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canchewread · 4 years ago

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Editor’s note: this article is part of the Amerikan Musik: Fascism Ascendant in the USA collection on ninaillingworth.com. For further analysis of the chud rush insurrection attempt in Washington D.C. on January 6th, 2021, join my co-host Nick and I for the No Fugazi Podcast episode “In Between Days: Politics, Violence & Fascist F*ckery.”

Counting Coup

I must confess that I’ve never been particularly good at the “I told you so” essay; which is probably why I failed to capitalize on my work about Russiagate, despite being literally the only person I’m aware of who ultimately got the answer one hundred percent right. Furthermore, after roughly five years of writing about the rise of Americanized fascism through the lens of the objectively fascist Trump administration, I am at this point completely Trumped the f*ck out. I would very much like to pivot to critiquing the incoming neoliberal authoritarian Biden regime and their loyal muppets in the media; but neither the news cycle, nor contrarian faux-left analysts with equivocating hot takes will let me.

All of which is to say that I find this ritual somewhat embarrassing, and this might come off as a little perfunctory.

On June 6th, 2016, I published an essay formally stating that I thought Trump was himself, a fascist; although I’d certainly already implied as much in previous articles and on social media. At that point I was very concerned that Trump would win the upcoming election, but I wasn’t sure how much fascist crap he’d actually be able to do under the American system of government.

By March 1st, 2017, I’d seen enough of Trump’s act to say his administration was enacting a fascist agenda and that it was time to ostracize and oppose those who supported that fascist agenda.

By August 30th, 2017, and in the wake of the deadly nazi riot in Charlottesville, I wrote that Trump was building an alliance of violent reactionary thugs, law enforcement officials and an objectively fascist Republican party to intimidate political opposition. I also warned that Trump and his Department of Justice would try to declare their protesting political opposition terrorists and use that threat to subvert civil liberties, erode democracy and install fascism.

I don’t want to simply list every article I wrote about Trump’s fascist presidency here, but along the way I wrote about liberals using fascism to punch left, corporate media complacency in the face of a fascist threat, the Trump DoJ’s objectively fascist attempts to criminalize J20 inauguration protesters as terrorists, the need to present a united front on the American left to oppose fascism, the GOP’s fascist attempts to rig the next presidential election, and literal f*cking concentration camps. If you’re up for a long, emotional and highly personal read, you can follow my entire saga of trying to warn people about the fascist nature of both Trump and the society he was presiding over, in this August 2020 essay on ninaillingworth.com.

In 2020, and after a rough patch in my personal life that happened to coincide with Trump going full-on Mussolini against Black Lives Matter activists protesting the police murder of George Floyd, and then “antifa terrorists,” I came back to write an essay definitively presenting the core evidence (up to that point) that Donald Trump was a fascist. Furthermore, in the same lengthy essay I mentioned above, I correctly analyzed how Trump would attempt to rig the election, correctly laid out the basic foundations of the right’s “legal” attempts to overturn the election in the wake of a Trump loss, and accurately predicted that if all that failed, he would summon the chuds and try to retain power by force. Crucially, I also pointed out that this strategy probably wouldn’t work, but couldn’t be ignored because of widespread right wing institutional support and the fact that even a crappy coup, is a very bad thing for a liberal democracy.

That fall, I wrote about Trump’s revenge killing, political assassination of an anti-fascist activist merely accused of a crime, about how corporate media had primed America for the fascist moment, and additionally worked on a five part No Fugazi Podcast series detailing every aspect of America’s long flirtation with fascism; during this podcast series, my co-host Nick and I also (repeatedly) predicted Trump would try to steal the election in the courts and then attempt to launch a doomed chud uprising when that inevitably failed.

Finally over that same time period and running into the post-election stages of the Swine Emperor’s presidency, I wrote a number of rebuttals and explainers; including pieces explaining what fascism is, why rich people are helping to install it now, why even stupid coups have consequences and have to be stopped before they erupt in chud violence, why it doesn’t matter that Trump isn’t exactly like Hitler, why it’s a serious problem that about a third of the country is done with democracy and now refuses to accept elections they don’t win, why fascist billionaires don’t need Trump specifically anymore, why fascism will survive the eventual fall of the Klepto Kaiser, and finally why the crypto-libertarian, contrarian “left” can sincerely blow their equivocating sympathizer nonsense out their collective butthole.

Please also note that the vast majority of the essays above themselves contain literally hundreds of evidentiary citation links, and this was further supplemented by dozens and dozens of Twitter threads that have unfortunately been lost to history in the wake of my recent (permanent) Twitter suspension.

In light of the fact that Trump is in fact a fascist, did in fact try to declare his political enemies terrorists, did in fact try to turn the army, Homeland Security, and chud vigilantes on those who opposed him, did in fact attempt to rig and then invalidate an election, and ultimately did inspire a chud insurrection designed (poorly) to overturn the results of that election, please allow me to declare complete and total victory while metaphorically asking my twitchy critics how my butt tastes. I could go on, but when you’ve left your opponents crying on Twitter about how the Apple Store de-platforming Parler is the real fascism, it’s best to just take the win gracefully and walk away from that wreckage.

A Jute Glute Riot

Given that I’m writing this on the morning of January 12th, literally thousands of articles about the Capitol Hill riot itself have already been written, and I just spent eighty minutes breaking down Trump’s desperate chud rush insurrection on the last episode of No Fugazi, I’m not going to waste time on blow by blow coverage of the pathetic uprising on January 6th, in Washington, D.C.

Readers who are looking for what I felt was a good, in-the-moment examination of the actual riot are encouraged to check out this January 6th article from The Daily Poster:

The Insurrection Was Predictable by David Sirota

While I think Sirota’s piece does a very good job of hinting at the larger coordination involved in this event, I also feel it’s important to note here that counterfactual arguments designed to minimize this event are sheer and utter bunk. This was a planned insurrection, attended by (ex) members of the military and American law enforcement, aided by Capitol Hill Police and the Department of Defense, funded by rich fascists, inspired by right wing media, as well as an openly fascist Republican Party and the goddamn president of the United States; this wasn’t harmless, people literally died and members of Trump’s fascist mob clearly had designs on committing politicized acts of violence against their perceived enemies.

Look, does it burn my backside that sh*t-tier neoliberal ghouls who enabled Trump’s fascist agenda at every turn, are now publicly patting themselves on the back for recognizing Trump’s fascist intentions all along? You betcha, Sparky. But my feelings don’t stop reality from being real; this was a doomed, stupid coup attempt, but even stupid coup attempts have consequences.

I couldn’t spare a single tear for a billionaire fascist who lost his Twitter account, or neo-nazi chuds getting chased off social media, but the crypto-libertarian apologists among us are correct when they say the incoming neoliberal authoritarian regime will weaponize the Jan 6th, 2021 chud rush riot to attack left wing dissent. In fact, I predicted that part too; it just has no bearing on the reality that Trump is a fascist, Trumpism is fascism and what we just saw was a failed coup attempt; reality doesn’t really care how any of that makes you feel, folks.

There are dark days ahead for all of us at this point, and while the events of last week are almost certainly the end of the line for the Klepto Kaiser himself, American fascism isn’t going anywhere and the sh*tlibs are about to bring the hammer down on their real enemies - the burgeoning Pig Empire left.

The sooner we can collectively look in the mirror, accept the reality of what just happened and stop fighting over objective facts, the sooner we can get focused on winning “the war between us” against the incoming Biden Regime. Or, folks on the contrarian faux-left could keep carrying water for Josh f*cking Hawley instead, I guess.

Game, blouses; now tell Mike Tracey to get back in his f*cking hole.

- nina illingworth

Independent writer, critic and analyst with a left focus. Please help me fight corporate censorship by sharing my articles with your friends online!

You can find my work at ninaillingworth.com, Can’t You Read, Media Madness and my Patreon Blog

Updates available on Instagram, Mastodon and Facebook. Podcast at “No Fugazi” on Soundcloud.

Inquiries and requests to speak to the manager @ASNinaWrites

Chat with fellow readers online at Anarcho Nina Writes on Discord!

“It’s ok Willie; swing heil, swing heil…”

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chiseler · 4 years ago

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THE CHISELER INTERVIEWS ANDY McCARTHY

Chiseler: Please tell our readers when you began digging into obscurantist concerns -- these strange and neglected corners of New York history. Give us a sense of how it all started, and some idea of the scope here. Andy McCarthy: I worked as a New York City tour guide on the red doubledecker buses between 2004 and 2011, and Times Square was one of the highlights of the tour. The tour began and ended in Times Square — New York begins and ends in Times Square. The history of the world's entertainment district is a big subject — lots to talk about and always more to learn. Plus everyone hates Times Square. Elmo probably even hates it. So it was even more inspired to find the appreciation for the experience of it as it is now in the present. Like going to a Starbucks in the East Village and finding yourself talking to the ghost of Joey Ramone, who loves the Tall Blonde. West 42nd Street in particular was always a synapse-inducing subject — it isn't that it's obscurantist (except maybe for understanding the real estate chronology), but that there are a million ways of approaching it — it's the brightest neighborhood in America after all — the old theaters, the showbiz history, labor action, smut lore, the "cleanup" and failed redevelopments before the final wrecking ball in the 1990s, etc. Anyhow in 2012, film programming friends were putting together a series that revolved around the history of W. 42nd Street — they called it THE DEUCE, after the nickname for the block between Seventh and Eighth Avenues. The idea was to program a movie that once played in one of the theaters on the Deuce, and I would perform an intro monologue/ slideshow about the history of the theater. We did our first screenings in the backroom of Videology on Bedford Ave in Williamsburg, and then evolved to the proper movie chambers of Nitehawk Cinema in 2013, where as of March 2020 we have done about 80 screenings. Don't call me an expert but the pop legacy and damaged psyche yielded by the Glittering Gulch has consumed my research panascope like a large bucket of stale popcorn you can't stop shoving it in with gulps of fountain Coke during a matinee of Wolfen. For the last six years I've worked as a reference librarian at NYPL at Fifth Ave and W. 42nd (not the Deuce). My division is US History, Local History, and Genealogy - we get all the NYC history questions. At NYPL the resources available in researching each month's DEUCE spiel far surpass the amount of tips bagged at the height of tourist season by the Naked Cowboy.

Chiseler: When I was 15 or 16 years old, a suburban Jersey kid, I would occasionally take the bus to Port Authority with $20 in my pocket. It was a magical place in the 70s and 80s. Can you tell us something about the porn scene in those days, maybe its larger history, and how it relates to the evolution of your Nighthawk Cinema?

McCarthy: I’m generalizing, but the porn business in Times Square seems a combination of obscenity laws and the real estate market (versus the city and state imposing change). Obscenity laws had increasingly loosened since the 1960s and by the 1980s so many cases ruled in favor of pornography that the pursuit of smut peddlers evaporated like dots of old money shots on a mattress at the Elk Hotel. Sure Edwin Meese led a commission against porn in Reagan's Morning in America as a coalition of the religious right against the entire ethos of the 1970s, but it doesn't seem to have achieved anything other than beleaguering feminist activists who opposed the rampant exploitation of women in pornography only to find a black hole of political alignment with right wing morality police. Live sex shows and bestiality periodicals were then the product of free speech. Meanwhile, big business had no interest in occupying or redeveloping the commercial spaces in Times Square. But landlords held on to the old buildings and theaters — occupied by movie theaters, sex shops, etc. - waiting for a future time when the demand for Times Square real estate upped the value and they might cash in. The neighborhood became a sex district mostly because these were the only businesses that would pay rent in the area — which most New Yorkers supposedly avoided. And it was the 1970s — the white middle-class had fled, it was a party town, the city was broke, its own redevelopment efforts continually failing on the Deuce, where the racial patron and hangout demographic was majority Black, and drugs and prostitution were viable business. But the theaters on the Deuce mostly didn't play porn. The Victory (today the "New Victory") played triple-X and the Harem was a 24 hour porn box — but you had more opportunity to see First Blood or What's Up Doc? in the 8 or 9 other theaters on W. 42nd between 7th and 8th Avenue. XXX theaters were elsewhere in Times Square than the Deuce. Whether it was magical depends on one's experience of it at the time. Times Square has always been a fantasy factory and the DEUCE movie series we do exalts going to the movies, and even when the experience back then was rough, most reminiscences of people seeing movies on 42nd Street is a memory of great impact. We do not celebrate that it was so bad it was good (the same way we do not program movies that are "so bad they are good" — that crap is for bored minds who are less able to form an independent thought than the digital diode Coca-Cola sign at 47th and Broadway) — but it is a combination of place and experience in a matrix of moviegoing: there are many stories to tell about each theater, and the movies we program may take on new life in the forgetting chambers of Nitehawk Cinema. If porn ended up characterizing the business of Times Square when obscenity laws and real estate allowed it to, then no surprise — such is history…

Chiseler: I’m with you on “so bad it’s good” — a goddamn disease. I spend years of my life hunting down non-canonical titles, not with the tacky idea of establishing an alternative canon, but with the goal of subverting the very notion of canons. In other words, I’m seeking great films that establish their own criterion for greatness, compelling viewers to recognize them on their own ground. To expand your last answer a bit, would you mind dwelling on a few titles you’ve screened and tell our readers why you selected them?

McCarthy: OK — the DEUCE is a group effort. First off we are thankful for Nitehawk Cinema to have hosted the series for so long. I only do the intro monologue / slideshow on the history of a theater, while my co-jockeys — seasoned film programmers Joe Berger, Max Cavanaugh, and Jeff Cashvan — program the screenings, which are always a 35mm print, sprocketed by boothmaster Pro-Jo Joe Muto. The 35mm signature touch seems to be one of the ongoing draws for the audience, who routinely sell out the 90 seat theater, ahem... Cashvan puts together a list and Max tracks down a print (if one exists). The selections hinge on whether the movie once played in a theater on the Deuce, and the availability of a 35mm print — the experience of history in the screening zeroes down to the technology too. The movies are chosen because they have creative merit and yield enough for the viewer to determine if they are good or bad — or anything in between, which is much more interesting. Also we gotta honor the faith of the ticket-buyers and uphold any rep of the series, and not hash up some dumb time-wasting crap. Some of the flicks might be obscure, like Night of the Juggler (a gritty 1980 NYC exegesis on the type of race and class tensions too familiar under the U.S. presidency of the hurrahed bastard) or Teen Lust (bizarre sex romp directed by that-guy character actor James Hong) or Combat Shock (Vietnam vet psychodrama shot in Staten Island, including the Nam scenes), and other flicks are not obscure, like A View to a Kill or Tommy or Luna or Runaway Train... The crowds continually seem to enjoy a genuine going-to-the-movies experience; there is never any of that ironic insecure brainless hipster douchebag laughter that you get at some of these retro screenings that sizzles my nerves like hamburgers and franks on the grill at Grand Luncheonette at 229 W. 42nd Street next to the old Selwyn Theater — both places long gone. I saw Lost Weekend at BAM one time and was surrounded by people laughing at Ray Milland suffering from delirium tremens. What kind of loser pays $15 to act like that at a movie? Anyhow - those types don't come to these screenings. Some people come no matter what is playing, others for nostalgia or a particular love for a movie, others for whatever. No one is coming to experience the reenactment of a W. 42nd Street theater in 1982, which is not the intention — if it was we would just play grade-Z spaghetti westerns or Porky's sequels and allow smoking in the theater.

