready in the back room of the church. The moment she steps outside in the downpour, her dress could be ruined. But she’ll roll with the punches.)

Mary Margaret sniffs slightly, a tissue covering the lower half of her face. Emma matches her gaze in the mirror.

“No, don’t do that,” she says sternly, already feeling her bottom lip beginning to tremble. “If you start crying, then I’ll start crying, and I can’t afford to redo my makeup.”

Sniffing again, Mary Margaret pats lightly at the corners of her own eyes. “You’re gorgeous,” she says, her voice as watery as her eyes.

Emma‘s smile is sympathetic. “Thanks.” For a moment, she just stares at her friend, equally as beautiful in her own maid of honor dress, before she shakes herself out of it. Looking back in the mirror, making sure everything is absolutely perfect, Emma asks, “What time is it?”

“Time to go.” David’s sassy response comes from the doorway. He looks dapper himself, even with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression is nearly identical to his wife’s, looking entirely the part of a man walking his daughter down the aisle. “You look like a blushing bride.”

Shoulders slumping with emotion, Emma grins back. “Thanks, Dad.” Stepping away from the mirror and toward her friends, she asks, “Where’s Robbie?”

“Granny’s got him, I think.” David leans over and kisses Mary Margaret on the temple before wrapping his arms around both his girls’ shoulders. “Or maybe Regina. I don’t know, the boy’s got so much damn charm. He’s been making his rounds.”

“Of course he has,” Emma chuckles out. She takes a deep breath, centering herself just like she did before taking the PRAXIS or walking into her first interview post-teaching degree. Then she opens her eyes, blows out a raspberry, and grins. “Okay, let’s do this.”

Mary Margaret squeals in delight as David smiles. Taking her hand, David threads Emma’s arm through the crook of his elbow. Mary Margaret goes ahead of them, taking on the role of maid of honor as seriously as she has since the day Emma asked, and David leads her to the back of the church. An attendant opens and closes the door, permitting the rest of the wedding procession in. They casually walk down to the altar, to where she knows Killian is standing there waiting for her, big brother Liam at his side.

(Liam had texted her last night, acting as the middleman between the two of them, telling her Killian was a ball of nerves and would probably be a little less than up to any arduous activities after tonight was over.

She told him she’d probably be the same. If she knew her fiancé, Killian’s last night as a bachelor would have been as sleepless as hers as a bachelorette.)

The door clunks shut behind Mary Margaret, leaving Emma and David the only ones in the hall besides the official door opener.

David’s hand taps on hers gripping to the crease of his elbow. “You ready?” he asks.

Licking her lips, Emma nods. She’s got one more thing on her mind before she’s really ready to do this whole ‘until death do us part’ thing.

“Thank you,” she says quickly. David squints his eyes at her. “If you hadn’t knocked Mary Margaret up, then we would never have gotten here. So I just wanted to say that before everything gets really emotional and everyone gets questionably drunk.” She breathes deeply and sighs. “Okay, yeah, now I am.”

David sniffs, holding back tears. He may be putting on a little bit of an act, but she can tell there are real tears ready to fall once the ceremony starts. “What a bomb to drop at a time like this,” he murmurs.

Emma shrugs, adjusting her bouquet to ward off any awkwardness she feels. “You’ve been around Killian,” she says. “Guess I’ve gotten a little too used to waiting for the dramatic reveal thing he does.” Sighing again, she stands up straight and faces the door separating her from the rest of her life.

(Not to be dramatic or anything.)

“Really, let’s do this,” she says confidently. “I’ve got a knot to tie.”

David gestures to the attendant, and the door opens to reveal their guests, pews nearly full on both sides. As she and David take their measures steps down the aisle, she waves and smiles at all the faces she recognizes as they pass by. Some of her master’s program classmates are here, along with current coworkers and former teachers. Hell, even some of her former coworkers from the bail bonds agency have made it. Probably just so they can go to the party afterwards.

(Definitely so they can go to the party afterwards.)

And at the front of the church, in the second and third rows, are 22 teenagers, their smiles so wide it nearly brings Emma to tears. The 23rd - mastermind matchmaker Henry - stands behind Killian with his other groomsmen.

It’s been a few years - Mr Jones’ fifth grade class now well into their high school experience - but every single one of them found the time between academic decathlons and track meets and Shakespeare plays to watch their teacher and their favorite substitute get married. At first she thought it was a little unconventional, but when she brought it up to Killian one night before they fell asleep, he found it brilliant.

