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searchingwardrobes · 2 years ago

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Scarborough Fair: 1/?

I know I said that I was going to wait until I finished this to post, but I changed my mind. I spend tons of time thinking about this story - way more time than I've spent actually writing it. So I thought going ahead and posting may give me a kick in the pants. I'm hoping to post weekly, fingers crossed.

I wanted to be extremely clear in the tags what this story entails, but I hope some of you will give it a chance nonetheless. Yes, it's going to have heavy parts, but there will also be swooning and epic true love. You'll also see in the tags that this angst, though heavy, will have a happy ending. So . . . trust me? I hope? Haha. This is a CS AU of the Nancy Werlin book Impossible, so if you're familiar with that book, you know what I mean. When I read it, it broke my heart, put it back together again, and gave me massive CS vibes.

Impossible itself was inspired by the folk song Scarborough Fair. Though the most famous version is by Simon & Garfunkel, there are many versions out there. I tweaked the lyrics to fit this story and the world of Once. Enjoy!

Summary: Seventeen-year-old Emma Swan has had a charmed life, despite being a foster child. She has a wonderful family who loves her, and the best friends in the world. The only thing that mars her idyllic existence is her birth mother: a homeless woman who mutters nonsensical rhymes and claims to be Snow White. One fateful night, however, Emma’s world is shattered. Perhaps her mother’s rhymes aren’t nonsense after all.

Rated: M for date rape, dubious consent, teen pregnancy, and sexy times (the good kind!)

Words:2k+

Also on Ao3

Chapter One

“O, where are you going?" "To Scarborough fair,"

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme;

"Remember me to a lass who lives there,

For once she was a true love of mine.

And tell her to make me a cambric shirt,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,

Without any seam or needlework,

And then she shall be a true love of mine.

And tell her to find the town which no one knows,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,

And reunite the lovers there with a kiss ,

And then she shall be a true love of mine

And there she must sow an acre with but one kernel of corn,

Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme,

Upon the seashore before the tide comes,

And then she shall be a true love of mine

Emma saw the rusted shopping cart rattle past out of the corner of her eye. She tried to keep her gaze mostly trained on her friends or on her lunch, but she couldn’t help glancing over towards the fence that surrounded the lunchroom courtyard. Mary Margaret’s long dark hair was matted as usual and laced with drooping, dead dandelions. She had a thing with flowers. And birds. She liked to swipe lawn ornaments for that reason. Propped sideways in the front of her shopping cart was the same chipped and faded bluebird, missing one eye, that she’d had for as long as Emma could remember. The giant pink flamingo was new, though. It rattled against the sides of the cart, banging against the bottles and cans littering the bottom. A whirligig painted like a giant sunflower leaned against the garish flamingo. It spun in the breeze with a faint whir.

Emma forced herself to look nonchalant as she nibbled at her peanut butter and jelly. Maybe it was only a coincidence that Mary Margaret was just outside the schoolyard fence.

“That girl right there! She’s a princess! Princess of Misthaven!”

So much for coincidence. Emma’s gaze lifted and caught Anna’s across the lunch table. Anna arched her brow as if to ask what she could do to help, but Emma was frozen like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights.

“That woman is so weird,” Lily muttered, watching Mary Margaret let go of her shopping cart to clasp the chain link fence in a white knuckled grip.

“Don’t forget who you are! Princess of Misthaven! Daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming!”

Her voice had risen to a shriek, and the teenagers around Emma started to laugh at the homeless woman. A few boys yelled at her to shut up, and one threw his can of soda at her. It clanked against the fence, spraying brown liquid all over Mary Margaret, but the woman didn’t even flinch.

Please don’t say my name. Please don’t say my name.

“Hey, hey you! Emma! I’m talking to you!”

Emma pressed her eyes closed tight. Mary Margaret was so hysterical, it was difficult to understand her, and besides, Emma was a common name. Right?

“Is she yelling at you?” Lily asked, leaning across the table.

“I’m done,” Anna proclaimed, a bit louder than necessary as she jumped up from the table. “Let’s go to the restroom before the bell.”

“Okay,” Lily shrugged and stood up, gathering her tray of barely touched cafeteria food.

Emma followed suit, Anna looping her arm through hers after they’d both tossed their brown paper lunch sacks. Emma’s sister practically dragged her into the school building, and Lily hurried to catch up.

“That blonde right there! The really pretty one!” Mary Margaret continued to yell. “Stop her! I need to talk to her - warn her! You’re too pretty, Emma! Too pretty for your own good!”

That had been Mary Margaret’s obsession this past year and a half - that Emma was too pretty. For some reason, it stung worse than every other crazy thing she had ever said.

“Why was that homeless lady yelling at you, Emma?” Lily asked.

Anna laughed and waved her hand dismissively. “We saw her at the park a couple of weeks ago. We tried to be nice and talk to her, but that was obviously a mistake.”

Hm. Anna was a much better liar than Emma would have expected. Lily seemed to accept it, too.

“Well, I’d go tell the front office if I were you. Maybe the secretary will call the police. That’s harassment.”

Emma only had time to nod at Lily’s suggestion before the bell rang. When the brunette turned her back, Emma mouthed a silent thank you to her sister. As much as Anna could run her mouth, no one in the family would ever breathe the truth about the local homeless lady, the one who claimed to be Snow White.

Because the ugly, embarrassing truth was - “Snow White” was Emma’s mother.

************************************************************

Ingrid Jones grinned as she saw the name flash across her phone screen. If he was calling her, that could only mean two things. Either he couldn’t reach his brother, or he wanted something. Something he didn’t think Liam would agree to.

“Killian!” she said blithely as she answered. “It’s nice to hear from you.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he replied, and Ingrid’s lips ticked up into a smile. Yes, he wanted something.

Ingrid closed the files littering her desk and leaned back in her office chair. “How did finals go?”

“Well, I think. I mean, I felt pretty confident about everything but statistics. That class was tough.”

“You’ve always been too smart for your own good. I’m sure you did more than fine.”

Killian chuckled in a self-deprecating way. He was an odd dichotomy of cockiness and insecurity. It was part youth and part the tragedy he was born into.

“Listen, Ingrid,” Killian transitioned, clearing his throat nervously, “there’s been a slight change of plans, and I’m afraid it’s going to throw the entire summer off.”

Ingrid laughed merrily at his typical melodramatics. “Which is it, Killy, a slight change or an atomic bomb to the entire summer?”

Killian ignored the nickname that he only - rarely - tolerated from Ingrid and Anna. “If I wanted someone to tease me, I would have called Liam.”

“Sorry, sorry, what’s the issue?”

“Well, you know that on-campus summer job my roommate helped me get?”

“Yes. The job that broke all our hearts because you wouldn’t be coming home.”

“Broken hearts?” Killian asked, and she could practically feel his smug grin through her phone.

“Of course! Melodramatics are apparently a family trait.”

“In that case, maybe I worried for nothing. The job fell through, which means we have to move out of the dorm. I’ve already gotten a new summer job, it pays even more, actually. It’s just -”

“You need your old room back?”

“Please?”

Ingrid laughed again, able to hear the puppy dog eyes and pouting smile in that one emotionally laden word. The boy could charm his way into - or out of - anything.

“Of course you can, Killy.”

“Liam won’t mind?”

“Not if I tell him I already told you yes. And the girls will be thrilled. If only Elsa wasn’t interning on the Titanic.”

“It’s a research ship in the North Sea, Ingrid.”

“Still sounds like she could hit an iceberg or something.”

“Nope, that’s the Atlantic.”

“It’s really annoying having such smart kids, you know.”

Killian laughed, and Ingrid found her heart filling up at the thought of him being home. Truth be told, she had been a little down lately over her college kids foregoing summer break at home. Summers and holidays were supposed to ease the whole “letting them go” thing.

“If Liam’s not mad about it -”

“You really think your brother will be pissed that you’re coming home?”

“I know he loves me and wants to see me, but we argued over that on campus job when I applied for it. I don’t know, I guess I just didn’t want to hear him rub it in. Or find out he’d finally changed my room into a music room.”

“He’d have to get through me first. I’m the sentimental one, remember? So, what was your other request?”

“Help moving out this Saturday? It’s probably gonna take all four of you, but I really need Liam’s truck.”

“First of all, I find it hard to believe a nineteen-year-old college student has that much stuff. Second, the girls and I can’t help. We’re prom dress shopping this Saturday.”

“Emma’s going to the prom!”

Ingrid thought she heard a thud followed by scuffling noises. “Did you just drop the phone?”

“Uh no, of course not.”

“And you did hear me say girls, plural. Anna’s going too.”

“Oh, like a group thing.”

“No, they both have dates.”

“I knew Anna was seeing that idiot, but since when does Emma date?”

Ingrid sighed and turned her chair towards the window. A spring breeze tossed the leaves of the trees. “The idiot’s name is Hans, and for Emma it’s just a date. She’s a junior. She wants to go to the prom. A guy asked her. That’s it.”

“What guy? I mean, Emma’s always gone on and on about how foolish girls get about boys in high school, and how that’s never gonna be her.”

“His name is Neal Cassidy.”

“And?”

“I don’t know. He goes to school with Emma. They have a few classes together.”

“You mean you haven’t met the guy!”

“Well, no” Ingrid frowned as she watched sparrows flit amongst the branches of the tree. Did Killian have a point? Should she have invited this Neal kid over? It was amazing that after seventeen years, she still second guessed herself at this parenting thing. Even a college freshman seemed to be more concerned about prom than she was. She shook her head at how ridiculous that sounded. Killian had always been over protective of his sisters. He’d gotten into his share of fights over Elsa in middle school when she’d been bullied, he’d crawled through a thorny bush on a camping trip to get to Anna when she sprained her ankle two years ago, and then there was Emma. Perhaps because of the specter that was Mary Margaret, he was particularly protective of Emma.

“Listen, Killian, I know you take the over protective big brother gig very seriously, but I really think you’re making a big deal out of nothing. Emma told me she has no romantic interest in this guy. Common interests, those were her words. Honestly, she sounded like she was picking out a sensible car instead of a prom date. She’ll go, she’ll dance, she’ll eat, she’ll come home. It’s not quite the crisis situation you're imagining. This is Emma we’re talking about. Now Anna with that creep Hans, on the other hand . . .”