Chiseler: I realize that COVID puts a fairly long-term kaibosh on movie theaters. Where, if anywhere, do your hopes lie for continuing your work? Night of the Juggler ranks among my favorite films, by the way.

McCarthy: I am working on a book that corrals all the research I've done for the last 8 years. As far as reopening movie theaters, I have no clue. That is up to Nitehawk etc. The series is a theatrical communal thing. We haven't all been in touch about carrying things through the quarantine because there is no virtual alternative. As for Juggler it's too bad the movie is super unfindable. But how and where we obtained a one-time-only print will remain as undisclosed as a Gambino wiseguy taking the fifth.

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thewhiterabbit42 · 6 years ago

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OoTW: Birthdays Part 6

Part of the Out of This World Series

Pairing: Gabriel x AU!Reader Word Count: 1200+ Tags/Warnings: Some angst, but it ends on a happy note A/N: When will she end? How sleep deprived is she? The answers are I dunno (or do I?) and VERY. But it’s well worth it to help make my bb’s day special <3 Also, this one’s mostly unbeta’d since she tends to get to bed at a reasonable hour. All mistakes are mine.

***Please do not repost or copy my work to any other site without my written permission. Giving credit does NOT count. Reblogging is ok.***

<<Prev Chapter Current Next Chapter>>

When Sam had offered you an out from the bunker (and assuredly Gabriel), you had all but sprinted out with just the clothes on your back. When it was clear the archangel wasn’t following you on your case, you felt infinitely lighter, grateful from the reprieve from your battle of wills.

By the time you returned to the bunker, however, you were exhausted. Weariness clung heavily to your features, and both your shoulders and Sam’s were slumped with defeat despite having rid the town of their witch problem. Your victory rang hollow, however, when you thought about the number of people you hadn’t saved and how many of them had been kids.

You never did well when things involved children. You’d all but resolved to have them, having lost so many of them in your world. Their fragile bodies were not designed to withstand the elements or the hardships that came with limited resources. There, at least you could rationalize that it was a time of war. Here, there was no excuse.

You and Sam had sat in silence the entire ride back, and even though he’d parked the car fifteen minutes ago, you both still sat in your seats, staring at the concrete wall of the garage.

“You alright?” He finally asked, voice quiet from disuse.

You avoided his gaze, knowing you’d find the same shadows and heaviness that lingered in your chest. “Are you?”

You reached for the door handle when he spoke again. “You should talk to him. I know he’s driving you up the wall but… whatever it is he’s after, just talk to him about it.”

You appreciated the advice, you really did, but you could not handle any conversations beyond what flavor ice cream you needed or how long you wanted to be left alone for so you could sleep the feeling of failure away. It didn’t matter that you had saved all six kids that had gone missing and caught Sam’s attention. There had been so many more everyone had missed buried beneath that dirt floor in the cellar.

“I’ll take that into consideration,” you told him before pushing your way out of the car. Now that Sam was prodding, you needed to be away from him. Maybe you just needed a break from everybody and everything that didn’t qualify as a distraction.

The bunker was eerily quiet this time of night. You were grateful to return so late. All you wanted was to curl up in the den and get lost in a mindless movie.

You were so focused on that goal that you never saw the pair of figures waiting up for you and Sam in the kitchen. You walked right past the doorway, their laughter and Gabriel’s subsequent greeting falling on deaf ears. You didn’t notice the way he shadowed you and this time he didn’t even attempt to use his magic to snap himself under you. He simply waited for you to grab the remote and plopped down on the couch seconds before you did.

The moment you dropped onto his legs, an internal battle began to rage. You went rigid, the urge to leave soaring at his anticipated badgering. Yet, part of you just wanted to collapse against him, desperate for comfort that wasn’t fleeting, edible, or imbibed. You froze, caught between these two extremes, and Gabriel took it as a sign that the game was still going.

“So, I’ve been doing some thinking while you were gone,” he began.

You leaned forward, forehead dropping into the palm of your hand. “Gabriel…”

He either ignored or completely missed the warning in your tone, diving right back into where you both had left off. “How about we narrow it down by season?”

You shook your head. “Not tonight.”

“At least tell me if it makes a good beach day --”

“What part of not tonight did you not understand?” You demanded, anger blossoming. Did he not see that you couldn’t do this right now? Last you checked, he might have been low on fuel, but his senses weren’t broken.

“Listen --”

“No, you listen. Why can’t you just let this go?” You snapped, leaping to your feet and spinning around. “Why is this so goddamn important to you?”

“Why isn’t this important to you?” He demanded.

“Because it’s not to anyone else!” You shouted, the dam you’d worked so hard to contain everything finally breaking. “There will always be something more important to worry about.”

When you were younger, it had been monsters needing to be hunted. Then it was the apocalypse. Angels. Demons. Basic survival. It was a never ending list of things that took precedence, and you expected now to be no exception.

“Y/n…”

He rarely said your name, and the gentleness with which it came out had tears forming in your eyes. You tried to blink them back. You tried swallowing everything back down, but you couldn't this time. This time, you were just too tired to hold it all in anymore.

“Sweetheart, come here.” He took you by the hands guiding you down until you were sitting on the coffee table in front of him.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore,” you told him. The last thing you wanted to do was cry in front of him, but you were beyond being able to stop this train from wrecking. The most you could do was drop your head, allowing dark, wavy strands to act as a shield behind which you could hide.

“Then just listen.” He paused, taking a few extra moments to choose his words carefully. “You are one of the strongest, most fearless, and craziest people I have ever met.”

You let out a sound halfway between a snort and a sob. He had the crazy part right. The rest was debateable.

“Stop it. Stop doubting yourself,” he ordered. “You spend so much time on other people and never enough on yourself. I want to celebrate you. You deserve to be. That’s why this is so important to me.” An odd tension settled into the brief silence that fell between you, and when he finally spoke again, he was much quieter. “You’re important to me.”

You let out a slow breath, resignation washing over you at his confession. It couldn’t be easy for him to admit this, and if he could put himself out there…

“My birthday’s today.”

You weren’t certain what you expected, but it wasn’t the slightly panicked, “Well... shit.”

You didn’t need to see the look on his face to know his brain was already going a mile a minute trying to figure out a way to make this work.

“It’s ok. You can do something next year,” you told him, trying to let him off the hook.

“Woman, what part of I want to celebrate you do you not get?”

If you were being honest, it would have been every single word of it. You might have actually voiced that, but you became distracted when his arm snaked around you from behind, his fingers drumming restlessly along your side. Your head shot up, brows drawing together as you found yourself facing the opposite direction from which you’d been sitting.

“Uh, Gabe?”

“Hmmm?” He said absently.

“Why am I in your lap again?”

His fingers stuttered for a moment before resuming. “Shhhh, I’m thinking.”

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All tags are open to anyone 18+. Send me an ask / message with your age if you'd like to be added!

ALL the tags:

@girl-next-door-writes @fand0maniac @feelmyroarrrr @omgreganlove @li0nh34rt @baritonechick @lucifer-in-leather @stone-met @blondecoffeecake @raspberrypuddle @ourloveisforthelovely @the-moose-of-baskerville @tistai @room-with-a-cat @authoressskr @revwinchester @flufy07 @greieba @whinywingedwinchester @tardis-is-mine @jadesid @ccasnovak @tangle-of-ivy @luciferseclipse @mrswhozeewhatsis @protectivedestiel @angelofwinchester17 @crowleys-poppet-queen-of-assgard @phantomwarrior12 @jeanjeaniethings @wontlookaway @copperseraphim

Gabe Squad:

@bloodstained-porcelain-doll @lacqueluster @samikitten @a-vast-african-plain @kazosa @carryon-wayward-winchester @nobodys-baby-now @acarpouschimerical @ludwigs-a-monster @archangelgabriellives @a-wing-and-a-pen @tricksterxangel @cipherwheeldecoder @thinkwritexpress-official @megasimpleplan4ever @azlinh @troubletrumble @randommotions @the-bleeding-rose @fruitiplierq @gabrielthemessanger @pizzamanteachings @lady-phoenix-of-tardis @spnimpalaimagines @koithings @booknerd1324 @the-kryomancer @rachdubs @thislittlewhitelight @hiddles-and-skittles @karichanarts @sherlockedtash88 @multy-fandom-lover @archangelashiah @calamitychaos @kissmeimadragonlord @somanyfandomstochoosefrom @erisunderthemoon

#gabriel x reader #gabriel oneshot #gabriel #supernatural fanfiction #vee day 2018 #rabbit writes #Out of This World

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luvbotclub · 8 years ago

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— bubblegum pink. + finn bálor [1]

→ request: ― just a small thing I did!!

→ word count: 4,544

→ content warnings: FLUFFY!FINN. alcohol mention (and use). some swearing. shitty ending. I guess that’s it.

→ note: this is finally done. my suffering is goddamn over. but I’m really somehow proud of this so I hope you all like it! shoutout to some of my friends on Quotev who have seen my work and have complimented it. I’m trying to tackle on more of the wrestler’s head in here instead of the usual where I focus on the reader’s mind, so this may look 100% shitty but i tried ok :’) enough babbling, i really hope you enjoy this!!

→ tag list: @rxvolutionvries, @danbanks35, @trulydarcy

masterlist | post your feedback here

She walked into the sweaty place with the air bouncing off of her, like a halo was on the top of her messy head and every step she took with her stilettos were worth dying for. He’s the only sober one out of his group, as much as it sounded embarrassing to admit. He never really was the kind who got too wild in parties anyway.

The night after a Takeover is where all the stress and the adrenaline and the tension go with the wind. Where all victories were celebrated on the dancefloor and all the losses were coped in by downing tequila shots and being encouraged by strangers to order the strangest and most expensive drink there is in the bar. Honestly, Finn is still unaware why he’s here in the first place even though being only three hours in into the sweaty ‘fun’. In all honesty he could have been reading a good book right now or just enjoying the small quiet his hotel room reserved or listening to the soft buzzing of the busy street below.

After-night parties were never his thing. He didn’t like how sweaty people would sit next to him and how disgustingly hot their breaths were— it’s understandable that they were being wild and incredulously lewd, but, maybe they can stay away from him and find another shoulder to cry on about how their ex dumped them in front of hundreds of people in the community mall? He just didn’t like being in bars. He’d rather be anywhere but here, really.

Charlotte just had to pick a karaoke bar. Of all bars in this damned place. Now Sami is drunkenly singing “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion with an also drunk Shinsuke providing backup vocals, or so he said. They really weren’t singing, they were just slurring over their words in a horrible attempt to sing. They were hitting the high notes with a couple of voice cracks here and there and Finn swore he went deaf for a second. He was simply staring out of the window of their booth, completely bored and sober and looking at random people with his chin set on the leather cushion when she walked over to the counter and reserved a booth for her and her friends, who were already in the mood to hit the high notes and cause people their eardrums, by the looks in their eyes as they stared at the booths.

A happy glint in her eyes. Air bouncing off of her. A halo on top of her messy head. Each step worth dying for. Bubblegum pink dress gleaming under the soft boom of music and the buzz of lights. Bubblegum pink.

He felt the cushion weigh next to him and saw Charlotte’s blonde head look out the window, too, a goofy grin on her face. “Who are you looking at, my chum pal friend?” she whispered excitedly, as though they were children talking about their crushes in front of their parents. Finn chuckled at her. Obviously she’s drunk— who’d use ‘chum’, ‘pal’, and ‘friend’ all in one sentence? Drunk Charlotte, apparently. “Does my little Finnegan have a crush on a particular someone?”

“She’s not my crush, Char,” Finn rolled his eyes at her, moving his gaze away from the bubblegum pink girl. “Just… she’s kinda cute?”

“Kinda?” Charlotte blurted, as though he said something punishable by death. “Are you fucking blind? Look at her. Don’t give me the ‘she’s kinda cute’ treatment.” She shook her glass and took a sip. “Many men have said that. Many of them are actually in love with the girl. Is ‘she kinda cute’? I don’t think so. If that’s called being kinda cute then the whole damn women’s division here is kinda cute.” She grinned at him again and gave him a subtle wink that made him smile slightly. “Talk to her. Buy her a drink. Maybe make some new acquaintances tonight? You’re gonna be friendless really soon.”

She stood up and walked over to the ‘fun’ and left him with her ringing words. Drunk Charlotte. Why in the fuck would he listen to a drunk Charlotte? Last time he listened to a drunk Charlotte, he almost got his tongue stuck in a shot glass because she said ‘you could get the lime at the bottom’. He was young and naïve and new to the aspects of NXT and victory parties. He learned his lesson then— don’t listen to drunk people. They’re drunk. (Well… duh. Obviously.) They’re practically saying nonsense. Slurred words are not to be taken seriously.

Maybe Charlotte isn’t saying nonsense this time. Maybe he should really talk to her.

Tongue almost got stuck in a shot glass, Bálor. Keep your head in.

He needed new friends.

Fine. Drunk Charlotte won. He’ll be giving her five dollars tomorrow if this night ended well.

Finn finally stood up. It was the only time he stood up this night, unless you counted going to the bathroom to wash his hands every damn thirty minutes and escape the murder of his eardrums. He walked slowly out of the booth, his damned co-workers cheering for him as he made his grand exit— Charlotte might’ve filled them up with the situation already. But it didn’t really matter. How much will they remember in the morning anyway, when their heads are pounding and memories are fuzzy?

He made his way towards her after she talked with the receptionist. Her friends gave him these strange looks like Finn did something wrong— well, not technically. He’s been given these looks like he’s about to do the worst, punishable-by-death kind of thing in his life. He cleared his throat, meaning to actually clear his throat, not to snap the girl’s attention to him. His friends rolled their eyes.

Good job on a first impression, Finn.

He read somewhere while scrolling in Facebook that good first impressions can lead to a good relationship— so in this case, if he and this bubblegum pink girl hit it off and had a friendship, it wouldn’t be so good. He’s not sure, for all he knew the article could have been just another bullshit story in the internet.

Not really sure.

Fuck it anyway.

“Oh, hey,” the girl said, grinning kindly at him.

Angelic voice. Dashing grin. Kind personality. Marry me.

“Hi,” Finn said stupidly, and he mentally slapped himself. He stuck his hand out and she shook it. “I’m Finn. And you are…?”

“(Y/N).”

“What a beautiful name for a beautiful lady,” he said, and internally groaned for his cheesiness. He’s notoriously known for being the cheesy pick-up liner. His co-workers wouldn’t let him live this down if they ever knew. “I saw you from my booth. You look really lovely.”

“Oh, thank you very much!” (Y/N) answered, smiling from ear to ear at the compliment. “You look very lovely yourself, Finn.” Noticing that she still had friends who were waiting for the booth number, she looked over her shoulder and coughed nervously, “Booth 109. Right around the corner. Can you guys wait for me there?”