“In case you haven’t noticed, love, those kids still love you,” he’d whispered into the skin of her shoulder. “At least one of them sends me an email updating us on their lives every week. We’ve attended every play and homecoming.” She had curled into his chest, her head coming to rest over his steady heartbeat. “I’m pretty sure those kids see us as their cool aunt and uncle.”

“Well, I guess it would an insult not to invite them to a family wedding,” she’d murmured back.

Emma thought she’d be able to hold herself together until at least the vows. While she had decided to use the traditional words, she knows Killian has written his own, probably with the specific intention of destroying her emotions. But the moment she spots those kids, she remembers every little nudge they gave her, every time she wrote to Killian about the days they spent trying to get through a lesson plan, and the dams break.

Much to David’s surprise, Emma stops in the middle of the aisle, two pews from the altar. She makes eye contact with Killian, who tilts his head, silently asking what are you up to?

Emma gestures toward the kids next to her.

He understands, stepping down from the altar to her side.

Emma turns to David. “I know this is a little off book, but I’ve got a couple people I’ve got to thank,” she tells him.

David smiles and moves her hand from his elbow to Killian’s proffered arm. “Say no more,” he says. “I completely understand.”

With a kiss to her forehead, David heads to Granny’s side, taking Robbie from her grasp.. Vaguely, Emma can hear her maid of honor stand up and start explaining the small halt in the ceremony, but Emma herself is too focus on squeezing the life out of every kid that comes to her. Each one of them embraces her back, some of them whispering how excited or happy they are, before moving on to hug Killian. It only takes five or so minutes to make it through the class, some of the girls crying even harder than they were before at the gesture.

Once the last student - Henry, of course - makes it back to their place, Emma wipes cautiously beneath her eyes. Killian takes her other hand and squeezes.

“Are you ready to get married now?” he asks, his voice lovingly mocking.

Emma nods, leaning into his shoulder. “Hopefully I won’t get distracted now,” she says.

Killian kisses the top of her head. “Don’t worry, love, you’ll do wonderfully.”

[brw]

and it's not that simon isn't at the end of the day a good person who wants to help people, because he is! he wouldn't keep coming back to the avengers if he didn't want to have a positive impact on the world, but the thing is that he is also a very wealthy white guy who has a very warped view of what helping people and what having an impact looks like, and when people stand up to him or when it doesn't go as planned he can react poorly! when he doesn't feel like he's being effective he can either become reclusive, or violent and angry. even in his pacifism it's a very specific kind of pacifism that he's taking, which i guess works considering he does actually have a lot of physical power and is in a specific job but his idolisation of ghandi and not actually looking into the man's actual politics and the women & children he exploited to get to that point like... it makes sense he would have such a skin deep, unnuanced take on pacifism, and that also has a lot to do with the writer but simon is ultimately a very wealthy man trying to be a superhero and that's where his anger issues and extreme anxiety become really interesting to me.

especially contrasted with vision who just is his opposite in a lot of ways, but of course their lives draw certain parallels which are interesting. like they both have abusive, exploitative fathers who used them for their own personal agenda and that was all they knew and what they thought they wanted, until they are exposed to actually good people (the avengers) and learn life isn't all that etc etc, but like... idk vision in a lot of ways despite being through in some ways worse things is still the better person i think ethically and morally.

and vision definitely has had some hiccups in moral decisions, like the kidnapping a baby kang and all that weird shit bendis and king did with wanda and their kids but like, ultimately vision is just a mean spirited person who absolutely would lay their life down in an instant for a complete stranger, regardless of the avenger role or not. in every universe i think vision would always consider it logical and natural to try and help people in a way simon has to learn more through the avengers.

but part of it also is that vision gets Simon's brainwaves in a very specific moment? like simon at that point where hank records his brainwaves is dying, and accepting of the fact! he knows the sacrifice he's made and he's prepared to die with it for finally making the right choice in a life of being forced into the wrong ones by his situation and upbringing. so i guess when vision comes around it is even more natural than it already would have been to betray ultron for this more just cause.

idk. point is vision and simon are interesting,they are interesting as narrative foils for each other, as brothers, clones, friends and enemies and people who desperately want a relationship but it's already been ruined by their own stuff and now they have to figure out if they have done enough growth separate where building a relationship together is feasible.

this makes no sense im so tired but manic but it's just like simon n vision are inversions of each other.... vision's a mean bitchy cunt who has such a bleeding heart who loves and cares so much and struggles so much to rectify that with the very real separation between them and human society, and simon is a polite sweet-hearted raised to be considerate and wellmannered guy, but of the two he absolutely has more tendency to violence and absolutely is the more morally grey of the two of them.