Killian let out a shaky breath. “I suppose you’re right. Emma’s the smartest girl I know.”

A voice behind her chair made Ingrid whirl around. Linette, her level-headed yet compassionate human resources director stood there looking a bit dazed, her hands fluttering nervously at her waist.

“Um, Killian, I need to let you go okay?”

“Sure. And thanks, Ingrid.”

“We’re family. No thanks needed.” She ended the call, then focused her gaze on Linette. “Everything okay?”

“More than okay,” the woman replied with a dreamy sigh.

Ingrid narrowed her eyes. In the past twenty years working together, she had never seen her like this. “Just spit it out, Linette.”

“I hired someone.”

“For what? We have no openings!”

“I know.” Linette blinked, as if trying to focus, “but when you meet him . . .”

“I assume this is the lovely director?”

The man standing in the doorway was in no way a heartthrob. He was older, for one thing, with shoulder length, messy gray hair. He also walked awkwardly, leaning heavily on a cane. Yet there was something about him, an aura. Ingrid felt light headed, and a silly giggle tumbled from her lips when the man leaned over her hand and kissed it.

“Charmed, dearie,” he said to her in a dulcet voice.

Ingrid’s gaze was drawn to the amulet about his neck which he touched with long, thin fingers. The longer she gazed upon it, the hazier her thoughts became.

“Now,” he said, putting an arm firmly about her shoulders, “let’s talk about my new position here. More importantly, however, I want to know all about you and your family . . .”

Tagging: (let me know if you wish to be removed or added): @snowbellewells @teamhook @kmomof4 @jrob64 @xhookswenchx @winterbythesea @thisonesatellite @welllpthisishappening @spartanguard @ohmakemeahercules @tiganasummertree @sparlecorn93 @sals86 @pirateprincessofpizza @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @huntressandlioness1 @jamif @undercaffinatednightmare @onceratheart18 @sparlecorn93 @sals86 @pirateprincessofpizza @xarandomdreamx @zaharadessert @huntressandlioness1

#cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfic #angst #heavy angst #angst with a happy ending #cs impossible au

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apinchofm · 3 years ago

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For your Baldwin prompts, how about more Baldwin and Phoebe discussing/bonding over period dramas. I loved your snippet of them bonding over Downton.

Re the Downton Abby ref, that's from my fic Being Human - have a read!

"See, I don't get it,"

"What don't you get?" Baldwin asked. Phoebe indicates to the screen.

"Why would Margaret Beaufort kill the princes?" Phoebe asked, "It doesn't make sense!"

The two decide this week to binge the Philippa Gregory dramatisations of the War of The Roses, starting with the White Queen.

"We never did find out who actually did it. But I always thought of Richard." Baldwin said, "Margaret was too God-fearing.

Phoebe popped a kernel of popcorn in her mouth, "Richard and Elizabeth weren't-"

"Oh, no!" Baldwin shivered as that scene came on of Richard dancing with his niece suggestively in front of his wife, "The York's were not the Habsburgs."

"I do love a good historical rumor, though." Phoebe admitted, "I remember reading the books, but they made this interesting."

"I admit, as do I. In certain cases, especially the disaster that was the War of the Roses,"

"I feel like you would have been a Lancasterian," Phoebe teased, "I can see you and the She-Wolf Queen hanging out."

Baldwin nodded, "I liked her enough. But Verin hated her and she loved Henry too much to ever stray."

"Aww, even you wouldn't seduce a married Catholic." Phoebe teased, throwing popcorn at him.

"Wait until we watch The White Princess, my dear. I'll tell you of my efforts to stir up war in England." Baldwin grinned.

#adow fic #all souls trilogy #baldwin montclair #phoebe taylor #binge watching #the white queen #adow crack #fluff

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heartofstanding · 3 years ago

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thoughts on margaret of anjou? or alternatively, could you tell us a bit more about 'the henry vi experiment'? x

Going to answer this in two separate posts so not to cross streams too much and because I have a lot to say!

My thoughts on Margaret of Anjou are that I love her. I actually have this post going around in my head as I write this:

The "real" Margaret is largely lost. The images of her that have come down to us have been filtered through misogyny, anti-French rhetoric, Yorkist propaganda and slander that were then adopted by the Tudor-era writers who found plenty of material in a transgressive women, and, of course, culminates in Shakespeare's depiction. She appears to have absorbed the blame for Henry VI's policies and behaviours, becoming the person people held responsible for the loss of territories in France, the failure of peace efforts, the ruin and "murder" of "Good Duke Humphrey", the purported unscrupulous favourites like Suffolk and Somerset, for the increasingly isolation of Henry's court, for "forcing" York to rebel, for the failing to produce an heir in a "timely" fashion, for leading resistances against Edward IV and causing a disturbance to the peace, etc, etc.

It's impossible to tell just how much Margaret was actually responsible for the "bad government" of Henry VI's reign. In some cases, she probably wasn't responsible at all: Suffolk rose to prominence several years before she married Henry, she was only 15 when she married Henry and shouldn't be held more responsible than the older men at court, and it was a common tactic to criticise a queen or a favourite rather than criticising the king directly, which would be treason.

The interesting thing is that had Margaret actually succeeded in restoring Henry VI and the Lancastrian to the throne, she would be remembered in very different terms. Instead of the devouring, destructive she-wolf, she would be seen as a loyal wife and devoted mother who did what was necessary to protect her family. It is really interesting reading Helen Maurer's Margaret of Anjou: Queenship and Power in Late Medieval England and seeing how much evidence of Margaret's tenure as queen shows her to have acted within the traditional roles for queens, only stepping out of that accepted role when necessity forced her to take on a more obviously active role.

In terms of redemptive takes on Margaret, I'm not very interested in the type that presents her as this innocent victim, never did anything wrong, really nice woman, unfairly smeared. I'm not interested in any type of redemptive takes for any person along those lines. I want to shake them violently in a Pringles can ;) I like to think that the "she-wolf" legend had a kernel of truth in it because I don't like the declawed, bland versions of Margaret I find. I feel like Margaret was an incredibly strong woman to keep going (as many issues as I have with Susan Higginbotham's novel about Margaret, I really love how she connected Margaret with hope) and I like takes that allow Margaret to be strong and sympathetic without flattening her down or declawing her into the acceptable historical heroine mode.

#margaret of anjou #asks #feuillesmortes #text posts #i could keep going on and on #i was gonna talk about margaret's relationship with henry vi and the trope of her having an affair with someone else #but this is very long #so feel free to ask me about that so i can ramble some more in a different post

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all-about-remadora · 4 years ago

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200 followers!

So here’s a list of One shots for celebrate✨

Everyone Deserves A Someone by LoquaciousLupin

With nothing better to do during the holidays at Grimmauld Place, Hermione and Ginny wonder whether their former Professor has a special someone - with no other ideas, they do the only thing they can and ask him. With a little help from Tonks, Remus answers their questions as honestly... as he can. Remus and Tonks fluff.

A Beautiful Tune by SweetDeamon

I'm...not coming." he said, reaching to shove his hands deep into his pockets. "On the mission. With you." Tonks stared at him in confusion. "Why not?" she asked, grip upon the cloak in her hand going limp. Remus struggled to come up with a convincing lie. "Because I...I..." Because I'm dying. Because you've struck me dead in the heart.

The Unspeakable Girl by SweetDeamon

"She makes me feel so on top of this world that I wish I'd never been born into it in the first place! So I can't stand to talk about her, Dad! I simply can't!" In which Remus Lupin visits his father and confesses something quite extraordinary. Based on information from POTTERMORE. Consider yourselves warned. RLNT.

The Future's Not Ours To See by Gilpin

Remus Lupin has a lot on his mind; his current undertaking for the Order of the Phoenix, and how to obtain questionable potions from an unhelpful Apothecary owner. Can he bring both to a satisfactory conclusion?

Rhapsody in Blue by copperbadg

Remus has decided it's time to cure Tonks of her awkwardness, the only way he knows how.

Kissing It Better by Lady Bracknell

On her first date with Remus, Tonks discovers that spilt beer on wooden floors is the enemy of the less than surefooted everywhere. Will she die of embarrassment, or will Remus find a way to make it all better?

Kiss and tell by Lady Bracknell

For all his supposed genius, Sirius Black had always had rather a blind spot for the patently obvious.

What To Make Of Him by Lady Bracknell

Neither Ted nor Andromeda know quite what to make of their daughter's boyfriend. Can he win them round over Sunday lunch?

On First Impressions by cafei-au-lei

"'You know,' Sirius said, 'it's kind of funny. For someone who thinks Remus is so annoying, you sure can't seem to stop talking about him.'" A series of moments in Remus and Tonks' developing relationship as they get to know each other and learn that maybe first impressions aren't necessarily everything. OOTP. Fluffy oneshot.

The Order's Most Eligible Bachelors by cafei-au-lei

The Order's Most Eligible Bachelors, or: the ladies indulge in some firewhiskey and gossip. Sirius and Remus stumble upon a game they're not sure they want to be privy to (okay, maybe Sirius does.) The results lead to some necessary conversation and introspection for a few of the parties involved. Oneshot.

The Talk, Or: The (Lighthearted) Trauma of Teddy R Lupin by cafei-au-lei

Teddy knew when Dad brought out the firewhiskey that something was suspicious. Then again, maybe he wasn't giving Dad enough credit for being the cool parent. AU. Remus and Tonks survive to raise their son and give him The Dreaded Talk. Oneshot.

Movement by MrsTater

Things appear to have changed. One shot, RLNT

Retrograde by MrsTater

Sequel to Movement: Tonks strongly suspected, though she hadn't much experience, that it wasn't normal for adults who fancied other adults to do what she was doing now.

Kernels by MrsTater

A Transfigured Hearts outtake: a cosy night in with Remus takes an unexpected turn when popcorn finds its way into odd places and leads Tonks to make an important discovery.

Party till the wolf comes by MrsTater

Fatherhood doesn't send Remus on a pub crawl, but announcing the birth of his son to his closest friends turns out to be the next best thing.