With sighs of relief and a few nods, they walked away. One of them, who had a small voice, shouted over her shoulder, “Get laid, (Y/N)!” before turning the corner and disappearing.

“They hate me,” said (Y/N) deprecatingly, later grinning up at him.

“I’m sure they don’t,” Finn assured, giving her a small smile, “you look like someone who’s hard to hate.”

“I’m pretty sure they do, after how many times I said I didn’t wanna go here in the first place,” smiled (Y/N), leaning against the wall. “I mean, it’s just… really noisy and sweaty here? I get the point that you really should be loud here but… I really didn’t want to go.”

Laughing, Finn said, “Same situation with my friends. Is there a celebratory party going on?”

“Yup. Promotion, kinda. One of them has a stable job or some shit. You?”

“Victory and loser party. I hate it there.”

(Y/N) giggled. Snorting, she said, “Victory and loser party? That’s new. I want to try and throw a party like that one of these days.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, scratching the back of his head as he chuckled softly, “my friends and I are wrestlers, you see. The winners from the pay-per-view earlier are gonna be the ones who treat the losers with drinks. Losers pay for the karaoke— but they’re the ones who use it anyway.”

“And how about you? Are you a loser or a winner?”

“Winner,” he grinned.

“Ah, parties…” (Y/N) sighed, resting her head against the cold cement. “I dressed up like this when I really thought about ditching on them.”

They looked at each other with serious expressions on their faces before finally falling into a fit of laughter. Spluttering yet another laugh, Finn said, “Well, I was about to ask you out for a drink but seeing as we both hate it here…”

“Let’s ditch on our friends. I don’t give a fuck about Henry’s emotional speech about his promotion anyway,” she shrugged, walking towards the exit, “and you don’t give a fuck about your victory and loser party.”

And so, they ditched on their friends with suppressed giggles. They ran around Brooklyn in a haste— it was late at night, no one would be really bothered by them, and no one would bother them. It��s just him, her, and the moon that night. Nothing else. It’s just their pounding hearts inside their chests and their pride worn across their chests. Nothing else. Just two sober strangers making jokes and being close to each other. Nothing else. It’s just a black buttoned-up man and a bubblegum pink woman.

Nothing else.

Their close ‘relationship’, it wasn’t anything strange. Or weird. Or misplaced. In a world like this, like theirs— this kind of love is a normal, acceptable, placed thing. Not anything to be judged at. Nor to be looked down upon.

They settled down in a bench near an almost empty McDonald’s. It was late. So late. But the moon still shone as bright as the sun did, their skin gleaming with her peppered kisses of moonlight. But the cars still buzzed as strong as lightning. But their hearts were still pounding loudly in their ribcages.

Her hair’s in a ponytail now, with tiny wisps escaping out of the elastic band. Her dress is still satin and lace and bubblegum pink and shone under the moonlight. She was holding the bottle of vodka in her hand, laughing slightly as she took it out of the paper bag. “Have you ever drank alcohol while being with a stranger before?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I haven’t, but I’d like to try, m'lady,” Finn said sarcastically, wiggling his eyebrows at her suggestively. She rolled her eyes, hit him on the arm, cranked open the bottle, and took a deep drink before handing the alcohol to him. “Have you?” he asked, after taking a drink and they stayed in silence, just watching teenagers stumble their way through their drunkenness and to their homes with bleeding knuckles.

“Hm?”

“Have you ever been drunk with a stranger before?”

“No. But I’m about to.”

“Yeah,” murmured Finn, taking another drink before passing her the bottle and she did the same. “Brooklyn is really pretty at nighttime.” He softly groaned as he sat back and watched the soft city. She looked back at him, eyebrows furrowed in a joking matter as she smiled at him suggestively.

Laughing softly, she said, “Yup” and took another drink before passing the bottle back to him— it’s kind of a cycle. Take two drinks and then give the bottle to the person next to you. “See those skyscrapers over there?” she pointed somewhere far. Behind all the trees and the bars and the empty McDonald’s. Behind all of those, there were mighty skyscrapers standing tall and chivalrous. Built by a person’s hand. How odd. “I want to be like them.”

“You wanna be tall and might?” Finn said jokingly, smiling when she giggled.

“Yup, I want to be tall and might like the skyscrapers, Bálor,” answered (Y/N) sarcastically, looking behind her shoulder and giving him a sharp wink. Luckily the ‘Open 24/7’ neon sign that McDonald’s had was slowly faltering, if it hadn’t been for that she could have seen Finn’s heated cheeks.

“But, no, really.” She sounded more serious now. More formal. “I wanna be like them because I want to look untouchable. Invincible. People can never say bad things to skyscrapers. I want to be like them because I’m exhausted of my unstable life. Fired here, fired there— I’m trying as hard as I can to have a job. Really. It might not look like it but I really am trying. Then I have to see my friends be successful while I’m here trying to be happy for them. I can’t stand to see another promotion party. I can’t stand being completely vulnerable to people’s talk at me.”

Drunk. Slurred words. Droopy eyes. Weird hand gestures.

“I’m not drunk, by the way,” (Y/N) said all of a sudden. She took the bottle in his hands and took another drink. “I’m just… babbling. Haven’t been really able to speak my mind for a couple of days. But it’s kinda strange, isn’t it? I’m jealous of skyscrapers and that probably doesn’t even make any sense right now.”

Finn scoffed playfully. “Oh, so of all things you said to me, you think the strange thing is you’re jealous of skyscrapers but not the fact that you’re practically ranting to a person you barely know?”

“I know you. I know you’re a nerd for almost everything. I know you like convenience store-brand vodka.” She shrugged at that, a goofy grin settling on her face as he stopped staring at the bottle in her hands and started looking at her in disbelief. “But anyways, you’re drunk, right?”

They looked at each other for a moment before grinning. “We’re sober adults, you and me both, (Y/N).”

“You’re right, you’re right,” she said, throwing her hands in the air as a I-give-up kind of gesture. “Wanna wander aimlessly for a little while? Our friends will start to worry in like, a few hours, anyway.”

“More like your friends,” Finn grinned. “Mine are drunk and most probably still singing their fucking hearts out.”

(Y/N) put a hand over her chest, as though she was offended over something he had said. “I did not take you for someone who use swear words. I thought you were a good, innocent boy.”

“I’m not that innocent.”

“Oh, baby, I know,” she gave him a playful wink and they both snickered. Both of them had heated cheeks, Finn’s from her wink and her suggestive remark and (Y/N)’s from the vodka.

“I’ll get you for that.”

“Oh, sure. Race me to the heart of that park over there.” Her pointer finger was aimed at a park a good block away from them. “If you win, I’ll give you my number. If I win, you’ll treat me to McDonald’s. I guess, if we both win you’ll have my number, and I’ll have my McDonald’s.”

And at that, she stood up and began to run down the street. She threw her arms in the air again and screamed out a loud “Fuck!” and continued to run before Finn realized what was happening and decided to get up and follow her— without a care for incoming cars. They were getting tipsy, and now, at this time, cars only dragged along the road every few hours. And now, at this point, they didn’t really care.

What was happening: he’s racing a girl he barely knows. He’s going to treat her to McDonald’s if he lost.

His reward: her number.

The air felt strangely warm. Warm as in the country summers and the apple-picking weeks. Warm as in the sunny days in the beach. It felt foggy. Thick. Every step he took, it felt like parting the atmosphere between them and the bubblegum pink. Every step he took, he felt younger and younger.

He had never been with someone who made him feel young and whole again— who didn’t make him feel like he was obligated to act mature in a completely non-rational situation. She made him feel the opposite. She made him feel like he was meant to do something more in life than travel around the world and do a couple of dropkicks here and there and wrestle his heart out, like he was meant to have space for his heart other than wrestling.

Each step she took, the air radiates off of her. The halo on top of her messy head is glowing as bright as it did hours earlier, when she was sober and acting self-deprecatingly. The ecstasy in her eyes— it never went away permanently. It did, for a moment— when she was talking about skyscrapers. But it never did die. It just… disappeared but stayed there, waiting for a moment to shine in the darkness.

When they both saw multiple gleaming streetlights planted on the dirt, they knew they were nearing their destination. The air is still foggy, thick, parting, warm like the apple-picking weeks. Their steps are in a haste, desperate to get their rewards. (Not him—not that much anyway.) Their hearts are pounding against their chests as loud as a beating drum in noisy parades. Their minds are fogged with nothing but white noise and alcohol filling empty cracks that never needed to be filled.

Finally they entered the mighty gate. The park is still open, even at this time of night. The gravel crunched underneath their feet as they increased speed. Their hands were balled into fists so tight to the point that their knuckles turned white.

“I’m going to get my French fries, motherfucker.”

Her laughter filled the void that even the quiet of his hotel rooms couldn’t. Her smile brought the light he thought he never needed. She— she made him feel something he never thought he would feel. Something he thought he never needed.

“I’m going to get your fucking number.”

It really can’t be.

“We’ll see about that!”

He can ignore it. He’s tipsy. She’s tipsy.

“You can’t fucking beat me!”

The world is practically amazing right now. It’s not true.

Heels scratching on dirt. An arm hitting a pebble. They laid on the ground, both silent except from their soft gasps of breath. Finn smiled.

He. Is. Drunk. He shouldn’t be feeling this way.

The sky, a light swirl of lilacs and blues and pinks now instead of deep blue with stars like diamonds, was spinning. Their heads were pounding and she was still holding the bottle in her hand.

But if she says another word. If she smiles another smile. If he feels young again.

“Fuck.” He was breathing heavily.

Then he’ll admit it. He’ll let himself feel it.

“I never felt that kind of adrenaline since I was a kid.” And with that, (Y/N) sat up. She was smiling at him. And her face is a masterpiece. A painting of some kind. Her emotions were the watercolor that would spread. And as she drunk the vodka again, the beverage stood as her eraser. It removed all her emotions. It removed all the paint on her face. Washed her with a warm cloth. It removed all flaws until her face is bare. Until her face is like a boring, old canvas, waiting to taste some kind of pain, some kind of unbearable serenity, some kind of recklessness.

He swooned. He felt young. He felt like the world, somehow… it mattered. It didn’t spin, it didn’t feel like it made no sense anymore. The way she smiles, the way she talks and the way she was afraid to show her emotion. It made him feel like the world isn’t doing cartwheels anymore, it made him feel like the world finally made sense. He felt a tremble in his chest, a pounding against his ribcage, a small switch flick in his brain. He felt all levels of weirdness. He can’t feel his legs.

Fuck it then. He’s in love.

Not with the city. Not with the sky. Not with the soft grass pressed against his back. Not with the convenience store-brand vodka. But with how her lips curved into a small smug smile, how her laugh echoed in his head as a soft melody, how she filled every corner with her radiating air. With how the halo on top of her head glowed as bright as ever. With how her face looked like a painting, alcohol serving as her destroyer. With how desperate she is to get treated to a McDonald’s that she almost broke her ankle in the process. With how the world seemed so amazing, so pure, so meaningful— sober or not—because of her. With how the bubblegum pink dress gleamed with every move she made. He’s in love. With her.

Does that make sense? Is that acceptable? Is it okay to fall in love?

So many questions. But there’s only one answer. He doesn’t want to know. He just wants to savour this moment, fall in love with someone who he’ll lose soon, get drunk with someone who’s going to lose him, too.

“We should go and get your well-deserved McDonald’s then,” Finn rasped, offering a small wink that made her cheeks blush. “Are you sure your ankle is okay?”

“I’m fine, I don’t need a piggyback ride or anything,” joked (Y/N), which made him roll his eyes and stand up. She stood up, too, after being offered a hand. “But,” she started, as they calmly walked back to the bench and the almost empty McDonald’s and the lamppost, “I don’t mind a piggyback ride from you, seeing how well-built the mighty Finn Bálor is.”

“I promise you a piggyback ride soon.”

“Pssh. Stop that.”

“Stop what?” he questioned, cocking an eyebrow.

“Stop making promises you never really intend to keep.”

Finn looked at her with a bewildered expression, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I have that habit of making promises. I also have that habit of keeping them.”

“People can’t promise you anything.”

“I think, in all thirty-four years I’ve lived through, I’ve picked that up already.”

(Y/N) laughed a glorious laugh. Smiled another light smile. “I guess.” As they both stepped inside the McDonald’s, the smell of cooking meat overwhelmed them. “Apple pie and fries?”

“Apple pie and fries.”

And now they’re back in the park again, sitting on the soft grass with their legs crossed. They looked like children, hungry and lost. They were washing fries down with vodka and choking on their words. She didn’t mind sharing. She didn’t mind him lying down on the grass while he finished the rest of the vodka. She didn’t mind how she opened up about her past relationships. She didn’t mind opening up to him like a book waiting to be read.

“So, that’s the story of how my foot got stuck in a wall.”

“Why kick it in the first place?” Finn laughed, and she shrugged playfully as she clapped the salt off of her fingers. He looked up to the sky. It’s early. 5 AM. He has to leave soon. “We should head back. Our friends might be looking for us.”

“Oh, y—” Her ringtone hit. She fished for her phone in her purse and laughed.

“What is it?” Instead of giving him a verbal reply, (Y/N) turned her phone and made him read the reason why she laughed. Two text messages from Henry, the guy who got promoted.

HENRY — (Y/N), where the actual fuck are you? Aria is drunk off of her ass and had already puked on Oliver’s sweatshirt. (Sent: 5:02 AM)

HENRY — Update on Aria: Slightly sober. Threw up again when Oliver suggested getting seafood. (Sent: 5:03 AM)

“Speaking of friends.” She grinned devilishly and locked her phone. Picking up the plastic bag of McDonald’s on the grass, she smiled at him. They walked back to the bench, to the empty McDonald’s, the skyscrapers. They felt exhausted, like any second they can collapse. Every inch of their bodies are tensed to the point that every move hurt.

The karaoke bar with its shining neon sign and vibrations came to view once they rounded the corner, both engulfed with silence. “Thank you,” (Y/N) whispered, grabbing Finn so they were hidden from Henry and his pack. “Thank you so fucking much. This is the best night of my life. Or morning. Whatever.” They both suppressed a snicker. “Give me your phone.” And so he did, gave her his phone unlocked, not even asking why. After a few seconds, she handed his phone back to him. “There’s my number.”

And suddenly, a shout of, “(Y/N), I know you’re there!” interrupted Finn’s mixed feelings and the small flip his stomach did.

“It’s Henry,” she whispered. “I got to go.”

Before she turned the corner again, (Y/N) grabbed the collar of his shirt and pressed her lips firmly against his. The force of it so strong that it almost knocked Finn over. The flip his stomach did repeated, the mixed feelings weren’t so mixed. He only felt one thing and the space in his heart got filled, finally.

He’s in love. He’s not terrified. He’s not doubtful. Only hopelessly in love.

“For so many hours, you made me want to do that to you,” (Y/N) confessed, after pulling away. And there she goes again. Spilling her heart out without a care. He admired that. “And you know what’s crazy? I’m in love with you.”