[hiilikedragons]

hi! Not sure if you're ~back~-back or just here temporarily, but it's nice to see you. if you're in an answering mood, I was wondering if you had any general advice about writing AUs, and your specific process for that.

Hey there pal. It’s been nice to see everyone again too. 

To answer your question, I don’t have a real process for AUs. Really, so many of them have been inspired or requested by friends and followers-- the werewolf au, mermaid au, even the sacrifice au. I’ve received so many amazing prompts and questions over the years that have opened my imagination, led me to certain what-ifs, and jump started some amazing creativity that have led to some really awesome stuff. 

If there’s really anything I can say that leads to a successful AU, though, in my opinion, it would be knowing the characters. I won’t claim to be an expert at the characters, and I have some extremely OOC works, but I think once you kind of understand some core values and characteristics of the people you want to write, it makes placing them in different universes much easier. You kind of see the formula in it after a while. 

For Hiccup, he will always be a smartass. He’s very brilliant, but only applies himself to things that interest him, like physics and building. That means he works with his hands a lot, as a mechanic, a blacksmith, a scientist or inventor. He’s very humble, thick skinned, and a secret romantic. Being in charge isn’t something he ever plans for himself, but he very often finds himself as a leader because of his intelligence and his forward ways of thinking. Because of who his father is, I usually place him as the son of the police chief, the mayor, the king, etc etc. And he will always have Toothless by his side, be it as a cat, a dog, a dragon, a horse, anything. 

Astrid is very different from Hiccup in many ways. There’s not a lot that comes especially naturally to her, but she works her ass off to get where she wants. And she wants to be number one-- a champion, class president, the best detective on the police force. She gets a little bit cocky, but she’s never gotten anything she hasn’t earned or deserved. She likes leading, but usually she finds herself most comfortable as a second-in-command. She is the true lawful good, only breaking the rules for her closest friends. All about tradition and propriety, even if it sometimes feels a little restricting to her. Some things that are important to her are family, fitness, empowering women, and keeping others safe.

Snotlout is Hiccup’s foil in every way. Almost any characteristic Hiccup has, Snotlout will be the opposite. He’s not especially bright, pretty shallow, and is much more materialistic. He does have some good qualities, though-- he’s a good man to have in a fight, and he adores the woman in his life (usually Ruff). He’s a big softy once you get past his self-important exterior. I usually give him money and status, because as the brother of the chief, the Jorgensons are pretty well off. It’s given him a big head, but as long as his friends keep him in place, he’ll eventually show his heart. He’ll always be the muscle in any AU-- a football player, a coach, a bouncer-- but he never gets very high up a corporate ladder. 

Fishlegs is really not my favorite character, tbh, and because of that he doesn’t get much focus in my AUs. Sorry Legs. I know in the books he has a much more important role, but I really am not a fan of movie/show Fishlegs. But here’s what I’ve gathered about him-- He’s probably the smartest out of the entire group, but it’s very much a book smart kind of way, not really a strategist or critical thinker like Hiccup. And he’s very much into self care-- he likes long walks, trips to the spa, relaxing music. He’s the type to hole up on a rainy Saturday with a good book and a cup of tea. A true romantic, an animal lover, and very anti-conflict. He’d enjoy a quiet career away from lots of competition or excitement, such as a librarian or historian. 

And then the twins are kind of a package deal. They’re always on drugs. Always. They are the ones that always get into trouble, that always cause a scene, that are somehow impossibly in the wrong place at the right time. Tuff is a little more about the fine arts, more into emotion and design, not very much a left-brainer. (Think about how attached he becomes to Macey and Chicken, projecting personalities and relationships onto them.) He’s more attached to his twin than he likes to think he is. Ruff is more of the independent one. She sometimes resents being “the girl twin”, and will be more ambitious because of it. She’s not super feely like her brother, very anti-establishment, and is more likely to cause conflict than to try and resolve it like Tuff will. Their personalities are pretty similar as a unit, but get quite different when you look at them close up. 

So I guess once you know how the characters work, you know where to fit them in. You know how they’d react to certain situations, and what kind of roles and alliances they would adopt. And like I said, these are just my observations, not hard and fast rules, but if you look at most of my AUs, you’ll see these patterns repeated over and over, because this is how I think of their characters. The only difficult part is figuring out where to put Hiccup, as the main character, and once you have him in an AU, you kind of build the rest of the group around him. The plot will develop as they interact and meet obstacles or antagonists. That’s the closest thing I have to a “process”, so I hope this answers your question.