Overheard by MrsTater

Sirius tries to play matchmaker for an ambivalent Remus and Tonks, but when everyone keeps overhearing everyone else's conversations, things get a little complicated as shapeshifters prove to be anything but predictable... Updated Sept 3, 2007

The Honeymooners by MrsTater

Two years after their wedding, Remus and Tonks finally make it on their honeymoon. But now they've got something they didn't when they first married, will they be able to stop thinking about it long enough to enjoy themselves? AU

A Conversation That’s Not About Veela by starfishstar

Harry and Professor Lupin talk about women, and other things. During Christmas of HBP. (A gen story, but with very strong hints of Remus/Tonks and Harry/Ginny.)

Sleeping by starfishstar

Tonks sleeps; Remus muses

Precisely What I Mean by starfishstar

Remus with Teddy was easily the sweetest thing Tonks had ever seen. It seemed Remus couldn't ever hold Teddy without gazing down at his son with a huge, helpless, delighted grin. "Don't your cheeks ever get tired?" Tonks couldn't help teasing him once, and he'd glanced up, bewildered by the question – he didn't even realise he was doing it.

A Slow and Stopping Curve by aegle

Concerning Remus Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks. Set during Order of the Phoenix and Half-Blood Prince.

St. Margaret's by aegle

Remus, Tonks, a Muggle automobile, and a slightly disappointing beach adventure

On Bethlehem Down by aegle

Remus Lupin finds himself at Nymphadora Tonks' flat on Christmas Eve, 1996

The poem which i do not write by aegle

So, it has come to London with them, whatever it is.

The Watch by Sirussly

He'd grown so used to her endless chatter and relentless questions, a burning ball of energy with a laugh like her mother's. Some nights Tonks would listen to him instead, to stories of war and the price one pays for being a soldier in the middle of it. Occasionally neither of them would speak, but once her hand found his and stayed there until the sunrise coloured the sky.

Flame by Eat a Taco

It's strange what the soft light of a candle can do to someone.RLNT, sometime during HBP

Cover Me by Maggiemaye

Remus and Tonks embark on a mission that tests their well-established partnership to its limits. Even while surrounded by Death Eaters hidden in plain sight, they find that their greatest threats may come from within.

Expecto Patronum by Shimotsuki

Remus and Tonks have dinner at the Potters' after seeing Teddy off on the Hogwarts Express. James and Al are full of questions, including one that not even Harry knows the answer to.

Meet the Reindeer by SweetDeamon

Nothing untoward had happened since Teddy had arrived home from Hogwarts for the holidays this year. So far there had been no manically jingling elves, no traumatised Santa Claus, no mass snowball fights, no exploding cans of fake snow and as of yet nothing had come hurtling down the chimney or splattered anything or anybody with ammunition of the culinary kind. So far. RLNT AU.

Meet the Teacher by SweetDeamon

In which Remus and Dora receive word from Hogwarts that their son's homework has been completed in a far from satisfactory manner. The subject? Defence Against the Dark Arts. The topic? Werewolves. They've been expecting trouble since the beginning of term...but who feels less prepared? Teddy's parents or Teddy's teacher? Neville has a hunch... AU. RLNT. Rated for mild language.

A Study In Pink by SweetDeamon

"He isn't entirely sure how it is that a certain pink haired witch came to be lying snugly in the bed beside him yet again, or indeed why such a thing had ever occurred the first time around..." RLNT.

A Piece of Cake by SweetDeamon

"How long does it take to make a bloody sponge cake!" "You can't rush art, Sirius." Tonks attempts to bake Remus a birthday cake. "Attempts to" being the key phrase here... RLNT. Happy Birthday Gelly Bean!

The Christmas Waltz by Lady Bracknell

As Christmas approaches, Remus and Tonks dance around the idea of togetherness, wondering if either of them is leading, or know where they're going at all.

Mistletoe and Wine by Lady Bracknell

Remus falls foul of the mistletoe. Twice. RL/LP, RL/NT, LP/JP, rated for language.

Afraid of the Dark by Lady Bracknell

Remus had always been ill at ease in the forest, but when a mission for Dumbledore sends him into the heart of the place with Tonks by his side, he finds his apprehension harder than usual to shake off.

The Luck of the Draw by Lady Bracknell

She sits on the carpet, shuffles the cards, then deals them out. She came here with the hope of forcing the issue, because she just knows they shouldn't be about can't and won't.

Chione by: cafei-au-lei

Remus has confirmation that Tonks may return his feelings - now all that's left is to decide what to do with this rather exciting and terrifying information. And although it's been a strange year, this year's Christmas could shape up to be one of the best Remus has ever had. Takes place after "The Order's Most Eligible Bachelors." RLNT OotP holiday fluff.

The First Night by: cafei-au-lei

Most major events in Remus' life have done nothing but reinforce the crushing inevitability of his condition and the life that it has condemned him to. But maybe there is hope to be had, after all.

amare by: cafei-au-lei

At first, the idea that Tonks and Professor Lupin could be together was equal parts baffling and absurd. But then, maybe it did make a tiny bit of sense, Ginny thought, as she watched the way Professor Lupin looked at Tonks over the breakfast table. But she still couldn't help but think that this love and relationships thing was far too complicated. RLNT.

War Baby by MrsTater

It's time for Teddy's first outing, and for Tonks to make peace with a noble great idiot. Set during Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Perchance To Dream by: MrsTater

A dream leads to an argument and an unexpected quest to seek out the meaning. Will Remus and Tonks kiss and make up? More importantly, who will come out on top? RLNT, Deathly Hallows, Mature.

Like a Cat in the Sun by starfishstar

Remus is in a house full of women.

#nymphadora tonks #remadora #remus lupin #remus x tonks #harry potter #allaboutremadora

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capsized-heart · 5 years ago

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l’ incendie

Pairing: Hal x Reader

Summary: You grew up as witness to the atrocities committed under the British crown. Lord Grey is your father and newly pledged councilman of the royal court. Now, England has a new boy king, one who is set on keeping peace in Europe. You are determined to see England burn, even if it means corrupting the lionhearted boy of Eastcheap.

Word count: 10k+

Warnings: explicit smut, strong violence, sacrilegious imagery a blowjob in a chapel lmao

A/N: l’ incendie ; French translation for fire

..so..I watched The King back in November and have had this idea in my brain for the past 2 months now?? It literally consumed me. All throughout my last few weeks of classes and final papers, this is honestly all I could think about, like I’ve been bumping the soundtrack and rewatching the film to plan this, I looked at Lord Grey’s true lineage (he aint Scottish btw I made that up..but he really was related to King Edward lol).......I’ve just had to get this out of me for so. long. and I’m so happy that I finally have! It feels like this huge weight is gone, but I’ve enjoyed this creative process so much, like it’s so exciting when you hyper-fixate find a new piece of media that you enjoy so much that you dive completely and utterly into everything about it that you can get your hands on, and this is my piece for this!

And my boy Timmy?? Had no fucking clue who this guy was before I saw the film, now I’m writing fics about him a;sdkfjskj but you’re here reading this so. we’re both guilty.

I love story arcs like this where you see a character’s slow descent into corruption and having it revealed that someone was talking in their ear the whole time....i eat that shit right up. Reader’s character is heavily inspired by Lady Macbeth. Using wiles, using sex, etc. Ooh baby. I had fun with this.

gif credit to @michonnegrimes

Scotland was once your true home. Moors, lochs, rugged mountains, biting cold, all. You remember the endless mist and gloom, the wet winters of your childhood that made the creaking wood of your cottage whistle and moan. Summers were warm and mild and the highlands bursting with rich green and sunlight, running through fragrant fields of heathers, bluebells, myrtle with your skirts damp with dew, shrieking and choking on laughter as your older brother, Callum, chased you all throughout your little village of Kirkcaldy. Laughing himself, grabbing at you and wrestling you down into the mud, blossoms, and river water.

“Yield! Yield to the English crown or perish, wretched witch!” Callum would boom in mock play, tickling your sides until you’re gasping for air and tears stung your eyes.

“Aye! I yield!”

“What? You mad girl! Take it back! We are Scots!”

And then Callum would descend on you with all the wrath of England and you’d be howling with giggles and screams.

Returning home at nightfall smelling of wind and rain with vibrant wildflowers tangled in your hair and dirt streaking the skin of your cheeks, still plump with baby fat. Scarce food, but stomach full of adventure and blissful naivete. You were happy.

Your father would scold you promptly before his voice would soften a touch, smoothing back your hair from your face. Round, curious eyes and missing teeth. A feral, untamed child.

Daughter of Lord Thomas Grey. His precious girl. So much of your mother in you, the same fight, the same spark and love for life. Until you had ripped her body from the inside out and she had lost too much blood, the wet nurses unable to stop the bleeding and she had given her last breath cradling you lovingly against her naked chest.

You had killed your own mother.

In your early years, Callum and your father gave you nothing but warmth and protection, the sole surviving daughter of Grey lineage. But a child can only be sheltered for so long. Your world is a man’s world. Your country is no stranger to bloodshed.

The Anglo-Scottish Wars have endured for as long as you can remember, rebel leaders beaten down by English captains and more Christian blood staining the lush lowlands with every day. Robert the Bruce. Percy Hotspur. Blood all the same.

You are bleak, wild, uncivilized in the eyes of the English.

It’s all your people have ever known. Weary, resilient Scotland.

You have no memory of your mother, your earliest memory being the image of William Wallace’s torso strung up in the village square and the ensuing riots that had truly put the fear of God in you, mounted soldiers and civilians clashing in a fury of slick, gory steel, longswords and blacksmith daggers, a fear so raw and primal it struck you frozen and you’d soiled yourself in the midst of chaos. Callum had grabbed you and raced the four miles home as you bellowed atop his back with great, ugly heaves, snot and tears dribbling down your chin.

You didn’t need to understand the politics of rebellion or Wallace’s stake in it all to understand a massacre.

You have no memory of your mother, only murder in the name of the English king.

But you’ve learned to nurture that little glowing kernel of survival, of the fighting spirit and grit inside you that had evidently cost your mother her life. You’ve kindled it, watched it ignite with every passing year of war, your body flourishing into the figure of a young woman with embers in her soul. A stable simmering of flushed coals beneath your skin, glistening in the pools of your irises, ready to flare up and burn all you touch should you choose to.