I’m. In. Love. With. You. Five words that made Finn’s mind explode.

“It’s not crazy.” And that’s true. “Love is love.”

“I guess so.” And with that, she leaned in again and kissed him. Eager but passionate. Soft but rough at the edges. Sweet but poisonous. It felt like the kiss is somehow making him feel everything she felt a few hours ago. Like she was transferring her own emotions, her watercolors, to him— emotionless, a boring, old canvas.

She pulled away. The flow of emotions stopped and he was no longer a watercolor painting, no longer a masterpiece created by her calloused hands and bruised knuckles and fingertips. Winking at him, she backed away slowly. To the road. Away from their fire. Away from their beacon. Away from him.

And with that, the sky turned lilac and bright orange and the sun balanced on the horizon. Birds were flying. The people are awake, ready to start their busy city life once more. The dark yellow cab was waiting for her and the promoted-stable-life Henry and the drunk Aria and Oliver with the puked-on sweatshirt. It was morning.

Her dress swished side to side when she made each step, the satin and lace gleaming under the sunlight. The halo on her head is still glowing, more iridescent as ever. Each step carried a weight that even the cement can’t handle. Each step, the air radiated off of her. And the bubblegum pink dress. Everything had a change of heart but it stayed there. Glowing. Radiating. Still satin and lace.

Still bubblegum pink.

#[ helluvakiick ] ;; writing #finn bálor #finn bálor x reader #finn bálor x reader oneshot #finn bálor oneshot #finn bálor imagine #finn balor #finn balor imagine #finn balor x reader #[ writing ] ;; finn bálor

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welllpthisishappening · 7 years ago

Text

Out of the Frying Pan (17/?)

“Were there extra cookies?” “You literally just ate a plate of onion rings.” “Were there extra cookies?” Henry repeated.

“No,” Killian laughed. “And even if there were, your mom absolutely would have eaten them.” “Rude,” Emma mumbled and Killian’s side moved slightly when he laughed again in response. Mary Margaret looked like she was going to start crying again at the sight of early-relationship-whatever banter.

AN: If you haven’t told @laurnorder how delightful and awesome she is, go ahead and do that now because it’d probably be weird if I just did it, like, all the time.

Living it up on Ao3 and tag’ed up on Tumblr as per usual.

“We’re going to take another ten before we film the third, ok?” Regina asked, appearing a few feet in front of them suddenly. She’d seized control of the show again, something about instructions from Zelena and having the most experience with competition shows and no one really seemed to care except for her.

Killian barely even processed the words – taken back a bit by how much watching Emma lose had made his stomach churn.

What a fucking disaster.

She still hadn’t moved – Regina glanced at her warily and Killian met his producer’s eyes. “We’ve got it, Gina,” he said softly, body turned entirely towards Emma. She still hadn’t moved.

Regina nodded and did her best to smile encouragingly and Killian appreciated the effort, even if the final result fell a bit flat. He didn’t say anything else until the sound of Regina’s heels had retreated to the other side of the studio, taking a step towards Emma and wrapping his fingers around her shoulder.

She moved then – shoulder slumping underneath his touch as she took a step back. And he tried very hard not to sigh.

He didn’t succeed.

“They didn’t like it,” she said softly, eyes trained at her feet.

“I heard.” “They liked yours. And Graham’s. They didn’t like mine.” “That happens sometimes, Swan,” Killian said, doing his best to sound reasonable and supportive when his mind was still very much hung up on the fact that she’d taken a step back.

“Not for you.” “Ah, well, we can’t all be quite as fantastic as I am.” She let out a shaky laugh and that felt a bit like a victory – enough to make him take a step back towards her and, this time, Emma didn’t move. Instead, she lifted her head, meeting his eyes with something that almost looked like a smile as she twisted her hands together in the space between them.

“That’s probably true,” she said softly.

“You’re a very close second, love.” “Gee, thanks.” “I know, you don’t have to tell me how overwhelmingly charming I am.” Emma laughed again and she was actually smiling now, tongue darting across her lips as she pushed her hair back behind her ears. “You going to let me try your food now?” she asked, taking a step towards the table and grabbing the plate before he’d even given her an answer.

“Of course.” She leaned against the edge of the table, twirling the fork in between in her fingers before taking a bite, closing her eyes slightly as she ate. And then she beamed at him. “You’re right,” she said, nodding towards the space next to her.

Killian moved where she directed, grabbing the plate of her food as he went. “About what, Swan?” “This is fantastic.” “Look who’s the charmer now. And anyway, that’s half your victory, you’re the one who explained what to do with the beans.” “I’m being honest,” she said and there was absolutely no way to doubt her. “And fat lot of good that did me. Jeez, Henry’s going to be so mad. We had a whole system. I was supposed to repurpose everything.” “You cooked them, Swan. That’s all I did too.” “Not well enough, apparently.” “What are you worried about?” “Would you like an itemized list?” “Just an answer would be good.” She sighed, taking another bite of food before he answered. “I needed this one,” Emma said slowly. “The Cutthroat win has been huge. The numbers have gone up over the last couple of weeks and Zelena had a meeting with Ruby about possibly getting me my timeslot back. So we talked about it, which is all we seem to be doing now, and Rubes thought if I won today and then added a good showing with the Christmas episode, we might get back to 10 by the start of next year. But then I couldn’t repurpose beans with a disgusting name and Henry’s going to be so disappointed.” Killian took a bite of her food so he didn’t have to answer immediately – a dozen different emotions coursing through his system. Mostly he was frustrated with himself and curious how long first-time offenders got for robbing a bank.

Because he’d have to rob the bank.

There was no way around it. He couldn’t beat her at this thing. He couldn’t let her think she wasn’t enough.

And the only way he’d be able to afford the expansion was if he robbed a bank and paid off Gold.

Emma bit her lip, glancing at him and shifting her body where she was sitting. “Anyway,” she said quickly, taking his silence as something entirely different the conflicted mess he was. “That’s my sad, little story. I’m glad you made it through though. That’s a good thing.” “Swan,” he sighed. “Nah, we’re not doing the pity thing. That’s not how we roll.” “I’m not, honestly. I just don’t think one episode of this stupid all-star thing is going to completely change the numbers you’re pulling. You didn’t get chopped first, so that’s good and this food is fucking delicious so I don’t know what the judges were thinking.” She stared at him, eyes going wide and green. “Yeah?” “Scout’s honor.” “I hardly pegged you for some kind of boy scout,” Emma laughed. “I was under the impression you were a ruthless pirate.” “Not ruthless. Dashing, maybe. But never ruthless.” “Good to know.” “You know Henry could never be disappointed in you right?”

Emma’s shoulders sagged and she twisted around, setting down the plate behind her. “That might be what I’m worried most about.” “That should be the bottom of the list.” “You don’t really know him.” “And you’re pulling at straws.”

“It’s just that I’ve sacrificed a lot for this or something that sounds a little less melodramatic,” she said, pressing her palms into the edge of the table. “And Henry’s only got me as far as parents go and that’s my fault and he’s always at M’s and David’s apartment and I didn’t know about that history test.” “He got an A on that.” “That was because of you. I didn’t know any of those dates.” “I’d be happy to help again,” Killian said, staring at her and doing his best not to blink. She twisted her hands again, toying with the edges of her fingernails and this might actually be the longest ten-minute break in the history of filming.

“I bet he’d like that.” “Good. So would I.” “Really?” “You don’t have to sound so stunned every time, Swan,” Killian said, pulling apart her hands with his own. Her eyes flashed down, staring at them and nodding slowly. “I can guarantee I’m not lying to you.” About that at least.

Fuck. He really was an asshole.

“Believing you is a bit of a work in progress,” she mumbled.

“I can wait.” Emma stared at him – like she was waiting for the but or the list of demands that came along with the promises and her mouth dropped open a bit when she realized neither one of those things were coming.

He could be better.

And he could wait.

He could be someone his brother would actually be proud of – not someone who walked away or didn’t believe in anything or was fairly positive everything he’d ever loved would, eventually, be yanked away from him.

And he’d be enough for Emma Swan.

“Killian, you ready to go?” Regina asked, heels sounding like a jackhammer on the studio floors. Emma tried to move, but Killian’s fingers wrapped around her wrist, holding her in place as he kept his eyes straight on her.

“Yeah, let’s get this over with.” “Emma,” Regina continued, voice almost sounding friendly and Killian would have to thank her for that later. Add an extra olive in the martini or something. “I think they want you to do your talking head now, just to kind of keep things on schedule.” “Oh, yeah, absolutely,” Emma said briskly, pulling her hand away from Killian’s and standing up. She glanced back at him, the smile on her face wide and earnest. “I think you should probably make cookies. That’ll totally beat Graham. What does he know about baking anyway? He’s good at meat and like building his own fires or something.” “Noted, Swan, thank you.” She nodded once, still smiling as she leaned forward and kissed his cheek quickly before calling for Ruby and walking towards the door of the studio.

And, Goddamn, if he wasn’t absolutely going to make cookies now.

“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” Regina said, jerking his attention back to the very real cooking show he still had to take part in.

“And you look smug. Save your I told you so speech or whatever, Robin already gave it yesterday.” “So I heard.”

“You two talk about everything?” “That’s usually how relationships work. Good ones at least.” “Yuh huh.” “You tell her about Gold yet?” Killian groaned, rolling his head back and pressing his fingertips into his cheekbones. “I’ll take that as a no, then.” “It hasn’t really come up.”

“Too busy acting like teenagers?” “Your fianc é was the one who asked how kissing worked yesterday.” “Yeah, I don’t think you should be giving him any advice,” Regina said pointedly, shifting her weight on her heels. “He’s been doing a pretty good job on his own for the last five years.” “That’s not something I need to know.” Regina shrugged. “You should tell her about Gold.” “You’re all pro-this now?” “I am, always, pro-you and I can’t remember the last time I saw you smile this much. Or saw Emma smile this much, honestly. So, sure, I am pro-this whatever it is. But you should tell her about Gold and the deal and then you two should stop making out in the pantry while you’re filming because it took me nearly the entire second round to persuade them not to keep that footage.” Killian squeezed his eyes shut – he’d probably have to give Regina unlimited martinis for the rest of the week. And he realized, again, that he might actually be the luckiest bastard in the entire world for the one night she’d decided to walk into his restaurant and decide he was some sort of project she had to take on.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he mumbled.

“And how exactly do you think Emma would have reacted if I hadn’t?” Killian sighed. “That’s what I figured,” Regina said, smug look back on her face. “I’m just saying, you two have already sparked some rumors and that’s good for TV, but I’ve got a pretty good feeling that she spooks easily, so unless you want to actually define this whatever and go public, then stop making out while you’re filming.” “How did you know there was no definition?” “Because you’re you and you haven’t done something like this in the entire time I’ve known you.” “What is this? Exactly?” Regina stared at him speculatively and Killian just grinned in response, enjoying the teasing a bit more than he probably should. “You falling in love with Emma Swan. Obviously.”

He didn’t say anything – couldn’t come up with an argument that wouldn’t paint him firmly in obviously territory. So he sat still, eyes falling away from Regina and, somehow, that was worse. She laughed at him, heels moving as she turned back towards the set.

“C’mon,” Regina called. “Dessert time.”

The next thirty minutes passed in a blur of sugar and flour and zucchini – which threw Killian off for all of five seconds before he remembered zucchini actually went pretty well with nutmeg and then he was off.

He saw Emma walk back into the studio just before judging, standing on the side of the set with Ruby and Belle next to her. She smiled at him as the three judges took a bite of the cookie and if he wasn’t desperately trying to avoid the melodramatic he would have considered that a better win than beating Graham in the dessert round.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t go with chocolate,” Tink said, laughing as she spoke. Killian lifted one eyebrow, eyes darting towards Emma who was still smiling at him.

He hadn’t used chocolate at all.

He had, however, made frosting – copious amounts, chock full of vanilla and sprinkled with more cinnamon and nutmeg and Tink ate the entire cookie.

Graham’s ice cream had melted in the machine.

And – after being forced to walk down the hallway and then back so it looked as if the judges were deliberating on camera – Killian won Chopped.

Graham groaned when they showed his ice cream soup underneath the plate cover and Killian's eyes immediately sought out Emma on the other side of the studio, green eyes bright and the smile on her face making him drift right back to the melodramatic.

“Congratulations, Jones,” Graham said, sticking his hand out in the space between them.

“Yeah, thanks. Sorry about the ice cream machine.” “Ah, got too fancy for my own good,” he laughed. “And I’m glad you got a chance to show off a little bit in front of Emma.” “Excuse me?” “I won’t say anything, but it’s a little obvious. Almost painfully, all things considered.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” “She didn’t tell you?” “Tell me?” “That we went out. A couple of months ago.” Killian’s stomach was on the floor. Or maybe in his throat. And he was more angry than he thought he’d be. And jealous. Again.

“That so?” he said slowly, the sound of Emma’s sneakers approaching him the only thing that kept him rooted to the spot.

Graham nodded. “Yeah, just dinner one night. Ruby set it up. She’s far more interested in you than me.” Killian didn’t say anything else, Emma suddenly next to him, hand falling on his shoulder as she muttered congratulations in his ear. “Anyway,” Graham continued. “Figured I’d let you know. And congratulations again. I’ll see you guys at the next promotion.” And then he was gone and Killian still wasn’t certain where his stomach had ended up.

This was far too much information for one day.

“Hey,” Emma said softly, fingers brushing over his neck, just above the collar of his shirt. “You made cookies.” “As per instructions, Swan.” She laughed, turning so she was standing in front of him, the smile on her face making him wish his stomach would return to its appropriate place so it could flip at the look of her. “There aren’t any left.” “They were a bit of a hit.” “Of course they were,” she said, hands running up and down his arms. He could feel how tense he was under her touch, the way he was glancing over her head as Graham’s words lingered in his head and that uncertainty and lack of confidence returned in full-force. “You alright?” Emma asked. “You won!” “I did, love,” he agreed. “Just thinking.” “What did Graham say?” “How do you know Graham said anything?” “Because you should be thrilled. You made a zucchini cookie that was so good I can’t even have one and you’re not even excited. Now, come on, what did he say?” He took a deep breath, trying to come up with the right words that wouldn’t make him sound like a child. There weren’t any. He was acting like a child. “You went out with Graham.” Emma groaned softly, but her hands stayed trained on his arms, tightening slightly as she spoke. “Yeah. Not really willingly though.” “That sounds vaguely evil.” “It was Ruby’s idea,” she sighed. “And, you know, it wasn’t evil. It also wasn’t a lot of fun. Which is why I never called.” “No?”

She’d called him.

Granted that had been nearly a month ago, but she’d done it. And that meant something. It had to mean something.

Probably.

Jeez.

“No,” Emma repeated. “I didn’t see him again until we filmed those first promos. And I’ve barely talked to him since.” She narrowed her eyes at him, smile pulling on her lips and Killian tried not to look as ridiculous as he felt. “Why?” she asked. “Are you jealous?” “Look who’s talking – you with your guacamole metaphors and questions.” Emma laughed loudly, stepping towards him and resting her forehead on his shoulder. His hand came up to wrap around her waist instinctively and this was not the under-the-radar Regina had suggested.

At all.

“Even footing,” she mumbled.

“So it’d seem, love,” he answered, brushing his lips over the top of her head without even thinking about the half a dozen crew members still in the studio.

“There just wasn’t...anything,” Emma said, lifting her head back up to look at him.

“Where?” “With Graham.” “And now?”

Emma looked at him for a moment and the seconds seemed to drag. “Now there is.” Killian nodded and it wasn’t a definition and it wasn’t an explanation, but, for now it was enough. “I made more cookies,” he said softly.

“What?” Emma gaped at him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. He grinned at her, hand tightening until the back of her jacket was bunched between his fingers. “Thought it might be necessary.” “You were that confident in zucchini cookies?” “I was that confident in you wanting to eat my food.” Emma rolled her eyes, as she walked back towards his station and the cookie sheet that still had two extra cookies sitting on top of it. “That ego is really something else.” He shrugged and she bit down on the cookie, frosting lingering on the edges of her lips in a way that absolutely wasn’t fair.

“Well?” he prompted.

“The ego seems warranted,” she sighed. “How come you don’t make this kind of stuff more often?” “What do you mean, Swan?” “I mean why don’t you have a regular dessert menu at The Jolly and why aren’t these cookies in grocery stores across the country?”

He shrugged again. “You’re far too generous with your compliments.” “I’m serious.” “The desserts are for me, Swan. The baking is for me. I told you, it’s what I do when I can’t handle anything else. If I started to sell that, I wouldn’t have an outlet for anything.” “And you need that? An outlet?” His eyes flashed up and God she could read him better than anyone he’d ever met. Maybe even better than Liam had. Better than Milah.

And that was the first time Killian had thought of that name in a very long time – it was usually just her , a refusal to acknowledge everything he lost tied up in one moment and one name and one face.

Emma smiled at him and he got the distinct impression that, maybe, he’d suddenly found something in another moment and her name and face.

Melodramatic asshole.

“Is it because of the expansion?” she asked, thumb pulling across her lip as she licked the frosting off her finger.

“Some of it, I guess,” Killian admitted, suddenly treading on dangerous dessert-ridden terrain. “It’s a much bigger space than I thought it would be.”

“Is that bad?” “Just expensive.” Emma nodded knowingly. “Can I ask you a question?” he asked.

“Sure.” “How come you don’t have a restaurant?” “What?” Her foot slid out from underneath her as she pushed herself away from where she was leaning on his station and her eyes went wide.

“You’re good, Swan. And you fall into a rhythm when you cook, all quick movements and everything works . It just seems to make sense.” She stood up straighter, teeth tugging on her lower lip. “I thought about it. A long time ago.” “But?” “But then Ruby showed up and brought me to the network and I got the show and it was doing so well that I kind of forgot about restaurants. I figured this was the safe bet, you know? And now that’s kind of slipping away.” “It’s not,” he countered and Emma made a dismissive sound in the back of her throat. “Honestly, Swan.”

“Look who’s doling out compliments now,” she laughed. “Nah, restaurants aren’t for me anymore. Although, I will tell you that I enjoyed chopping vegetables for you. It was strangely soothing or something.” Killian grinned at her, tugging her closer to him and kissing her softly. And she seemed to sigh against him and that wasn’t fair either.

They were horrible at this.

She pulled away before he was even ready to consider stopping, keeping her forehead rested against his while her fingers brushed over the back of his hair. “We should probably stop doing this on set,” Emma mumbled, still so close he could almost feel her lips move against his when she spoke.

“Probably.”

“Work in progress.” “An admirable effort.” Emma huffed out a laugh, moving her head back and staring at him with a look that nearly knocked all the air out of him. “You still want to come to Granny’s?” she asked softly.

“Of course.”

She nodded once – like she was convincing herself he wasn’t lying – and leaned forward to kiss him again quickly. “Make sure you order your own plate of onion rings, because Henry’s not good at sharing them.”

“Duly noted.”

Emma smiled at him, hand dropping away from his neck to wrap around his fingers and lead him away from set.

“Killian!”

Henry nearly knocked over several glasses as he practically leapt out of the corner booth in Granny’s, sprinting across the diner floor and earning a low chuckle from the man next to Emma. Who still had his fingers wrapped up in hers.

“Hi Henry,” Killian said, smile threatening to take up his entire face.

Henry grinned in response, bobbing up and down on the balls of his feet like he did when he got particularly excited about something and Emma couldn’t even bring herself to be frustrated that her kid hadn’t even acknowledged her yet.

“How was the show? Who won? Did you repurpose ingredients?” Henry asked, rattling off questions like he was being paid by the letter. “Because you have to repurpose the ingredients or you’ll totally get chopped. That’s what we figured out this weekend, right mom?” “Oh, I’m here too then?” Emma joked.

Henry groaned loudly and Emma heard David laugh pointedly from the booth on the other side of the room. “Hi, mom,” Henry replied dutifully and Emma reached forward to brush his hair off his forehead.

“Hi kid,” she said. “You didn’t drive M’s nuts this afternoon, did you?”

“Of course he didn’t,” Mary Margaret yelled, twisting around the back of the booth and only moving when David muttered something about aggravating her back .

“Eventually you’re just going to have to invest in a bubble or something,” Emma laughed, pushing on Henry’s shoulder to turn him back towards the table. Killian followed behind her as she walked, fingers tightening a fraction of an inch when David’s gaze lingered on their hands a few seconds longer than necessary. “Just put M’s inside and then let her go out and take on the world on her own.” “You’re hysterical, Emma, you know that?” David muttered and she grinned at him, sliding into the booth, Henry and Killian on either side of her.

And that seemed like a sign. Or something.

“Years of practice,” she shot back. David rolled his eyes.

“So,” Mary Margaret said pointedly, cutting into the middle of a patented Nolan-sibling fight like they were still sitting in the Blanchard’s living room on Main Street. “Spill, Em, how did it go? Any crazy food?” “Dragon tongue beans,” Killian answered, the disgust in his voice enough to make Emma’s smile widen even more.

“That sounds awesome!” Henry exclaimed. “What’d you make with them, mom? What round where they in?” “Is he always this full of questions?” Killian asked, voice lilting into Emma’s ear and she suddenly realized that his thigh was pressed up against hers underneath the table. And they still hadn’t actually defined anything.

They’d kissed instead.

Again.

“Always,” Emma promised, wrapping her arm around Henry’s shoulders and ignoring the soon-to-come groan at this motherly display of affection. “Alright, kid, let’s start at the top. They were not awesome. They were horrible and they taste horrible and I don’t know why anyone would eat them. I didn’t make anything with them. Killian did something with onions that was unfairly delicious. And they were main course.” “Mom,” Henry sighed, rolling his head onto her shoulder. “You didn’t do anything with them? That wasn’t part of the plan.” “I know.” “But main course seems good, right?” Mary Margaret added, a picture of sunshine and optimism on the other side of the booth. “You didn’t get cut first.” “I didn’t,” Emma agreed, biting her lip as she tried to push of the wave of nerves threatening to drown here right there in the middle of the diner on Leonard Street. “I got chopped second.”

She could feel Henry sigh next to her, his shoulders moving as he exhaled and Emma bit her lip so hard she could actually taste blood. She blinked quickly, trying to avoid the wave or the tide or whatever metaphor she was going with when she felt a hand on her knee and Killian’s eyes on her.

He was ignoring David’s very obvious glare, eyes trained on her – all blue and supportive and not talking about how he’d actually won Chopped that afternoon. And she was in way over her head.

“You did do something with the beans, Swan,” Killian said softly, every other head at the table snapping towards him when he spoke. “You cooked them. Very well, actually.” “How do you know they were good?” David asked sharply and Emma rolled her eyes. “I thought only the judges ate the food.” “Yeah, well, I’ve kind of got an agreement with the chef.” “That so?”

Mary Margaret’s hand landed on her husband’s shoulder and she widened her eyes in warning. David huffed out a deep breath, eyes, finally, pulling away from Killian’s to stare at Emma. “What’s he talking about?” he asked.

“We’ve kind of been stealing each other’s food after rounds,” Emma explained. “They’re long days, you know, and the catering table is horrible for a network built on food. He’s a far better option.” “Wow, Swan,” Killian laughed. “I didn’t know you felt so strongly about my food. Glad to see I’m just your best option.” Emma grinned at him and he answered her in kind and she didn’t even care how uncomfortable David was. “Seriously, Uncle David, you should try some of Killian’s food. It’s really good,” Henry added and Emma tried not to slump down in the booth “When have you had his food?” David asked sharply.

Henry glanced warily at Emma, eyes wide and she glanced up at the ceiling of the restaurant, wondering if Granny was actually avoiding the table because they were arguing so loudly. “Couple of weeks ago,” Emma answered. “Killian helped Henry study for an American history exam.” “What?” “David,” Mary Margaret sighed, but he just shook his head quickly.

“No, no,” he muttered. “Why didn’t I know that happened?” “Because it’s none of your business?” Emma asked, voice rising of its own accord. “I don’t have to give you a detailed description of where Henry and I are going every night.” “Weeks ago, Emma. That was weeks ago. And it never came up once? Not even at Halloween? I tried to tell you something I thought was important and you brushed me off. Is that why? Because you were nervous that you’d already involved Henry in all of this?”

“You’re being an ass again,” Emma hissed.

David made a face, eyes landing on Killian again with a look that made it all too clear he had something he desperately wanted to say. Emma didn’t give him a chance. “And, as previously mentioned, David, none of that is your business. Henry got an A on that exam, so, honestly, that’s all I’m really concerned about.”

She chanced a look at Killian – smiling softly at her out of the corner of her eye – and David deflated slightly. “An A’s really good,” he mumbled. “Good for you, Henry.” “Killian helped with the dates,” Henry added and David looked like he was about to argue something, but Killian cut him off.

“That was all you,” he said quickly. “I didn’t take the test.” David didn’t know what to do what that.

“Did you study history, Killian?” Mary Margaret asked, hand still on David’s shoulder.

“They don’t have majors at the Academy,” David muttered and Emma nearly sagged against Henry. Killian’s hand tightened around her knee.

“Actually,” he countered, “they do. It’s still a school, you know. And, to answer, your question, Mary Margaret, I did.”

She nodded quickly, fingers tracing along David’s spine as she tried to keep the conversation on track. Emma appreciated that – until her next question. “At the Academy? What Academy are we talking about here?” Killian’s eyes darted towards Emma and she tried to apologize without actually saying anything. “He was in the Navy,” Henry answered, voice picking up again. “He told me he knows how to shoot a gun. Kind of like you, Uncle David, only like on a boat.” “Ship,” Killian corrected softly and Emma’s heart did something stupid at that.

“Ship,” Henry repeated reverently.

“You were in the Navy, Killian?” Mary Margaret asked. “How did you end up on Iron Chef? And with your own restaurant?” “It’s kind of a long story,” he said. “One David apparently didn’t go into much detail about.” “I didn’t really want to know. Figured it was kind of like cheating.” Killian laughed and stared at Mary Margaret like he’d never quite seen anything like her. He probably hadn’t. She was too nice for her own good. “I appreciate that,” he said and Mary Margaret just shrugged softly. “I was in the Navy, for about five years before I left.” David scoffed and Emma kicked him underneath the table. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Unfortunately it wasn’t a very positive end for either us – me or the Navy. My brother had died in action and without him there, there didn’t seem to be much of a point to serving anymore. So I left – without much permission. Any really.” “You left?” Henry repeated and Killian’s jaw flexed.

Emma was going to kill David. Right there in the booth. And then they’d never be able to come back to Granny’s.

“Wasn’t my finest moment,” Killian said quickly.

“Is that how you lost your hand? When your brother died?” “Henry!” Emma, Mary Margaret and David spoke at once, voices sharp in the restaurant. Emma was positive she saw Granny turn around and walk back into the kitchen when she heard the three of them yell. She kicked David again.

“It’s alright, Swan,” Killian said softly, thumb moving in a small circle across the bottom of her thigh. “And you don’t have to keep kicking your brother.” She glared at him pointedly, David muttering under his breath on the other side of the table. “Sorry,” Henry said quietly, but Killian just shook his head.

“Don’t be. It’s a fair question.” He took a deep breath, glancing at Emma once before leaning around her and meeting Henry’s curious gaze head on. “I didn’t lose my hand in the Navy. About a year and a half after, actually.” “How?”

“Henry,” Emma whispered sharply, shaking her head. Killian pulled his hand off her leg and moved it back up to her shoulder, squeezing slightly in silent contradiction. She didn’t say anything else – ignoring the way her mind raced at the feel of his hand and the admission that he hadn’t lost his hand in the Navy.

David looked a little nervous and she could hear what he’d told her in the kitchen two weeks ago – And, probably, who that woman tattooed on his arm is.

She didn’t know how she knew, probably something about being an open book to each other or some other absurd nonsense that made her feel more connected to Killian Jones than just about anyone else in her life, but Emma was positive it had to do with her – Milah. It was all about her, somehow, his hand and the way he seemed to kind of hate himself sometimes and that, admittedly very attractive, determination to prove himself.

“Car accident,” Killian said simply, not breaking away from Henry’s gaze. “I was 27 and I got in a cab one night and we didn’t realize the driver was drunk. It all happened kind of fast, honestly. He was driving back uptown and tried to take a left and didn’t see the car coming right at him until it was too late.” Henry bit his lip – looking so much like Emma she had to blink a few times to stop herself from actually starting to cry at the sight – and the entire table sat silent for what felt like several decades.

“I’m sorry,” Henry said softly and before Emma could stop him he reached around her, hand resting on Killian’s forearm, just above his brace.

And he didn’t pull away, didn’t move an inch – just looked slightly stunned at the twelve-year-old kid in front of him and Emma was absolutely on the verge of hysterics.

“I, uh, I didn’t know that part,” David said suddenly, making Emma’s head whip towards him. Killian hummed questioningly in the back of his throat, fingers dancing along the bottom of Emma’s head as they pushed into her hair. “I didn’t know there was a drunk driver involved. In the accident, I mean.” His hand stopped moving and Emma held her breath – that was a David Nolan sorry-I-was-a-dick-but-I’m-just-trying-to-protect-my-sister apology. And she wasn’t sure anyone except her and Mary Margaret would figure it out.

“Looks like you need better background checks then,” Killian said. “I distinctly remembering filling out an obscene amount of NYPD paperwork when I woke up. Luckily I’m right handed, so it wasn’t a big deal.” Emma’s whole body nearly fell over with slightly-manic sounding laughter and Killian grinned at her, moving his eyebrows quickly. David nodded slowly, smile spreading across his face as he stuck his hand out over the table. “I’m sorry,” he said and it sounded like he meant it and Emma couldn’t figure out if she was going to faint or start to cry.