You feel it now as a jostling carriage takes you to Northumberland, England. You sit quietly, watching the hills of Scotland tremble by, eyes hungrily drinking up as much of its strong landscape as you can.

Your father and brother have already gone ahead to England to make arrangements for Callum’s recent engagement to Isabel, Countess of Essex and only daughter of the Earl of Cambridge. You are reuniting after a lonely week, perhaps your last, to ever see your homeland.

Callum’s betrothal didn’t come as much of a surprise, rather, you’ve been counting down the days until your village lifestyle was doomed for inevitable change; for years, your father has been preparing the two of you for noble life outside of Scotland. Son and daughter subjected to the arts of chivalry, proper etiquette, gentility. The best that your little village could accommodate.

Your father and his maternal ancestry have interestingly long influenced the English courts, as his title of Lord would suggest. Through his grandmother’s side, you are distant descendants of Margaret, Duchess of Norfolk.

King Edward himself. Now cold and buried in London’s Westminster Abbey.

The coals jump, flames twisting at the idea of relatives long dead sitting idly on the opportunity and resources for a coup d'etat, instead choosing to line their own pockets and watch your country crumble from the comfort of their English estates.

The carnage and murder of monarchy feel that much more personal to you.

With your brother’s new marriage, Callum will acquire lordship and be gifted property in Essex. Your father will be secured a seat in the king’s council. You will be given rooms and hospitality in the castle as a noblewoman available for marriage. As Lady Grey.

A lick of fire coils up your throat.

God save the king.

The switch cracks so hard against the skin of your knuckles that your lip draws blood when you bite back a scream. Pain diffuses up your arm in fractured, ringing jolts and your eyes flood with hot tears. You hazard a look at where an angry welt has already started to flush, red and pulsing on the back of your hand.

“Again.” Says Miss Hunt.

Your gaze falls to the open manuscript in front of you, to the passage that you’ve rehearsed aloud for the past two hours. Your tongue works nervously in your mouth, swallowing. Sweat glistens your brow. You think you may even be trembling.

You draw in a quick breath and begin again:

“Time and tide wait for no man.

The life so short, the crafts so long to learn.

People can die of mere imagination.

And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche-”

Another crack and this time you can’t restrain the cry that leaves you. You blink back the heat blurring your vision, set your jaw when Miss Hunt clasps her hands coldly behind her back and looks down at you over her hooked nose.

“Your voiced consonants are absolutely horrid, girl. Don’t close up your mouth. If you are to perfect the King’s English, you are to completely forget that savage dialect before I cut out your tongue. Am I understood?”

Miss Hunt gives you a smart swat to your cheek.

You nod quickly.

Another stinging swat.

“Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hunt.”

Satisfied, she turns on her heel, granting you a few precious moments of quiet, of rest. Afternoon light filters into the chamber in dusty, silvered shafts, hueing the book’s pages in a drab of diluted grey. The inked words of Chaucer bleed back up at you as you settle your breathing.

This English sits like gravel in your mouth, low and rough and choking up your throat. Sharply iambic, as if everyone is talking down to the other.

England’s English sounds slow and stupid.

You wonder if Callum had this much trouble mastering the accent. You wonder if Callum, as a Lord, has ever been slashed with a switch.

Since your arrival to England and for the better part of a year, Miss Hunt has dissected every syllable of your speech through bodily punishment and repetition, ripped out any trace of Gaelic, any remaining trace of Scotland on your tongue and sutured it back together with mouthfuls of Chaucer and pompous, exaggerated vowels.

But pain, degradation, and humiliation are wonderful motivators. And to your horror, it has worked.

Your father recently introduced you to a few councilmen out of courtesy and as the sister of the soon to be Lord Grey of Essex. You politely discussed politics, entertained banter and jests of marriage proposals. None questioned your status as an English noblewoman.

Masquerading with voice and poise.

But that hasn’t stopped your secret, unseen resistance.

Miss Hunt may have taken your language and cadence, but her practices have only shown you the true powers of speech, knowledge, shown you just how intimidated and afraid all of England is of the bold north, of any European empire threatening its legitimacy.

A cowering dog with raised hackles and snapping teeth, but only so out of mad fear.

The harder Miss Hunt pushes, the deeper you dig into your own studies. By day, you are her sole pupil. By night, by candlelight, you are the pupil of Cicero, studying rhetoric and the power of spoken influence. You’ve also begun to study French as a means to bolster your wiles and mental arsenal.

You are already a so-called savage by blood. Learning the language of England’s arch rival will do nothing to hurt your reputation.

You feel a bead of sweat slide down the base of your spine as the switch swishes impatiently in Miss Hunt’s clutches. Oral recitation and the simultaneous reduction of your accent demands every ounce of your concentration. You know already that if you are hit again, the skin will break and you’ll only be reprimanded harder. Miss Hunt is sadistic and cold with her beady eyes and that ugly high starched collar.

“Again.” Her voice clips evenly.

So, you inhale a strong, supportive breath and begin again, pushing down the smolder in your chest.

The day of the wedding is cloudless and full of sunshine, a rarity for England. Callum has been bustling about the chapel’s back rooms in nervous energy all morning, fixing his hair and dress shirt over and over. You send your father to go and calm him down as you tend to Isabel, shooing him away quickly so your father’s mirrored jitters won’t affect her before the start of the ceremony. She gives you a small smile of thanks.

Isabel looks beautiful sitting in front of the mirror as her maids finish arranging her hair. Back straight as a board, plump lips and cheeks the color of a rosy, coral pink. You help to pull the veil over her face and the thin fabric does nothing to mute her radiance.

You see the flickering range of emotions in her eyes as she sees her own reflection. The life that all women are fated to live. Her last moments of true freedom, uncertainty for the future, and that small, significant trickle of vanity at having a perfect day of her own.

You see it all. After all, you are a woman.

She relaxes a bit when you lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. Her gaze finds yours in the mirror.

“You and I will soon be sisters,” she laughs softly. You give her a pleasant smile.

“I would want nothing more.”

Her throat works as she swallows tears, gives you another radiant laugh. “Someday, you will be sitting here, too.”

The truth of her words causes your smile to weaken, but you quickly hide it by busying yourself with her skirts and lace. Your world is a man’s world, even outside of war-torn Scotland. One man’s world, to be exact.

King Henry IV.

“And I expect you, my dear Isabel, to be at my side when that day comes.” You say to her. She nods kindly.

Your brother and Isabel are married a few hours later beneath the rainbowed, iridescent wash of stained glass and chiming church bells. And as the newly wed couple beam at you and their close company of friends and family, as you see Callum hold his wife proudly on his arm, you think that the bride and groom may truly love each other despite their arranged marriage. The possibility of such a happiness makes you grin wide and the familiar coals to simmer down ever so slightly.

The reception then moves to the chapel’s outdoor gardens. Ornately trimmed hedges, chirping birdsong, bubbling marble fountains, and the sweet fragrance of daisies and roses perfume the budding spring air.

The sun is warm on your skin, the air brisk and comfortable. You keep your fur lined mantle draped around your shoulders, your embroidered sleeves catching hints of daylight, the jeweled metalwork glittering about your waist. And with your hair twisted with ribbon and pinned back with a light linen caul, even Isabel herself murmurs that you look as refreshing and incandescent as the flowers surrounding you. You smile back teasingly, whisper that no one could possibly compare to the blushing bride.

As sister of the groom, you mingle politely, accepting congratulations and kind regards.

You see familiar faces, lords and fellow council members alike, and some of those not yet well acquainted. You meet Cambridge, Isabel’s father and a bird of a man. Gangly limbs and a flittering that accompanies his quick movements, but cordial and gentle. He tells you the union of your families will be prosperous, benign. You agree.

Then, Cambridge is pulled aside by a young man. Cambridge seems to recognize him instantly and clasps him into an embrace, chuckling heartily.

“Hal! You made it!” he exclaims. The two talk together briefly before the young man turns to you.

He’s tall and lean, broad chested with sloping shoulders. The angular planes of his face are undeniably handsome, a strong nose, full dark lashes and brows that frame his bold complexion. Black, unkempt curls and soft, hooded green eyes that hold an undertone of vigor, like his very gaze has commanded attention his entire life. They flicker over you quickly, as if you’d imagined it yourself, a trick of the light.

You don’t miss the way they linger at the exposed dip of your neckline, however.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” He then asks of Cambridge, his voice a soft murmur and his eyes never leave you.

Cambridge looks quickly between the two of you, as if acknowledging your presence again for the first time since this young man’s interruption. He burns bright red, stammering, then gestures to the stranger beside him.

“Of course. My lady, may I present my cousin, Henry. Prince of Wales.”

The suddenness and sheer absurdity of it all almost makes you burst out in laughter.

Cousin? King Henry IV’s eldest son is the cousin of your father-in-law?

With this marriage, you realize your family is now tied to the most powerful family in all of Britain. Yet, no one in the wedding party seems to have even acknowledged the presence of the boy prince dressed simply in dark cloak and tunic.

And then you remember. Prince Hal is a drunk, a dangerous playboy from Eastcheap. His claim to the throne is as illegitimate as the probable dozens of children from his bedded girls.

And asking for a formal introduction from his cousin? It’s utterly laughable, pathetic even.

Hal’s gaze is unwanted, skin prickling from where his eyes trace the curve of your chest in a way that makes you feel vile.

So, you wet your lips, pretend to wordlessly accept his flirtations and give him a slow flutter of your lashes. The reaction he so craves from you as his chin tilts back in delight, hungry to see more.

“Your reputation precedes you, my lord.” Your words drip with venom. Flowery girl with a serpent’s sharp tongue.

The barb makes Hal’s features tick in surprise, shock before settling back into a cool demeanor.

“Then you’ve heard of me.”

Your mask of amour stays firmly in place.

“It is hard to be deaf against such defamatory gossip.”

Hal hums softly with a hint of a smile, breaking his gaze to look out over the reception, ego obviously bruised. Cambridge goes pale as a sheet.

Isabel suddenly swoops in with the apology of wanting to introduce her father to a newly arrived guest and excuses him, hauling him away by the arm. Cambridge looks relieved to go.

And then it’s just the two of you beneath the halo of rose-tinted light.

“Beautiful ceremony.” He says simply. Hal is incredibly soft spoken for a prince and you find yourself unconsciously leaning in to hear him speak. Part of the intimate charm that makes him so alluring to women, you think. A whispered promise only for you.

“I thank you, sire.”

He takes a step forward. It startles you, enough for him to crowd you against the garden trellis wall. Ivy and lavender press into your back, dancing in the same breeze that peppers goosebumps down your spine. You shiver softly. Hal steps closer.

“I pray this is not the last of today’s festivities?” His words ghost over your throat, tickling the shell of your ear.

“No, sire. There will be a dinner tonight,” you reply just as quietly. You understand the game perfectly because it is the same one you have been playing your whole life. You indulge him, fire sparkling behind your fluttering eyelashes. “Surely your cousin will be expecting your attendance.”

Hal leans over you, hair tickling your face, green eyes glimmering. Up close, you see that freckles and beauty marks dot his skin. “I’m sure he will.”

You think you see him incline his head as though to kiss you. For a moment, you’re frozen, entranced.

You turn your cheek and his lips brush your temple. He hesitates with a low chuckle, keeping his close proximity.

“Then, I will see you tonight, my lord.” You whisper. Your fingers graze his arms as you sidle out of his reach. You can feel his eyes on you as you go and rejoin the other guests.

You leave him burning.

The tavern teems with merriment and the sound of fiddle, fife, and drum. You feast on broiled meats, roasted potatoes, greens, sweet breads and cakes until your stomach is full to bursting.

The glow of candlelight is lush and sensual, throwing shadows over the faces that only hours before you had shared with in prayer and communion in the church of God. Now, every attendant indulges in debauchery.

You’re drunk, blood pounding with mulled wine and spiced ale and cider. Pleasantly warm and head swimming, watching Callum and Isabel and friends and family dance about the room as if possessed, twirling in swirls of colored fabric that make you laugh and clap along in breathless euphoria.

You catch a glance of a figure standing in the doorway. You see the motion of a glass moving to lips, throat working to swallow drink. When the glass falls, you lock eyes with Hal.

You beckon him forth with a crooked finger. He grins wickedly and sets down his cup.

Despite the obvious wine in him, his steps towards you are sure and true and his hands feel good against you when they caress your waist, pull you against him.

You play coy and twist out of his arms. He groans.

He follows you like a dog until you’re in the midst of spinning bodies and then you turn to him. Giving him the permission to finally touch you.

His eyes ignite. He splays a hand on the middle of your back, perfect pressure, authoritative, the other gripping you tight and then you’re both cackling with drunken mischief as he guides the two of you across the creaking wooden floor.

You let him support you, lean against his chest, enjoying the sensation of being held so close. The thrill of feeling wanted.

Even if it is all a charade.

The strings and beat of thumping drums careen to a crescendo that has the entire tavern whooping and hollering in delight. You break apart from Hal to join in as the music flows through your limbs, absolutely enchanted, throwing back your head like that feral child from girlhood.

Hal looks just as wild, the rumored wayward prince. Long, dark locks falling in his eyes, tunic unbuttoned and disheveled. Light and shadow dancing across his face in a manner that makes him look devilish.

He pushes a glittering goblet into your hands, eases his strong fingers around your own to help bring it to your lips. You see the unmistakable red slosh of wine and wordlessly drink. He watches you tip back the goblet, watches rubied jewels of crimson spill down the sides of your mouth and down the skin of your throat.

“That’s it. That’s a good girl.” He cooes.

The flames feel desperately hot, flushing your skin and cheeks, burning bright behind your lips. Or perhaps it's the alcohol? Or the prince’s wandering touch that now seems to be cupping your breast, tongue lapping at the trails of wine…

The heat is suddenly too much and you push away to a secluded corner filled with empty tables to catch your breath. Hal slumps beside you. His head lolls, dipping to press another whisper of a kiss to your jaw and his weight feels comfortable against your side.

You don’t know what comes over you. Perhaps you truly are possessed.

You turn into him and then your hand is reaching between his thighs.

Hal exhales sharply in your ear. You harden your touch, feel him widen his stance to accommodate you. He braces an arm behind the small of your back, supporting himself on the space of the wooden bench as your fingers slip below the waistband of his trousers.

He gives a strangled sigh when you grip him tight and begin to coil your hand. His head lolls once more, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, panting, bursts of hot breath fanning over your throat. You feel your own breath quicken, feel yourself getting excited.

You mesh your other hand into his curls and pull him closer, press your body flush against his. Hal moans, keening, his arm now around your waist. You shush him quietly, tightening the hold in his hair.

To any patron, you look as though you’re only consoling a drunken boy, simply talking in the muted light. The shadows hide you both but the flames shine in your eyes.

“Enjoying the festivities, my lord?” You sigh into his cheek.

“Please don’t stop..” Hal whimpers.

You chuckle through a half-lidded gaze and work him harder. It’s delicious, erotic.

You hold all power, all of England in your delicate grip.

You watch his mouth fall open, dark brows furrowing, feel him tense against you before the eldest son to the crown spills himself onto your fevered palm with a sharp gasp, chest heaving.

“Good boy..” you murmur with a cheshire smile, running your fingers soothingly down the line of his jaw. Hal shudders with aftershocks, eyes closed, forehead glistening with sweat.

Before he can attempt to try and reciprocate the favor, you wipe your hand on his cloak and stand to fetch another drink.

You avoid Hal afterwards and don’t see him again for the remainder of the night. You think he must have gone home with another girl to satisfy himself and it makes you smile knowing you are responsible for laying that trap, for letting him taste pleasure, driving his desperation and taking it all away just as easily.

Your brother and Isabel spend their honeymoon in London before returning to her home in Essex. They write to you, informing of their safe arrival at the new estate and that you will have to come visit in the very near future. It warms your heart. You already miss them terribly.

Soon after, your father is awarded the scarlet, fur-trimmed peerage robes of the House of Lords and with your new rank, you experience the privilege of wealth for the first time.

Rich foods, dresses and flowing silk skirts, cosmetics, more books and manuscripts than you can imagine. You glow with health, beauty, pride, and sharpened wit.

But you have not forgotten your burning flame. Aided by money and status, your little light only grows stronger.

King Henry IV dies of sickness on a warm March morning. It had only been a matter of time, the stubborn man had been calling your father and the other lords to his bedside for the past several months to continue to discuss the politics of his own wars. In his dying breath, Henry IV saw that his empire had fallen to civil strife.

Court and kingdom are called to witness the coronation procession and as you stand with the lords and ladies of the crown inside Westminster Abbey, inside the church containing the tomb of your distant descendant King Edward and the generations of his forefathers, the same Gothic abbey where British monarchs have turned men into rulers and tyrants, you watch the archbishop anoint Prince Henry of Wales with holy oil.

His curls have been trimmed clean, his bare skin and body presented to be blessed with the sign of the cross. All old ritual, old prayer and Latin incantations that have been performed for over a thousand years.

So what is a new boy to wear the crown?

Beneath the arched stone cloisters, baptized in the sunlit streams of stained glass, you watch that same ceremony unfold again with burning heart. And harmonized by the tolling of bells, Hal is dressed in royal robes, regalia, scepter and all, shedding the title of prince as you all pledge homage to your new King of England.

“All hail King Henry.” The archbishop calls out to clergy, God, and country.

“King Henry!”

Neither you nor Hal feel the heat of embarrassment when the court is ushered into the dining chamber and you meet again in candle and firelight. The feast is an intimate setting, shared by the company of Hal’s new council, clergymen, and close family. Your father is seated alongside Cambridge, Chief Justice William Gascoigne, and the archbishop; even his sister, Queen Phillipa of Denmark, is in attendance.

Hal’s appearance and demeanor is surprising to you.

He looks striking, handsome as ever in his new robes and you can sense that familiar aire of charisma and confidence you remember from the wedding as Lord Chamberlain presents gifts from the monarchs of the world. A jeweled vase from King Wenceslas of Bohemia, a trinket of a mechanical bird from the Doge of Venice. Hal is jovial, good humored and merry.

The presence of his cousin and sister seems to comfort him greatly. And rightfully so, considering he now sits on the throne of his dead father. Dead as well is the alter ego of the delinquent prince.

Like a spoilt child opening wrapped packages at Christmas. The privilege of royal blood.

When the final trunk is presented, a gift from the Dauphin, you quite nearly let out a low snicker.

A ball for the boy king.

You see Hal hesitate before picking it up and the silence throughout the chamber is long, uncomfortable. The entire court seems to be holding its breath. Yet, you know there is an aspect of truth to the Dauphin’s gesture.

A boy indeed. You recall Hal’s touch and him gasping into your neck, his muffled begging, how quickly he had finished in your hand…

Then, the cool magnetism returns to his features. He locks eyes with you and you wonder if he is thinking of the same moment. You are both proud challengers, wielders of personal charm.

You wonder how long it will take to break him completely.

There’s a glimmer in his gaze you think to be from the blazing hearth as he tosses the ball once against the chamber’s stone wall, then catches it deftly with youthful poise.

After the coronation dinner, the court is dismissed and you find yourself to be one of the last remaining patrons as guests trickle out into the adjacent hallways and disperse through the rest of the castle. You deliberately hang back, watching your father, Cambridge, Phillipa, and William slip through the doors, slowing your step so that Hal can catch sight of you.

“Lady Grey,” you hear. His voice is galant, hushed with that same temptation of seductive promise. With your back still facing him, you can’t help but smirk.

You feign surprise and turn.

“Yes, my lord?”

Hal beckons to where he stands by the fireside. You gather your skirts and join him in the welcoming nimbus of light and warmth. When you bend to curtesy, his fingers find your chin, tilting your eyes to his own and forcing you to rise to your feet.

“None of that is necessary, my dear,” he whispers. He keeps your face cradled between thumb and forefinger, a delicate pressure, one that makes you feel precious as he holds you close. “Tell me, did you enjoy tonight?”

“Immensely.” You smile. Indeed, you have. The Dauphin might as well have spoken on your own behalf.