“What is happening?” she muttered, mostly to Mary Margaret who just shrugged in response.

“I like him,” David said, nodding towards Killian. “And if he can get Henry an A on an American history exam, then that seems pretty good. Even if I do have a minor in history.” “European,” Emma pointed out. “And only because you had too many AP credits when you got to school and walked in with a minor. That doesn’t count.” “Whatever.”

And then it was fine – or as fine as a quasi-family dinner in an otherwise abandoned diner could be on a Tuesday night.

Granny, finally, showed up at the table, bringing a pre-dinner plate of onion rings for Henry. And he only objected slightly when Killian moved around Emma to grab one off the plate, claiming he had to test them before flashing a smile at her that went straight to her toes.

And she was so goddamn happy her face hurt from smiling.

“You know,” Henry said once their food arrived later, chewing on a grilled cheese in between syllables. “You never told us who actually won today.” “Chew, kid.” He rolled his eyes in response and Emma bit into her grilled cheese, earning herself a frustrated groan from both her kid and her brother. “You’re both horribly impatient. You know they put the show on TV.” “And why would we do that when you’re here to tell us?” David asked.

“Don’t do it Emma,” Ruby said sharply, walking into the diner with a frustrated look on her face.

“Where have you been?” Emma asked, sitting up a bit straighter as her producer marched into the restaurant, only pausing long enough to grab a bear claw off the display on the counter. “I thought you were on your way out like hours ago.” “I was,” Ruby said, wrapping her foot around the bottom of a chair to drag it to the end of the table. “But then I ran into Regina and she was on the warpath because someone,” she glared pointedly at Killian, “walked out without filming his talking head. You need to answer your phone.” “It’s on silent,” he muttered and Emma bit back a laugh. “And I can do it later. It’s not like they’re putting it on TV tomorrow.” “You know what I just did?” Killian shook his head slowly, holding an onion ring halfway in front of his mouth. “I just spent the last hour with your producer explaining to Zelena why everything wasn’t filmed yet and how no one had managed to stop the two of you from walking off set together. Jeez, I thought this morning was bad, but this is worse. You’re not even official and you’re already messing everything up.”

“What happened this morning?” Henry asked, a picture of curious innocence. Emma waved her hand quickly in front of him, trying not to kick Ruby under the table as well.

“Official, huh?” David repeated, laughing slightly under her breath and Emma couldn’t quite deal with the whiplash of that. Killian looked slightly overwhelmed – for someone who claimed they didn’t have a family, Emma certainly appeared to have plenty of people ready and willing to butt their way into things that weren’t their business.

She opened her mouth – not certain who she was going to answer first or how she was going to explain any of this when she couldn’t quite figure it out herself. Except she never even got a word out.

“It’s a boy!” Mary Margaret shouted and every head at the table turned towards her, each mouth hanging open slightly. “What?” Emma muttered, tears pricking her eyes almost immediately.

“It’s a boy,” Mary Margaret repeated, ignoring David’s frustrated groan.

“We weren’t going to tell them yet,” he said. “Yeah, well, you weren’t supposed to be an asshole to Killian again either and yet here we are.” David’s open-mouthed stare quickly turned into a smile and he leaned forward to kiss Mary Margaret quickly as Henry groaned loudly. Emma might have groaned a bit too.

“They do that all the time,” Henry said, turning to look at Killian who just smirked at the overwhelmingly family moment in front of him. He still had his fingers wrapped around the back of Emma’s neck and, for one moment, she let herself lean into the touch – ignoring her brother’s happiness for a second or two of her own.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world,” Killian muttered.

Henry groaned again. “I guess.” “Let’s pump the brakes on that conversation real quick,” Emma said and Henry nearly slid down the back of the booth as Killian nodded and kissed the top of her head. The whole thing was overwhelmingly domestic. “When did you find out?” Emma asked, trying to refocus the conversation on anything that wasn’t her. Or her relationship.

If that’s the word they were using.

“Couple of days ago,” Mary Margaret answered, pulled flush against David’s side. Emma was positive she’d never seen her brother so happy.

“And you didn’t say anything?” “You’ve been busy.” “I wish everyone would stop using that as an excuse.”

“It’s true,” David shrugged.

Emma pressed her lips together and shook her head and she absolutely wasn’t crying. She wasn’t. She was just kind of overwhelmed. But not crying. A boy.

They were going to have a boy.

“Em, are you crying?” David asked, voice tinged with surprised laughter.

“No,” Emma said quickly and she knew she wasn’t fooling anyone. “Of course not. Being emotional about you having a kid, a son , is totally out of the question. Whatever. I don’t care at all.” “I thought you didn’t want to know,” Ruby cut in. “Weren’t we all instructed to purchase gender neutral gifts? Because I was all about decking that kid out in red from head to toe.” “Is red gender neutral?” Emma asked.

Ruby just shrugged. “I honestly don’t care. It’s a good color. I had a whole plan, so it better at least be good enough for tiny-Nolan because that’s what he’s getting from here on out.” “I’m sure tiny-Nolan will appreciate whatever you buy him,” Mary Margaret said. “And we might not have to call him that much longer either.” “You are just chock full of secrets today, aren’t you?” Emma laughed, grabbing an onion ring off Henry’s plate and grinning at him when he cried in disbelief of what she’d done.

“Not secrets really, ” Mary Margaret countered. “Just previously unheard information.” “Sounds a lot like the definition of secrets.” “We might have a name picked out?” “Might?” Mary Margaret nodded, glancing at David. “Leo,” he said softly and Emma was absolutely crying now, fingers rubbing roughly at her cheeks as she tried to get rid of the evidence as quickly as possible.

“Oh,” she muttered softly, a half-eaten onion ring still in her other hand. “Of course.”

“Who’s Leo?” Henry asked and Emma took a deep breath through her nose, lifting her head back up to find that Mary Margaret was crying too.

Killian probably thought they were all crazy.

“My dad,” Mary Margaret said.

“I’ve never met him.” “Yeah, yeah, you wouldn’t have. He, uh, he died when I was in college. But he was the most important person in my life for a really long time.” “It’s perfect, M’s,” Emma said, meaning every word.

Emma had been fifteen.

Mary Margaret and David were sophomores and it had all happened incredibly fast – too fast for anyone to really be able to process any of it. Mr. Blanchard had been diagnosed in August and he was gone by Christmas.

Just days before.

The funeral was two days before Christmas.

Mary Margaret didn’t cry at the funeral. Her voice didn’t break when she gave the eulogy. She hardly even nodded at the line of Storybrooke residents filed out of the church, shaking her hand and telling her how sorry they were for her loss.

She didn’t cry until the end, until they walked away from the grave site and turned their backs on the casket. And then she nearly fell against David, his arms wrapped tightly around her while Emma tried to do something , rubbing circles on Mary Margaret’s back while she cried until she couldn’t breathe anymore.

And that was when Emma knew – there was no one stronger than Mary Margaret. Not in Storybrooke and, likely, not in the entire world.

She paid for college on her own from there on out – worked two jobs during her final two years and then got a GA position so she could get her masters. She student-taught in the Bronx and held after-school reading groups for her students and Emma had all but forced Henry into her class when he’d been that age.

Mary Margaret was, at times, painfully positive, certain the world would just work the way it was supposed to and Emma’s natural cynicism fought against that more often than not, but no one deserved some sort of metaphorical happy ending more.

And no one would ever be loved more than the soon-to-be Leo Nolan.

“Don’t waste all your tears on that quite yet, because I’ve got one more secret,” Mary Margaret warned.

Emma nodded, sitting up a little straighter as Killian’s arm wrapped tightly around her shoulders. “Ok,” she said. “Do your worst. Or best.” “We picked a middle name too.” “I don’t know what you guys are talking about with me, you’re the busy ones. Do we have other relatives to honor with names?”

“See, that’s where we kind of need your permission?” “Mine?” Emma repeated, stunned slightly. “What for?” “Well, you and Henry actually,” Mary Margaret answered, smile nearly taking over every part of her face. “Tiny-Nolan’s full name will, we hope, be Leo Henry Nolan.”

Emma’s head landed on Killian’s shoulder before she could stop herself and the tears were just absurd at this point. She felt him laugh softly underneath her, hand moving up and down her arm and making her sleeve bunch against his fingers.

“You want to name him after me?” Henry asked, nearly screaming the words.

“Kind of,” David said. “We just thought it’d be cool if he knew who his heroes should be from the get-go, you know what I mean? And, well, we can’t really use Emma as a middle name, although we considered it, so we thought Henry kind of got both of you in one fell swoop.” “What do you think?” Mary Margaret asked quietly, eyes wide when she looked at Emma.

“I think it’s perfect,” she said, not entirely sure how she managed to talk when she couldn’t really breathe. That seemed to be a trend for the day.

Mary Margaret reached across the table, ignoring David’s protests about stretching too far and squeezed Emma’s hand tightly in hers. “Me too,” she whispered.

“Now, come on,” David said, pulling Mary Margaret back against the booth as both Emma and Ruby rolled their eyes at the absurdity of it. “We told our secrets or news or whatever. Now you’ve got to tell us who won today.” Emma glanced questioningly at Ruby who just shrugged. “Fine,” she sighed. “But no specifics or anything. We’ve got to at least act like we play by the rules on this.” “To be fair,” Killian added. “Regina absolutely tells Robin everything that happens on set. And probably my hostess too. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were talking about it now.”

“I knew she would,” Ruby hissed, scowling. “I knew it! And she acted like it was all under lock and key and..” “Guys,” David cut in sharply. “Who won?” “Oh,” Ruby said flippantly, shaking her hair off her shoulders, the light of the diner’s overhead bulbs practically reflecting off her red highlights. “Killian did.” “For real?” Henry exclaimed, nearly tackling Emma as he moved to look at a slightly-embarrassed Killian. “What’d you make for dessert? Who’d you beat? Was there something super crazy in the final basket?”

“Breathe,” Emma laughed, pushing Henry back into his seat.

Killian held up three fingers, making sure he didn't miss any of Henry’s questions. “Cookies, per your mom’s request. Graham. Zucchini, but that’s deceptively crazy because it actually works pretty well with dessert-like spices, so I’m not sure that there’s an actual answer to the final question.” “Were there extra cookies?” “You literally just ate a plate of onion rings.” “Were there extra cookies?” Henry repeated.

“I can’t believe you ate the extra cookies,” Henry groaned at her.

“They were good!” “I’ll make you a deal,” Killian said, looking at Henry over the top of Emma’s head. “You stop texting while you’re in class and the next time you’re at The Jolly we’ll make some kind of dessert again, ok?”

“Like the cookies you made for the team?” “I seem to remember I promised brownies before.” “You did.” “Then brownies seems fair.”

Mary Margaret sniffed audibly and Ruby practically fell out of her chair when she started laughing. “What is your deal, M’s?” Emma asked, eyebrows rising close to her hairline. “We still on names?” “No, no, I’m fine,” she said, looking like the freaking sun in the middle of the diner as she beamed across the table. “Pregnancy hormones.”

Emma didn’t respond, positive it absolutely wasn’t pregnancy hormones, but that wasn’t a conversation she was willing to have in this suddenly very-crowded booth. She stole another onion ring off her kid’s plate instead.

They were waiting for Granny to wrap up half a dozen leftover baked goods for Henry half an hour later when David walked up to Emma at the end of the counter, holding his hands up as he moved towards her, an apologetic look on his face.

“What?” she sighed, not quite able to stay mad at him.

“You know what.” “I’d love to hear you say it.” “I’m sorry. For being an ass. You know, again.” “I don’t get why,” Emma said, crossing her arms and leaning against the counter. She glanced to the other end of the restaurant, Killian next to Henry with his hand on his shoulder, talking about the soccer game he’d had over the weekend.

“I worry about you,” David answered, like that explained everything.

“You worry about everything.” “Especially you though. I wouldn’t have thought he’d tell you about the Navy.” “You kind of backed him into a corner.” “He tell you anything else?” Emma sighed, exasperation written across her face. “Sorry, sorry,” David muttered. “I know I’m doing it again.” “I need you to let me figure this out. I don’t have any answers for you yet and I’m not going to push him to talk to me until he wants to. So, frankly, take your background check and shove it.” David laughed loudly, shaking his head as he wrapped Emma in a hug, hand wrapping around the back of her head. “I can do that,” he agreed. “He seems like a good guy. And Henry really seems to like him.” “He does, but that doesn’t change anything you know. No one is encroaching on your status here.” “What do you mean?” David asked and Emma just stared at him – he wasn’t a very good liar either.

“Henry will still want to hang out with you. And you’re just as important as ever. This is all still really new and really undefined and I need you to stop trying to scare Killian away.” “That is the opposite of what I’m trying to do,” David promised. “You’re happy, Em. I just want to make sure you’ve got all the facts. “I can get ‘em on my own.” “I don’t doubt that.” “You ready to go, Swan?” Killian asked. Emma spun around, vaguely terrified at how much he heard, but the smile on his face made her believe he was more focused on her than he was on the discussion she’d been having with her brother.

“You don’t have to walk us back,” she said. “It’s only a couple of blocks.” “And my restaurant is three blocks away from where you live. I should probably acknowledge them at some point today, make sure it hasn’t burned down or anything.”

“I doubt Ariel would let that happen.” Killian nodded solemnly, but his eyes were bright and Emma needed her brother to move . “Mom,” Henry said, skidding to a stop next to Killian, a paper bag clutched in his hand. “If we’re going to go back to The Jolly, you think I can get one of those root beer floats again? It was really good the last time.” “School night,” Emma said, shaking her head. Henry’s shoulders drooped, but Killian nudged his side, glancing at him with a smirk on his face.

“Next time,” he promised.

“Alright,” Emma muttered, ignoring whatever her pulse was doing. “Come on, let’s head home.”

They’d made quite a trio – walking the ten blocks from Granny’s back downtown and if Emma let herself, it almost felt like something . She wouldn’t use the word, couldn’t let herself think that when they hadn’t even defined the whatever.

Her mind, however, had different ideas.

It felt like a family.

#cs fic #cs au #cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfiction #ootfp #david won't be a jerk forever #also for someone who can't even turn on their own oven #i've looked up a lot of actual recipes for this fic

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t3hwh1t3p4nth3r · 7 years ago

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Hello! I was going through old photos and had an idea for an ask. I imagined that Erwin is a kindergarten teacher, and that his students would be the members of the 104th squad. One day, Erwin gets called away for something urgent, and can't book a substitute teacher in time, so he begs Levi to look after his students for a day, to which Levi begrudgingly agrees. And then hilarity ensues. I was wondering if you'd be willing to write a ficlet featuring this and tiny versions of the 104th? Thanks!

“Levi, please. I really need your help with this.”

Levi frowned at Erwin, not happy about his work in the office being disrupted by this stupid request.

Erwin continued. “There’s only 12 of them Levi. And two of them won’t cause any trouble at all. In fact, they’re the class helper’s this week.”

“Why don’t you just call in your usual replacement?”

“Mike has the flu. And no one else can do it on such short notice.”