Hal hums, pleased. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, then eases in between the petals of your pink lips. You purse them ever so slightly and watch his self-control start to simmer. The candles burn low around the two of you, the only source of light emanating from the hearth itself. You are reminded of how the shadows flickered on the planes of his face the night of the wedding. Now, you see the same shadows again, but as king.

“I want you to have something.” He says finally.

He looks reluctant to break his touch from you, but you see his hand disappear within the folds of his robes. He then produces a glittering pendant with a golden chain, a necklace that looks ablaze.

Amber, you realize.

The surprise that crosses your features is genuine. Baltic amber set into teardrop sterling silver and gold, a gift from Rupert of the Palatinate and the kingdom of Germany. An extraordinary piece.

Hal’s hand finds your waist and you turn to offer him your bare neck, pulse pounding. You have no say, no power to even deny this token of affection.

His caresses against your skin as he fastens the chain are soft and featherlike and you can feel his breath on the top of your spine. The pendant is heavy, rich with precious stone and gilded metal, settling between the valley of your breasts. It feels cold, but shines like an inferno.

He lingers, tracing your shoulders when his mouth presses to your ear.

“Turn. Let me look at you properly.”

When you do, the weight of Germany itself, of foreign and fallen kingdoms and countries, conquered and pillaged and burned, simultaneously settles between the tender skin of your sternum.

Hal’s eyes cloud with dark delight when he sees the flaming amber. He takes your chin back in hand, angling your face every which way, studying how the firelight glints off the pendant with a sensual curiosity.

“Beautiful.” He murmurs.

Your body begins to react on its own accord, chest rising and falling with faster breaths, your cheeks blooming.

“I thank you, my lord.”

Still cradling your jaw, he brings himself closer with only a whisper between the two of you. His crimson robes seem to swallow you completely, like the gaping maw of Britain’s lion, a mantle of blood. He speaks into the gap between your mouths, yet you feel every word upon your lips.

“With this gift, I expect to see you more around my court, Lady Grey. Am I understood?”

The tension he commands is unbearable. He watches you carefully, dark eyelashes fluttering. Trapped like a pinned butterfly. Then, you understand he’s waiting for a verbal response.

“Yes, my lord.”

He releases you.

The pendant suddenly feels more like a collar.

You’ve underestimated Hal. He is just as much the player as you.

You keep your promise. You see Hal daily in passing, often dressed in full regal attire as he comes from the council chambers, your father, William, and the rest of his train tailing close behind. The twinkle in his eye when he sees you is discreet, reserved only for you. The amber pendant remains fastened around your neck at all hours of the day, even while you sleep and bathe, like fire and ice between your breasts. A piece of Hal always with you.

The two of you are a queer, twisted pair of sweethearts. You’ve yet to be fully intimate since that wedding night, but the pressure that ripples with every fleeting glance, every grazing touch of lips and skin is enough to prove your attraction for each other. Or rather, the attraction to the game.

You keep Hal on his toes, never fully give in even when he invites you out for evening strolls in the palace gardens and the safety of darkness envelops you both. It is your nightly ritual to walk the grounds together amongst hushed breezes and chirping crickets, you as a means to unwind before bed, and a way for Hal to clear his mind of the day’s tolling demands.

And tolling they are. Despite his bravado, he is easily irritable, tense. You listen when he speaks to you plainly about his frustrations for the court and archbishop, how they all expect from him the same swift retaliation of his father.

You find Hal’s consciousness of this want to break tyranny quite curious. Sons are typical to idolize their fathers and see past faults. It is why you know how cruel kingship has endured in Britain for generations; learned behaviors become expected and change more difficult. You’ve even seen that same behavior in your own brother.

And Hal’s trust in disclosing even this to you is telling. The thread to unravel the boy king.

Tonight, you dare to pull at it, heighten your girlish wiles and offer him a lingering kiss and soft words. You tell him that Christendom is damned and tease that it’s his own fault his council is made up entirely of old, graying men, your father included, when he could have anyone else.

Hal’s spirits seem to lift a little with a ghost of a smile, understanding you perfectly as his arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you into a secluded labyrinth and settles into the stone seat of a fountain, pulls you atop his lap. The kiss he returns is fierce.

Without the burn of alcohol to subdue your senses, every touch is intensified tenfold. Hal feels it too, his breath coming ragged as he breaks the kiss to mouth down the skin of your neck, the dip of your collarbone, your chest. His hands wander beneath your skirts.

“It is only polite that I return the favor..” You hear him say.

Your mind is reeling. You knew this moment would eventually come, yet you feel ill-prepared when his fingers brush your core, his other hand gripping the back of your neck. You gasp, finding his lips in another tangled kiss, straddle him completely.

It’s strange, exhilarating to be on the receiving end of your little game.

If you are to truly break Hal, you are to first make him believe that he holds any sort of power over you, to reverse that dynamic you had set the night of your brother’s wedding.

You are to let him touch you.

And like the flaming sword of Raphael, Hal’s pendant, it is time to finally draw upon your fire.

You hate how good Hal is at this. He knows just where to caress inside you, the right amount of pressure, the weak spots at your throat and just below your ear. Your competitiveness takes over and you push him back against the fountain, start to circle your hips, grind yourself down on his hand and grip at the rich fabric of his tunic to better anchor yourself.

His eyes pool with lust with every sigh from your lips, watching you closely. He rolls his thumb, picks up the tempo of his fingers, relishing the sight of you slowly falling apart on top of him.

But it isn’t enough. You lean in and wrap your arms around his neck. He responds in tandem, gathering you close as you rock against him, the friction of his thighs sending you closer and closer to that threshold of pleasure.

“Please..I need t-to…” you whisper into his neck, into his mouth.

Words of magic. Hal’s expression flares with masculine pride, the delight of pleasing a woman.

The last of the day’s golden hour spills over you both in glowing, peached splendor and with the sound of the fountain’s rushing water as your only witness, you muffle your final moan with a desperate kiss, bliss pulsing behind your eyelids. Hal keeps his fingers where they are, coaxing the last waves of your orgasm out of you, cradling your chin with his other hand as his lips part yours, slipping tongue as you come floating back down to earth.

You’re dazed, flushed, lazily kissing when he removes his fingers. Slick when you suck them into your mouth and taste yourself. The velvet of your tongue makes him shiver.

“Now, what ever are we going to do about your council, my lord?” You murmur once you catch your breath. You gently kiss his fingertips.

Hal only smirks and pulls you to him.

Your plan begins to take motion. With each passing month, you worm your way deeper into Hal’s heart with honeyed words and empty promises. He confides in you more and more as he grows wary of his councilmen, trusting only the pretty face he sees in the privacy of his bedchamber each night. Graced against silk pillows.

You sense the crushing pressure upon him, his own doubts and fears. You slowly leech away his magnetism, his charisma, and take it for yourself. His eyes dim, harden with resolve. Gone is the assurance for peace. Hal instead grows cold, timid, questioning his every move.

You only burn brighter.

There is talk that a French assassin has breached the castle.

You hear the conversation for yourself when your father and William are called down to the dungeons, hear Hal speaking directly to this assassin as you linger at the top of the stone staircase.

“Qui êtes vous?”

“J'ai été envoyé par le roi de France pour vous assassiner.”

Hal’s voice is cool, calm as he pries for details. The assassin’s responses are noticeably vague. You infer it to be out of his own self interest.

Then, nothing. Days go by with no direct action from Hal.

You grind your teeth. War with France would be the perfect fruition of your schemes, the final act in a tragedy deemed to be an epic of British monarchy. War with France would show Europe and the rest of the world the extortion and murder of the English crown; not that these neighboring countries needed such a reminder. But England and her king have been blind for too long.

Previous attempts at quelling war had caused Percy Hotspur to rebel, Prince Thomas of Lancaster to push on and die alone on foreign soil.

Is Hal not trying to prove himself in this same way? Proving he is not like his father? Just as Thomas had wished for his peers to see him as a commander and better equipped to bear the crown despite being the youngest son, is Hal not guilty of this same charge of public approval?

And having the privilege to sit idly atop a throne amidst all this makes your blood boil. Idleness is instability, you’ve learned this years ago.

You will be the one to push Hal to war.

You are sewing one afternoon in an empty chamber when the strained voices of your father, Cambridge, and William reach your ears. Hushed and argumentative, it draws you to your feet, possesses you to lean against the frame of the door and just out of sight.

You hear the disgust in your father’s tone when he speaks of the king. The weakness in forgiving France, the lunacy of Hal’s ascension. It amazes you, grips you tight at hearing such passion and loathing; you’ve never heard your father speak this way about anyone, let alone the head of England’s monarchy. Slander and defamation carry swift punishment.

You learn that he and Cambridge have been approached by French agents. The three men debate quietly as you stand against the door, nearly panting. A coup d'etat? The idea excites you more than it should. But you perish the thought quickly before you can get ahead of yourself.

Why only approach the two of them? Surely to turn England’s people against their ruler, a greater number of conspirators would prove to be more efficient? You know distrust is not uncommon among Hal’s council, so possible traitors would not be hard to find.

This approach means your father and Cambridge have been judged weak in character by the French. Insecure, lacking, most likely to bend at the knee for candied prospects in exchange for loyalty.

And now as you eavesdrop on your own father, you know Lord Grey does not have faith behind his king and is too afraid to do anything with it. You know that if you had not gathered this knowledge for yourself, you would never have been told so, unseen as all women are expected to be.

These French agents and councilmen think they hold all power with their debates and their meetings in private, oblivious to the fact that it is women who move the world. Women like you, wielding their very sex to push these men as pawns.

Are men not born into this world by women? Do men not seek a woman’s tender embrace for love and comfort and to carry on long, unbroken lineages of royal blood?

Your own father, as all his peers, are blind to the influence you bear over Hal. Even Hal himself.

You find yourself in the king’s private quarters one cold night, sitting in front of the hearth and watching the crackling, shimmering flames that warm the room. The soft silence is comforting to you as you sit bathed in orange glow, wrapped in furs and waiting for Hal’s return.

Your mind wanders. You think of the French assassin still held captive in the dungeons beneath your feet, how the man had been granted asylum in exchange for a confession.

“Quel était le l'ordre?”

“Que je devrais tuer le roi d'Angleterre.”