“Principal Shadis will-”

“I’ve already cleared it with him. He thinks it’s a great idea.” Their was a smirk on the large man’s lips that Levi didn’t care for.

He was cornered. He had no more arguments as to why he shouldn’t substitute for Erwin for the rest of the day. Why did superintendent Pixis always have to call a meeting with Erwin in the middle of the Goddamn day? He couldn’t wait an hour or two?

Levi sighed, filing what he was working on. “What all is left for the day?”

Erwin smiled, clearly pleased with his victory. “They’re all at lunch right now. Then they’ll have recess. We’ve done all the learning practice they need to do today, so the second half of class will be mostly recreational. There’s story time, kid writing, and a game to help teach cooperation. If there’s still time after all that, then they can just have some free play time or can do arts and crafts.”

Levi nodded, sighing lightly again. “Fine. I’m sure I can manage that much. Do they know that you’re leaving for the rest of the day?”

“Yes. I told them before lunch that they would have a new teacher to make friends with for the rest of class time. I also told Armin and Christa to be the best little helpers they can.”

“Great. Well, how hard can it be?”

———–

Inside room 104, Levi would learn the answer to the question.

It was quite the feat to get them all to settle down after they came in. They were still bounding with energy. Levi had hoped they’d work more of that out at recess.

He had introduced himself and written his name on the whiteboard. Apparently “Mr. Ackerman” was still a bit tricky for some of them to say. Some got it, but most called him either Mr. Ackam or just Mr. Man. He didn’t really mind too much.

He imagined it must be pretty easy for Erwin to get and hold their attention. They must think he’s one of the giants from their story books. He managed to hold their attention when they realized he could carry them all pretty easily. It just became a little difficult to move with 10 children hanging on him. Armin and Christa, his classroom helpers, hadn’t joined the others. That didn’t stop them from giggling as they followed Levi to the story time area.

Levi breathed a sigh of relief when they all sat down in a semi-circle in front of him. He sat on the floor too. The story they read was all about learning the different animals. Naturally, all of the animals could speak. And all the toddlers wanted Levi to give them different voices. He did so, to their seemingly unending amusement.

“Ok,” he thought. “Made it pretty well through the first task on the list…”

Levi closed the book and looked to the two little blondes beside him. “So, what’s next?”

Armin was the one to speak. It seemed that Christa was a bit shy. “We’re apposed ta draw pitchers an write our own stories now.”

Levi nodded, standing up. “Alright. You heard him. Time to draw and write your own stories.”

A boy with slightly messy brown hair raised his hand. Not that he waited to be called on. “Mr. Man! What are we apposed to write about?”

Levi looked at the boy, covered in dirt from recess and baring a few minor scratches. “What’s your name?”

“Eren.”

“Well, Eren, what do YOU think would be fun to write about?”

“Aminals!” The others nodded, apparently agreeing.

“I think that’s a good idea. How about you all draw and write about your favorite animals, then?”

They all got up and ran around, eventually settling in their seats as Levi got out the paper and crayons. He did have to break up a small fight between Mikasa and Annie. They had started shouting and pushing. Levi had picked them up and held them apart, trying to get to the bottom of the issue. Marco, a little boy freckles, had explained that they both wanted to sit beside Eren. He sighed lightly, setting them down and pulling up another chair to the table, beside Eren.

“There. Now you can both sit by Eren. Better?”

The two girls continued to pout a bit, but they did sit down and start drawing.

Drawing went pretty smoothly after that, though he did have to keep stopping a little girl named Sasha from trying to eat the crayons.

Levi walked between the tables as they worked. Occasionally there’d be a call for him or he’d feel a little tug on the leg of his pants. They were all eager to show off their work.

He could work out what most of them were. Christa had drawn a green butterfly, though she had actually labelled it “buttfly”. Armin had drawn a “dofin” and Levi had to admit that it was pretty good for a four year old. Dolphin’s are hard to draw. A boy with two-toned hair named Jean had drawn a “hores”, which got a small chuckle from Levi. Reiner, who was definitely the tankiest kid in the bunch, had drawn a bear. It basically looked like an angry Teddy Bear with long claws. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t figure out what the hell Eren had drawn. He showed off the picture before he had written anything down, so Levi had no clue. He still offered the same “That’s very good” that he had given everyone else.

When he checked what Mikasa had done, he saw that it was very similar to Eren’s “masterpiece”. Marco was drawing what looked like a bunny, but he was only about halfway done with it, drawing his lines carefully. Connie and Sasha had ignored the prompt completely. Sasha was drawing her favorite foods and Connie was drawing a superhero. Whatever. They were behaving and at least doing the right task, so Levi wasn’t going to complain. Annie had drawn an owl and was showing it to Bert, who had drawn a mouse. They showed Levi their work together, which the man found a bit ironic given their choices. They were pretty good though.

When everyone was done, they hung their work from a string with clothespins.

“Still not too bad,” Levi thought.

The cooperation game went really smoothly too. There were a few rough patches in the beginning,but once everyone was clear on the objectives and the rules, it worked out.

“This isn’t so hard… Erwin made it sound like this would be hard…” He was thinking.

Once he announced that they were done with everything they had planned for the day, though, all Hell broke loose. The noise level in the room increased drastically and he quickly found himself running around to prevent disasters.

He barely got a little smock on Eren before he started aggressively finger-painting; he had to separate Mikasa and Annie again since they had started wrestling on the ground while his back was turned; he had to stop a similar incident between Ymir and Reiner and explain that Ymir should be willing to let Reiner play with her and Christa; Sasha was eating paste but, thankfully, it was at least non-toxic; Connie was making an absolute mess with glitter and macaroni; Eren had given up on painting and was instead trying to climb one of the shelving units, leaving little paint handprints all over it; Levi had pulled him down and told him to go play with Jean and Marco instead.

It all seemed like a blur.

While he was cleaning the paint from the shelf before it dried, Eren threw a block at Jean. The corner hit him in the arm and he started crying. Levi had to clean him up, get him a bandaid, and kiss the boo-boo to make it all better. He then gave Eren a time out, reminding Eren that it isn’t nice to throw things at people.

“But he was being a meanie!”

“That may be true, but just because someone is a meanie doesn’t mean you get to throw shit at them.”

Eren gasped at him, pointing. “You said a bad word!!!”

Levi paused a moment, realizing his error. “Yes, I did. You’re right. It is a bad word. Which you should never repeat.”

Levi spent probably an hour cleaning up after the kids had gone home. “How do such little monsters make such a big mess?”

————

Erwin came into Levi’s office again the next day.

“No way, Erwin. I’m not being a zookeeper again.”

The man shook his head. “No, that’s not it. I just had an interesting story to tell you.” His smirk didn’t bode well. “Eren taught the others an interesting new word today.”

Levi sighed. “Shit…”

“That’d be the one.”

(Hope you liked it. Sorry, this one was also a little long)

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #erwin smith #levi ackerman #104th trainee corps #kindergarten au #swearing #bad example #substitute teacher #ask #request #drabble

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rosencrypt · 7 years ago

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I saw Doctor Who! Semi-liveblog under the cut:

- Ah, here are the descendants of that expedition upship they mentioned last episode. How did the Cyber patients get here?

- OK, so why don't the farm people chain up the Cyber patients further from the house? Or lock them in a vault, or chuck them underwater or smth

- you can't have a cyberman story without a good ol' base under siege

- John Simm is SO MUCH BETTER when he's not having to shout about drums and be Wacky or Manic every 5 minutes. Just shows what a wasted opportunity those RTD Master episodes were :/

- Oh huh, I didn't think we were going to get an explanation for Simm being around. Raises a few more questions about just why Gallifrey's reappearance was so badly handled, tho

- does the Conscience of Marinus REALLY count as an instance of the Cybermen, Moffat? Actually, I just did some research into this - apparently there are some comics and novels that suggest two or more out of Mondas, Planet 14, and Marinus are actually the same place. The Doctor lists them separately here, though, so presumably that’s not what Moffat’s talking about. He’s probably just making something up. Which, to be fair, is what they did with Planet 14 in The Invasion

- Burning? Is that a Planet of Fire reference? I don't remember the Master being drowned or stabbed tho

- oh no, call back to Last of the Time Lords. Why would you do that :(

- I'm loving Missy's chaotic nature here. She’s so Red

- being rescued from Cybermen via rope ladder from a tall building? Yay, Invasion reference! :)

- noo, why is Bill back now. I have nothing against her, but does cyber conversion mean ANYTHING these days? Also,if she’s grabbed the ladder, shouldn’t that just have torn it off rather than holding back the whole shuttle

- Awww, Nardole did a cute thing

- 2-week time skip? why??? Stop doing that Moffat. I know you love randomly skipping over things, but in this case would there be any difference at all if you didn’t? as far as I can see the only thing this accomplishes is that you don’t have to show the Doctor explaining anything to the locals and you can have Nardole ordering people around with no explanation, at the cost of killing any sense of urgency. I don’t think that’s a fair trade, tbh, and I’d have enjoyed seeing the Masters maybe try to take command of the farms or smth

- Right, so Bill is still perfectly cogent and cyber conversion actually DOES mean less than nothing. great. way to completely defang the Cybermen, Moffat

- It’s been 2 weeks and the Doctor STILL hasn’t been to see Bill? she's just spent 10 years waiting for you, the least you could do is say hi

- oh right, so Cyberbill HASN'T actually been de-cybertised. That’s something at least. Nice callback to Dalek Clara there too

- oh, jelly babies again. Where did he get them? What purpose does this bit serve? It’s just a reference for reference’s sake, and it’s not even a clever subtle reference, since 4′s taste for jelly babies is so extremely well-known

- I feel this scene would be a lot more effective if we were actually seeing Cyberbill. Also, why hasn't the conversion brainwashing thing worked on her, anyway? If she hasn’t been de-cybertised, why is she being all independent and emotion-feeling?

- "You are..so strong" well even more so now, Doctor

- srsly?? she's just resisting through force of will? that's...disappointing. it was bullshit in the monk episodes and it doesn’t make any more senes here

- "You can't be angry any more" - like, you literally are incapable of anger. or should be. how are you doing that? maybe these ones just haven't got around to removing their emotions yet

- yay, Simm is still a horrible misogynist. What a useful and necessary character trait

- "They come after the children" oh, are we going to be seeing Cyberbabies? that's grim

- "less to throw away" - so what, they're putting doing the Davies thing of putting the brains into ready-made cyber bodies? That's very disappointing, and also at odds with the gradual transformation body-horror we saw in the last episode.

- OK, Simm, we know you hate women, you can find some other characteristics now. For a species/civilisation supposedly above petty gender concerns, he seems remarkably not

- how fast does time move on the farm floor relative to the city one? it should take days/weeks/etc. for the Cybermen to travel from the city, which if nothing else gives the defenders plenty of time between waves to prepare

- Right, so the Doctor is defending a settlement from technologically-advanced invaders. This is. A bit similar to Time of the Doctor, tbh

- if the Cybermen have 'evolved', why do they have both old and new Cybermen forms?

- oh the child has a name. Good to know.

- Cybermen with rocket-boots is still a stupid idea, but I'll concede that in this one shot it looks OK

- What do you mean, you don't know what you see in him?? Don’t lie, you've always been just as interested, Simm.

- Eh, are you SURE the Master's going to die, Doctor? For all the times they've done it so far, I wouldn't expect it to stick

- Oh obviously she leaves, so she can come back later and save him

- Urgh, back to 'upgrading' :P what happened to “we will survive”?

- So what, the Doctor doesn't like guns, but he's fine with explosives? Bit of a mixed message there, eh?

- are the Cybermen going to actually do anything here? It’s difficult to be afraid of them when we see them being constantly blown up

- Why is it the Masters so scared of a few Cybermen, anyway? They're smart enough to have taken control of the whole ship in minutes.

- Oh, the other woman has a name too

- "Down to the cellar", you mean, closer to the Cybermen? Somebody didn't think this through. For that matter, why are the Cybermen emerging so far from the house? They can arrive literally wherever, so shouldn’t they be coming up through the floorboards?

- Isn't looking after a load of humans pretty much what you've been doing since, like, forever, Doctor?

- "Oh great, so SHE's allowed to explode!" Nardole continues to be the best, especially since the Masters were sidelined

- Speaking of whom...she's going to force his regeneration, isn't she? Bye bye, Simm. We hardly knew you (in an actual decent story that DIDN'T require you to go ON and ON about those goDdAMN dRUUmMms)

- Oh, they're not going to...GOOD, I was so worried Bill was going to profess her love for the Doctor

- More of this 'oh welcome to being a woman' stuff. You know, the more you harp on about gender, Moffat, the more your insistence that it's no big thing is POINTEDLY BELIED.

- "I will never stand with the Doctor!" -what?? you do that all the time. Hell, you stood with 10 in End of Time

- "Don't try to regenerate!" I'm very much not a fan of the New Series (and esp. Moffat) take on regeneration as a voluntary thing/special attack/etc. I'll concede it's a nice thematic story point, tho - even when the Master isn't just literally shot in the back by themself, they're always sabotaging themself with reckless ambition. Oh, it makes an interesting contrast to the Master's previous obsession with survival (...except when the plot dictated otherwise, as in the fantastically OOC 'regeneration suppression' thing in Last of the Time Lords), tho. A characteristic they share with the Cybermen, in fact. Someone should maybe write a story featuring both of them, with that as one of the themes.

- Actually, come to think of it, that's a central conflict of Doctor Who - most of the villainous/antagonistic factions are fundamentally scared of death and obsessed with their own survival and superiority (the Master, Daleks, Cybermen, Silurians/Sea Devils), in contrast with the Doctor, who accepts his mortality and acts in the spirit of cooperation rather than competition

- Why is the Doctor crowing about his previous victories over the Cybermen here? This lot have nothing to do with them. Is he just trying to confuse them by talking about planets they’ve never heard of?

- Shouldn't that helmet blast have bypassed regeneration? Being shot like 3 times should have killed him outright.

- Aww, does that mean Missy is dead too? Eh, they've survived worse

- 10 minutes left. Wonder where they'll go from here

- What even happened to Bill? She's going to come and carry him to the TARDIS, I assume

- Oh, Bill's girlfriend came back! That's nice. Now she gets to go to space lesbian heaven. Sort of like Clara and whatshername. Is that the series' first on-screen wlw kiss?

- This whole tears thing doesn't make a huge amount of sense, but sure, let's go with it. How did Heather and Bill get into the TARDIS, tho

- if Heather is the ur-pilot, she should go and crew that Silence ship from The Lodger. NO I HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN, MOFFAT

- So how does this tie into the bookends in the snow? If he's already unconscious, is he going to get his second wind?

- ah, so he is.

- What do you mean, you don't want to change again?? Like, sure Capaldi, stick around as long as you can, please, but I do think the Doctor is making a bit much of this. It’s like 10 and 11 all over again :P

- Oh, hello David Bradley! Nice to see you again. No idea how this fits into your timeline, tho. This scene doesn’t match up with any of your stories, especially not The 10th Planet.