And with the French approaching Cambridge and your father, it is certain, undeniable that tension is thick and stakes high for all of England.

You are standing on the very brink of war, standing flush at the edge of a swallowing cliffside with dragging winds and dark, inky waters swirling beneath you down below. Waiting to embrace you, like the jagged shores of St Kilda, the northern shores of Scotland. Calling you home like a siren’s song.

And Hal only needs one final pull before you both fall together.

The chamber door opens and the king steps inside. His presence is stormy, like a cold wind blowing into the room.

He’s dressed handsomely in a navy tunic and dress shirt, a mantle that drapes over his burdened shoulders. Yet, his hair is mussed and disheveled and you can see the tightness around his eyes. His once youthful glow now gone, but a sharpness to him that you think resembles a pike; diligent, wary, and still capable of hurting you if you’re not careful.

You pretend to quickly wipe away tears before you stand to greet him. Hal sees this and his brows draw together in concern, further contorting his expression into one of pain. He comes to the fireside.

“Good evening, my king,” you say as he takes your hands.

“What upsets you so?” he asks you directly. His voice is strained, sets your pulse aflutter more than it should. You give a small, breathless smile, a shake of your head.

“Nothing of your concern, just innocuous thoughts, my lord. Let us go to bed.”

But you do not move in the direction of the luxurious canopied bed, one you have grown intimately familiar with. You stay exactly where you are and let Hal’s mind race.

His fingers grip your chin and when you meet his eyes, they’re bold and smoldering, the first touch of life in them you’ve seen for sometime. His grasp is strong and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

“Speak freely to me. Please,” he whispers. “Of all people. My dear, speak true.” The last word falls like a plea from his lips. You suppose it is one as he pulls you closer. A boy desperate for truth, constricted and poisoned by a council of vipers.

Unknowingly turning to the girl with the pretty mouth as she pours poison into his ear.

At this, you bite your lips and summon tears that spill forth, pool your vision. You let the familiar sensations take over, the shortness of breath, the depleted posture, and pretty soon you’re trembling, weeping in Hal’s arms.

“This assassin. It frightens me,” you say finally, broken. “If he had fulfilled his order and taken you from me, left me here all alone…oh, Hal. I’m so afraid.”

His thumb circles your cheek, silent. You sense that dangerous cocktail of anger and darkness simmering just beneath his skin. Anger at the world, anger reserved for his dead father.

“France means to have you killed, Hal. Then what of us?”

Us? England?

Tears drip down your neck and onto your rising chest. Where you’ve left the first clasp of your blouse carefully unbuttoned. You press yourself to him ever so slightly, look up through tear-soaked eyelashes and embered iresis.

“Then what of me?” you whisper.

Hal’s lips are crushing against yours. You feel every ounce of his anguish, every bit of tension wound tight in his frame, every doubt, every fear. You feel the restraint as he cradles the back of your neck, his other hand finding your waist as he pushes you flush against him. The dichotomy to feel love, to feel comfort and safety and to relieve and dispel just a hint of the pressure building inside him. The dichotomy to conquer, the urge to channel this animosity in a way he must be familiar, to ravish you completely.

With your bosom rising and falling so sweetly, eyes glittering with tears, looking almost divine with firelight circling the shine of your hair in a golden halo, you watch Hal’s walls collapse. You let him succumb to that mirage of safety and warmth, to ease his conscience. You will both get what you want, eventually.

You break apart to kiss the line of his throat, his pulsepoint, where you know he’s weakest. Hal gasps as you thread your fingers through his curls, bring your lips to his ear in a soft lull.

“May I have you tonight, my king? Completely?”

His response is immediate, yet wordless when he tilts back his head and feels your mouth against his jugular, the hand at your waist tightening.

At last, you lead him to the bed with the intent of christening it.

He pulls you atop him, helps you unthread the bodice of your nightgown. Despite the blazing fire behind you, the air chills your shoulders, your chest as you slowly expose more and more skin, finally letting the thin fabric pool around your waist. The feel of his bare hands cupping your body fuels you, act as your catalyst. Soft, firm.

The amber necklace swings like a golden pendulum when you stoop to kiss him again, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your back. Hal’s desires are plainly stated as you feel him harden against your inner thigh.

There is no time for coy deception tonight. You make quick work of his tunic, leave his trousers and instead unfasten and pull him through, positioning where he wants you most. Hal is already nearly panting.

You arch as he settles inside you, a biting stretch that has both of you sighing when you bury yourself into the crook of his neck. Something long-awaited. You stomach the discomforting pressure and set a rhythm, one that has Hal cursing into your hair.

“You must protect the women of England, my lord,” you whisper. “Who will do so if you are gone?” You punctuate your point with a well-timed swivel of your hips and Hal moans low and guttural. “Your wives and children. Can you protect me?”

Hal’s arms wrap around you, nearly choking on pleasure. “I will. Anything for you. Please...”

Unseen by him, you grin. You can practically hear the crashing ocean waves, to feel the quench of water at long last! You think you could make him do anything in this moment with how enthralled he is in bliss.

You sit back and Hal’s hands glide over the smooth expanse of your stomach, watching his eyes grow dark, the amber pendant swinging between the two of you. The discomfort in your belly is gone and you start to mirror Hal’s pleasure, head falling back, sighs growing louder.

And as the two of you finally fall from the cliffside and towards the waiting waters, Hal gives a soft cry, vision rolling and you feel his heat spill onto your inner thigh. You kiss him until the strength drains from his body, a true succubus as Hal at last descends into sleep, relaxed.

You have the king’s word.

You awaken the next morning to find the bed empty and cold. Surprised, you dress alone and return to your chambers to call for your breakfast. When you send for your father to share his company, the servant returns and tells you Lord Grey is currently engaged and his presence cannot be requested.

“A meeting, you mean?” You ask the servant rather crossly. Why must everyone speak to you in riddles? You obviously did not sleep much the night before and had trouble long after Hal had finished, like a slumbering babe beside you. Typical.

Your mood sours further in that you won’t be able to share this meal with your father. You despise spending mornings in solitude. It seems like it’s been ages since you’ve last seen each other in private, with no councilmen lurking about.

“No, my lady,” the servant stammers slightly, the words stumbling out of his mouth. “Lord Grey is condemned and is forbidden from taking meals before tomorrow morning.”

“What?” You growl at his vagueness. Your anger and irritation rise hot and fast and you’re tempted to hurl the glass cup of strawberries at this blubbering young fool.

“Lord Grey and Cambridge await execution tomorrow morning for treason, by order of the king.”

Your world stops. You send the servant away with a ghost of a whisper.

When the door snaps shut, you laugh mournfully. So the gossip had come to naught. Hal had indeed kept his word. Your stomach turns in nausea. Food is suddenly the last thing on your mind.

You rush to your writing desk, overturning bottles of ink, hands shaking when you retrieve quill and parchment, attempt to pen a desperate letter to Callum with a fevered hand. But before you can draft a single sentence, your blood turns cold.

You have not heard from your brother, from Isabelle in weeks. Have your worst fears already come true?

Glass and fruit explode against the far wall.

You tear out of the room like a bloodied banshee in search of Hal, fingers tinted crimson from cut glass and mashed berries.

And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and

cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee

that one of thy members should perish, and not

that thy whole body should be cast into hell.

One of Miss Hunt’s chosen passages from the book of Matthew comes crashing into your mind. You are like Eve, you think. Bearing the burden of Original Sin with lust and curiosity. You have tasted the fruit and have seen the evils of mankind. Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined your plan backfiring so horribly.

Now, hellfire awaits your father, for you when you draw your final breath your last day on this earth. Suddenly seeming to loom that much closer.

You approach Hal like Samuel’s ghost did to King Saul on the eve of war, the Philistines instead of the French. Interchangeable, cycles of warfare that have dawned for milenia and will continue until the end of time.

He looks terrifying, colder and more severe than you’ve ever seen, outfitted in those horrible blood red robes that one coronation dinner long ago you had once thought he looked becoming.

You know with one wrong word you could be joining the two men to die at first light. Your mind races.

“My lord, to think my own father had been plotting against you sickens me,” you speak slowly. The sentence stings like venom in your mouth, damning your father. Hellfire burns brighter. But it is the only way you can protect yourself. Your grisly appearance, your quick breaths, it is all to sell your story. “May I accompany you tomorrow morning as witness?”

Hal’s lips twist into a hint of a smile, the shadow of his former self. “Of course, my dear. Lord Grey may have failed his fatherly duties as protector, but I will not.”

And so, with your hands wrapped in fresh bandages and stitchings, you stand in a courtyard with wind whipping around you, the only Christian woman among councilmen and knights as you watch your father lay his head upon the chopping block. His hair has been shaved off to ensure the killing blow will be swift and true. Shivering, pale, and damp with sweat, he looks like a ghost. Soon, he will be one. You want him to see you in these final moments, for him to know that you will utterly destroy this king, but you cannot risk the danger.

Like the coronation, Latin prayers are recited, only this time they are prayers for your father and father-in-law to find peace in the afterlife. The last time you, Hal, Cambridge, and your father had shared company like this had been at the wedding. You know now that Callum and Isabel are truly dead. In the blink of an eye, Hal has slaughtered your entire family.

Weary, resilient Scotland.

You do not cry. You must show your loyalty.

“Requiescat in pace.”

Weak, fragile as Lord Grey starts to whimper aloud. No daughter should see their father, their protector through girlhood, like this.

The axe glimmers in the sunlight and is brought down with deadly precision. Your father’s head rolls grotesquely off of his shoulders in a wet gurgle. His body is shoved aside and Cambridge is pushed onto the block next, now slick with fresh blood.

Neither you nor Hal flinch.

You are now fatherless, Hal, kinless when you enter the neighboring chapel alone. You sit in the first pew respectfully, head bowed as Hal crosses himself and kneels before the altar. With his back to you, you study the firm line of his spine, his clasped hands with the beaded rosary held firmly between. Unmoving, statuesque. He prays for a long time.

Thou shalt not kill.

You wonder if God is so forgiving.

The images of angels, of Mary and Joseph and flawless purity are what drive you to march up to Hal and kiss him hard. He hums in surprise, brows furrowed, the pressure behind his mouth mirroring yours when you grip the back of his head.