#ANDYPOSTS #DOCTOR WHO

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mattbrothersscriptwriter · 6 years ago

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My Top 20 Films of 2018 - Part One

Hello people, time to once again resurrect this defunct blog to ramble about some films again. You may notice a trend if you scroll back through.

OK so I saw a BUNCH of movies this year, thanks again in part to some fantastic arts cinemas, film festivals (well, Sundance London and Frightfest) and yet another banner year for Netflix original content. There were many I didn’t catch like A Star is Born, First Reformed, Aquaman, BlackkKlansman etc but for my FULL ranking of all 135 films I did manage to see, as always go to my letterboxd list here - https://letterboxd.com/matt_bro/list/films-of-the-year-2018-1/

Alrighty then, let’s kick things off:

20. A Quiet Place

As a writer who is hugely inspired by high concept ideas with a grounding in genre, it thrilled me no end to see this ‘elevator pitch’ of a thriller do so well, both critically and commercially. Set in a world where making the slightest noise means certain death from these horrifying, Starship Trooper looking motherfucking bug aliens, we follow a desperate family trying to survive and all the hardships that entails when communication is cut down to a bare minimum.

Of course, this film – which in the wrong hands with a lesser script could easily devolve into a Birdemic style mess – has a helping hand right out the gate in both the star power and gravitas of Emily Blunt and the assured (almost TOO assured) direction of co-star John Krasinski. Their performances ground the action superbly (along with the excellent, actually deaf newcomer Millicent Simmonds) and the tension can be cut with a knife for practically the entire runtime. Famously, people’s enjoyment of the film usually came down to how well behaved their cinema audiences were, which is perhaps the most cruellest of circumstances because the irony is that this is a film that simply must be seen with a rapt audience in a huge dark room… but the second anyone breaks the unwritten code of the cinema, the illusion is shattered. Luckily, within the first three minutes, my crowd were practically holding their breath to maintain the silence. And when I felt a sneeze coming on, let me tell you, that was maybe the scariest moment of the lot!

A tense thrill ride with a genuine ‘why didn’t I think of that’ premise, A Quiet Place is another runaway success for modern horror and I truly hope the inevitable sequels don’t fuck with it’s power.

19. Avengers: Infinity War

Inevitable spoilers for the ending of Infinity War below:

The blockbuster to end all blockbusters, this culmination of ten years of the MCU was a huge triumph, somehow managing to juggle a billion characters jostling for screen-time via some savvy scripting and a focus on a core combination of story strands; namely Thor’s personal journey of revenge, the last stand at Wakanda, Tony’s crew misadventures in space and Thanos being ingeniously positioned as the protagonist. For a mainstream Disney movie to essentially end with the villain winning, there were perhaps no bigger statement this year than the words ‘Thanos Will Return’ at the end of the credits, cementing the fact that while we thought we had been watching a fun, superhero greatest hits package, we’d actually been watching the story of an ambitious, driven individual overcome the odds and claim his victory over all those pesky superheroes. Yes, his plan might be insane but you have to hand it to him; he did it. He actually did it.

This being a comic book movie - with at least a further ten years of comic book movies to come - obviously means that what is done can always be undone but still, this climax provided such a stark (pun intended) resolution that it left half of my audience in stunned silence and the other half in tears.

Outside of the game changing finale, the film has a lightning pace and a whole host of fun set pieces, characters colliding (hello Rocket meets Bucky) and a real sense of... at least occasional... intimacy that somehow doesn’t get completely swallowed up by the spectacle.

18. Annihilation

Now here is a fascinatingly original sci-fi movie that I just was utterly transfixed and terrified by. Much like Jonathan Glazer’s mesmerising Under the Skin, this jettisoned much of the source novel (outside of the general premise and characters) in favour of a stronger focus on the things that a visual medium can really excel at, namely atmosphere, tone and deeply disconcerting visuals/sound design. I quite enjoyed Jeff VanderMeer’s book but this feels like a much more authored and singular vision. Book weirdness has been replaced by movie weirdness and it actually ends up feeling like a true adaptation and if any book truthers are upset, believe me it could have been so much worse.

A group of scientists, led by a stoic Jennifer Jason Leigh, including Natalie Portman, Gina Rodriguez and Tessa Thompson, venture into ‘the shimmer’, a baffling electromagnetic field surrounding a crashed alien meteor. Each has their reasons for volunteering for this suicide mission and they are soon faced with the simply unknowable machinations of this particular alien biology, leading to some incredibly memorable encounters, not least of which is a nightmarish mutant bear attack. The practically wordless finale is something I WISH I could have seen for the first time on the big screen.

Eerie, haunting and a miracle of mid-budget, practically distribution-less filmmaking, this is one I can see revisiting many times over and I continue to be obsessed over anything Alex Garland is involved with.

17. Anna and the Apocalypse

Now here’s a surprise. And a delight. And a goddamn joyful burst of sunshine in a bleak bleak world. I went along to see this at the Frightfest Film Festival in August and boy did it deliver. It’s a (*huge breath*) super independent, low budget, Scottish, high school, coming of age, zombie comedy… Christmas… musical! That’s too many things, I hear you say! And normally you may be right but this film has so much heart, so many breakout stars, so many ingenious, human moments, that it transcends the hurdles of it’s genre mashup trappings and actually works dammit.

The film follows Anna (a wonderful, future star in the making Ella Hunt) who falls out with her father (Mark Benton, the heart and soul of the piece) when she tells him that when school finishes, she’d rather go travelling than go to university. Dad being Dad, he’s appalled at the notion and though he clearly has her best interests at heart, their relationship has been strained since Anna’s mother died and this conflict soon gets ugly. Joining her in this teenage angst are her friends; John (Malcolm Cumming), her best friend who is hopelessly in love with her, Steph (Sarah Swire – who pulls double duty as the film’s choreographer) a gay American outcast, Chris (Christopher Leveaux) a struggling filmmaker and Lisa (Marli Siu), Chris’ girlfriend and talented singer. Together, they butt heads with the panto villainy of the hilarious, scene stealing, scenery chewing Paul Kaye as the maniacal headmaster Mr Savage. Then of course, comes the ultimate spanner in the works… a zombie apocalypse.

As the film pivots from charming high school/slice of life melodrama to genuinely threatening zombie horror comedy, we cannot forget about the musical numbers (!), which are all pretty uniformly catchy as hell, singalong ready and really fucking integral to the entire emotional arc. You start out laughing as Anna sings her way to school completely oblivious to the zombie uprising happening behind her but by the time she’s singing a powerful duet with her father during the finale, there won’t be a dry eye in the house either. It’s a credit to the consistent tone and solid performances that the whole thing doesn’t descend into an overlong sketch and it’s the core relationships that make you care and give weight to the heavier moments in the second half.

It’s funny, smart, endlessly rewatchable and bound to be a new Christmas staple but above all else, it earns it’s emotional gut punches, marrying showtunes with real, life or death stakes that the film doesn’t fuck about with or ignore. People die here, sometimes unfairly but that’s the key to a great zombie flick. And if nothing else, you’ve got bad boy Nick (a stand out Ben Wiggins) shepherding his gang of idiot lads lads lads as they gleefully smash zombie heads in whilst singing “when it comes to killing zombies, I’m the top of my class!”.

The year’s best kept secret and a real hidden gem. Seek it out.

16. Black Panther

Ryan Coogler man… Ryan fucking Coogler.

Fruitvale Station and Creed are both five star movies to me and while this foray into the Marvel machine didn’t quite hit those heights, I think he did the best job he could have in blending his own style, ethos and interests with another chapter in the MCU – a production line rather famous for (until recently) stamping out individuality in favour of the bigger, uniformed picture. Sometime around Phase 2, we were getting somewhat bland creative choices like Alan Taylor (Thor: The Dark World) and losing auteurs like Edgar Wright (initially set for Ant Man) but after the success of the nutty, bold and gleefully anarchic Guardians of the Galaxy, it’s like the flood gates opened, Kevin Feige learned the lesson of diversity and taking bold risks in his directors and suddenly we had a mostly improvised Thor movie from idiosyncratic Kiwi Taika Waititi and then Black Panther.

Having introduced the character in Captain America: Civil War, this film was free to dive right in – and what a world we’re introduced to, one full of colour, afro-futurist designs and the grand daddy of Marvel villains (in my eyes) in the form of Coogler’s lucky charm, Michael B. Jordan, as Killmonger. Here was a man who believed himself abandoned and betrayed by his own people - his own family - who had massively different ideas about what Wakanda’s secretive technological advancements could do for other marginalised societies around the world. Of course, this being a comic book, his plan inevitably boils down to arming terror factions but in theory, it did address the imbalance and selfishness of the Wakandan people.

Outside of some dodgy super suit vs super suit CG fight scenes and some rather silly battle scenes involving rhinos, this was the most engaging and confident Marvel movie in some time, with the aforementioned B. Jordan and T’Challa himself Chadwick Boseman being supported by a whos who of incredible performers, from Letitia Wright and Lupita Nyong’o to Daniel Kaluuya and Andy Serkis.

15. The Square

This film killed me. It’s so very very dry in its humour and nearly every scene plays out in these often painfully long takes but it never fails in making every moment that bit funnier as a result, swinging right round from awkward to cringe back to hilarious again. From Christian’s (Claes Bang) repeated encounters with a very angry child to a deliriously off-kilter Elisabeth Moss fighting for control of a used condom, there’s a Curb-like immaturity to many of the sequences here that clash with the high brow, art world characters that populate it.

Not to mention one of the scenes of the year - period - as Terry Notary terrorises an elitist crowd of poshos, descending into performance art hijinks as he embodies a roaming Gorilla. Becoming genuinely threatening as the line between acceptable “art” and full blown menace gets increasingly blurred, the reactions (or lack thereof) from many of the crowd says much more than words maybe ever can.

14. Summer of 84

Another genre hit that I caught at Frightfest, this is the follow up to one of my favourite films of 2015: Turbo Kid. Directed once more by RKSS (the group moniker for François Simard, Anouk Whissell and Yoann-Karl Whissell) the film seems to operate, at first glance, in the same territory as their previous movie (aka as a horror influenced, 80s throwback) but it is treated with a completely different tone. Whereas Turbo Kid is ‘Mad Max on BMXs made like an 18 rated Saturday morning cartoon’, this plays like a much straighter Stephen King style pulp thriller.

The comparisons to Stranger Things are inevitable (group of nerdy teenage boys, suburbia, bikes etc) but unfair. This story doesn’t wallow in nostalgia, rather it is played like a film from the 80s rather than knowingly about the 80s. Yes there are references but they aren’t shoehorned in and it doesn’t take long for the central mystery to take centre stage. A little bit Rear Window, it follows these goofy teenagers (all unknowns to my eyes, all equally brilliant and believable) who begin to suspect that their homely, cop neighbour (Mad Men’s Rich Sommer) is actually a serial killer. It’s to the film’s credit that the outcome of this central question – is he or isn’t he – teeters back and forth so well for so long... that by the time it nosedives into a nasty, pulpy final act - taking the conventions you’ve come to expect and beating you into the ground with them - your heart will be so far in the back of your throat that you won’t notice. And again, another classy retro score from Le Matos helps tie this all together.

A genuine change of pace from RKSS, despite the continued 80s fixation, and further proof that they have many more tricks up their sleeve.

13. First Man

Along with Ryan Coogler, Damian Chazelle is the other wunderkid whose career has been producing nothing but five star films for me (well, Whiplash and La La Land; I haven’t seen his actual debut). And First Man, like Black Panther, is another one that gets really close to perfection but falls slightly short. Having said that, I definitely think I like First Man a lot more than the general audience consensus. People have complained about its insular, intimate focus on a rather dull, introverted lead subject and the nauseating treatment of space travel but I loved both of these elements.

This is less a film about triumphantly going to the moon and waving a flag around and more about a grieving man who is so out of touch with his own emotions that he a) speaks to his own children as if he’s attending a press conference and b) is hurting so internally that rather than talk to anyone about the loss of his daughter, he’d rather make the dangerous, unprecedented, insane mission to a cold, dead rock about as far away from anyone as you can get. That feeling - of wanting to shut yourself away from literally everyone - is universal. The actualisation of it - man goes to moon - is personal. And made history. And having the foresight to connect that emotional journey of Neil Armstrong with the otherwise feel-good true story of astronauts (and America!) winning the space race is genius.

Add to that compelling supporting turns from everyone from Claire Foy, Kyle Chandler, Christopher Abbott and Shea Wigham, another dynamite score from long-time collaborator Justin Hurwitz and some nerve shredding rocket based set pieces and what you have is a fresh direction for Chazelle to take and one that I think we be re-evaluated in the years to come when his filmography expands to much more than just jazz-infused dramas.

12. Phantom Thread

This film is just gorgeous. A riveting character study of a supremely difficult man, Phantom Thread portrays a constant battle for dominance in a troubled yet surprisingly cinematic relationship. Vicky Krieps and Lesley Manville give as good as they get from Daniel ‘this is my last film, I swear’ Day-Lewis, an undeniable acting giant who effortlessly breathes as much life into Reynolds Woodcock here as he did Daniel Plainview before, in his last collaboration with Paul Thomas Anderson.

Beautifully shot with another fantastic score from Johnny Greenwood, this one really feels like old school movie magic, like a lost melodrama from the 50s but with a modern mentality bubbling underneath, ready to blow it’s top at the mere, ear-splitting scrape of butter on toast.

11. Widows

Who’d have imagined the director of Hunger, Shame and 12 Years a Slave would be the one to team up with Gone Girl’s Gillian Flynn to deliver one of the best action thrillers of the year?

Adapted from the 80s TV mini-series and given a modern makeover, this film wastes no time getting right to the important stuff as Liam Neeson’s latest heist takes a deadly turn, leaving the widows of him and his crew to deal with the fallout of the failed money grab. Forced into desperate action to pay off their debts, Viola Davis leads this mismatched group of women into the belly of the beast. The cast in this thing is insane - even outside the main players (Elizabeth Debicki, Michelle Rodriguez, Cynthia Erivo) you have Colin Farrell, Bryan Tyree Henry (having one hell of a year), Daniel Kaluuya, Robert Duvall, Carrie Coon, Jacki Weaver, Garrett Dillahunt... not a weak link amoung them.

It’s clear that McQueen is a master storyteller and this is a supremely exciting and suspenseful thriller that if nothing else, adds fuel to my ‘Jon Bernthal shared universe’ fan-theory, haha. Imagine, if you will, that he plays the same character in this as he does in Baby Driver. In both films, he takes part in an opening heist and then disappears for the rest of the movie. In Baby Driver, as he’s walking off after a job well done, he says that if you don’t see him again, he’s probably dead. Cut to him joining up with Neeson on THIS job and promptly getting blown to pieces.

Boom.

COMING UP - star shaped earrings, reloading biceps, fish sex and a mutant pig

#top 20 #films of the year #films of 2018 #20-11 #a quiet place #avengers #infinity war #annihilation #anna and the apocalypse #black panther #the square #summer of 84 #first man #phantom thread #widows

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