You want to kill him the same way he had murdered your father. But you settle with digging your fingers into the back of his neck and relishing in the way he hisses against your lips. You fumble blindly with the fastening of his trousers.

“What are you doing?” he growls.

“Shut up.” You bite back.

You’ve never been afraid of Hal before today, you’ve had no reason to be. You’ve been so careful to build the reputation and the facade he sees, using words and sex to push him like the chesspiece you had thought him to be. And he’d pushed right back.

You want to hurt him in the only way you can.

He cries out when you suck him into your mouth with teeth and harsh pressure. You’re anything but gentle, taking him as far as you can so that you’re choking and Hal is grunting and pulling at your hair and the lewd sounds of your lips and tongue echo to the tops of the vaulted ceiling.

You’ve both lost family today. You are both selfish and full of quiet rage. The consequence of Hal’s choice is evident in how hard and wet you mold your mouth around him, how his hand tightens and pushes you farther down, wordlessly ordering you to finish him off in this holy church.

Like Christ Himself with bandaged hands, you twist and work at whatever you cannot fit between your lips. His hips snap forward, tears collecting at the corners of your eyes with burning throat, your scalp stinging from where he yanks back your hair, your linen caul disheveled. Saliva dribbles out of your mouth.

When his moans grow high and desperate, you take him out of your mouth and Hal’s release splatters white on the skin of your cheek, mouth still agape. He slumps forward on his knees, panting, as if still in prayer. The rosary dangles between his fingers.

Thou shalt not commit adultery.

The cross looms before you, silhouetted by candlelight. It is too much and you turn away.

If the change in Hal’s nature had not already been felt by all, it is seen in his dress. No longer does he donn the regalia of red cape and sceptre, but dark tunics and jackets that fit snug over the expanse of his chest. No more are the billowing robes, now replaced with tight military clothing and jackboots. A captain preparing for battle.

Hal recruits John Falstaff and countless other marshals for his campaign. It’s truly happening, you think. France will soon feel the wrath of England as your homeland and countless other countries have.

The amber necklace sparkles.

Tomorrow, Hal sets sail across the English Channel. Another crusade to add to the Hundred Years’ War. You wonder if French women are just as lustrous as the rumors suggest.

This is the last night you will be together like this for some time. The thought of Hal with another woman makes you quicken the hand you have around him and he gasps into your chest, spilling onto your thigh like that wedding night centuries ago. You’ve already made love countless times tonight, your bodies fitting together because it is only natural for two corrupt souls to find solace in the other.

Masquerading with voice and poise. A boy from Eastcheap and a Scottish girl.

As Hal shudders against you, kissing your throat and twining his fingers into your hair, he tells you he loves you.

You think you may love him too, in that twisted way of how fire craves oxygen. You need each other to fuel chaos.

You understand better than anyone the burden of a child forced to grow up, the weight of decisions and the toll it takes. Only the strong can endure such hardship, only the strong can triumph and come out on top. It has been so forever, a law as old as the world.

The speed at which Hal is already hard again makes you chuckle darkly. He pins you to the bed, hovering, eyes bearing into you before he enters you just the same.

“You were made to be beneath me,” he rasps, gripping your face with a single hand. His eyes glitter in the low light. The double entendre of his words make you rake your fingernails down his back in angry lines of red. He sucks a bite into the skin of your collarbone.

You know that when Hal returns from France, he will no longer be yours. He will be changed, most likely to marry a foreign princess to ensure peace. You think of Isabel and how she had evidently been the one to put you in this position of status, how a marriage is a man’s means to gain power. A law as old as the world.

Do you want him to be yours? The same way the English crown has raped and pillaged for the thrill of conquering the barbaric? A trophy? A prized kill? Still, the thought makes you bitter.

You say you love him back when he finds the spot below your ear, pushes your legs apart to drive into you that much harder.

There’s a bit of you that prays he will be victorious, that he will return to England and be yours again. But even if your paths do not cross in the future, you know you will see him again where the flames grow hot. Be that in his chambers or down below.

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missscarletta7 · 3 years ago

Text

The Broken Crown- Chapter 3

Summary: All Margaret Shelby ever wanted, was the opportunity to write her own story. Only now is she beginning to realize that her brother may have already written it for her...

Hello! Enjoy chapter 3! Sorry for any mistakes.

OoOoOo

"Just because we check the guns at the door

Doesn't mean our brains will change from hand grenades

You're loving on the psychopath sitting next to you

You're loving on the murderer sitting next to you

You'll think, 'How'd I get here, sitting next to you?'"

~Heathens~

1919

It was true, Ada was pregnant, last night she and Polly went to the midwife to confirm it. Maggie had woken up to her sister entering into their room sobbing about how Polly was suggesting she get rid of the baby. It was unbearable to see Ada so sad, they both fell asleep crying in each other's arms. That very next morning Maggie decided to skip school, suggesting they go to the cinema to see the film Ada had been wanting to see. Then perhaps they could go shopping at the Bullring. Maggie was eager to make a 'girls' day' out of it, and Ada seemed willing to participate.

Both girls were now halfway through the picture at the Penny Crush, sharing a large bag of popcorn. A loud slamming of the theater door caused Ada to turn around in her seat and groan. Just as Maggie was about to ask what was wrong, she noticed a dark figure hovering over her. She remained frozen in her seat as Tommy sat down in the seat next to her, thereby trapping her in between her siblings and whatever fury was about to erupt.

"Tell me the man's name, Ada." He said curtly.

"Rudolph Valentino," the older girl replied innocently, causing Maggie to sink lower into her seat. This would not end well... She didn't have to look at Tommy, to feel the agitation radiating off of him. Quickly the man stood up and walked out of the theater. Neither girl was surprised when the picture on the screen began to roll to a stop and not long after the house lights went up. Their fellow audience began murmuring as to what could have happened.

"Get out!" The gangster shouted as he reentered the theater. "All of you! Go on! Now!" Everyone recognized what was happening and immediately rushed out to the exit.

He was now standing by their aisle and would only say this to her one more time, "I said tell me his fucking name." Nonetheless, Ada remained silent, popping another buttered kernel into her mouth.

Tommy was a busy man and didn't like to be kept waiting, "Maggie," his icy blue eyes moved to meet the younger girls, "tell me the man's name."

Shaking her head slightly, Maggie tried to tell her brother she knew just as much as he did. "I don't -"

"Right fucking now, Margaret!" The volume of his voice frightened her. Never in her life had Tommy ever yelled at her like that.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Ada's voice rang out, "Freddy Fucking Thorne!" The name caused Maggie's eyes to widen and it was clear that Tommy was not expecting that name to come out of her mouth either. "Yeah, your best mate from school, the man that saved your life in France! So go on, cut him! Cut him up and chuck him in the Cut."

Angrily Tommy stormed out of the theater, however, Ada wasn't finished with her yelling. Turning her head to the back of the room where they knew a worker must have witnessed the entire event, she rose from her seat and roared, "Oi! We're Shelby's too, you know! Put our fucking film back on!"

Someone did just that as Ada plopped herself back into her chair. The lights turned off and the film began to roll, allowing the two sisters to sit in uncomfortable silence, no longer paying any attention to what was happening on the screen.

OoOoOo

Tommy was still seething when he parked the car outside of the betting shop. How could his sisters be so stupid trying to hide this information from him? How could Ada be so naïve? He knew Freddie better than anyone. He knew Freddie wouldn't give a damn about Ada or the bastard he loaded her with. All he was ever going to care about was his fruitless political agendas. No, this was all an elaborate plan to get the guns, Tommy was sure of it. He turned the engine off and stepped out of the vehicle. Taking out a cigarette, he lit it before slamming the car door and walking on.

"Mr. Shelby!" He heard a familiar voice call out to him from the other side of the road. Tommy turned to see the Murray lad speedily making his way toward him.

Tommy wasn't stopping though, and continued walking, "Not a good time, Ross." Smoke exhaling from his mouth as he spoke.

"But my uncle phoned back sir," The young man informed him, keeping up with Shelby's brisk pace.

"That so?" Tommy's voice was gruff, he gradually began to slow their pace down. The two were almost to the door of the shop now anyway. "Good of him to do the favor."

"Like my uncle needs to be told twice to go to pubs," Ross chuckled out slightly, "He claims he went to every known pub in Dublin. Says no one in the area has ever heard of a 'Grace Burgess'."

This made Tommy stop his stride, keeping his hand on the doorknob he turned to the younger man, "You've done good. Keep your ear to the ground, eh?" Ross nodded enthusiastically and turned to walk away from the gangster.

So, Grace had lied to him, Tommy thought as he turned the knob and entered the betting shop. What on earth could she be trying to hide?

OoOoOo

When Maggie entered the Garrison later that day she was parched. She wasn't planning on staying too long, she knew in about an hour or so the bar would become filled to its capacity with drunken louts. Frankly, she was in no mood to deal with it. She had been expecting to see Harry behind the bar but instead, she saw a pretty young woman in his place. She was slightly confused before realizing this must have been the barmaid Harry had been trying to hire for a while now. She had never seen this woman around Small Heath before, and Maggie could only really describe her as looking... out of place.

"What can I get you?" The barmaid asked, her Irish accent was the tell that gave away what Maggie had already suspected. This woman was indeed not from here, though it wasn't unheard of, there were lots of Irish settling here.

"Glass of water," Maggie said, settling herself onto a barstool. She pulled out her journal and pen from her bag and began to write.

"Margaret, right?" The blonde barmaid questioned as she passed a glass filled with clear liquid across the wooded bar.

The girl looked up from her work, "Do I know you?" her tone was accusatory, coming from her family when strangers knew your name, it could be dangerous.

"Grace," The blonde extended her hand, which hesitantly the younger girl shook. "Tommy's mentioned you."

"Oh," was all Maggie could sound out. She moved the glassware closer to her, eyes narrowing slightly. Tommy had mentioned her to some new barmaid? She found that suspect.

"Don't worry, only good things." She assured Maggie hurriedly, grabbing a wet cloth to wipe down the counter. It was true, Tommy had talked of the girl, but he had been discussing family matters with his brothers, while she subtly eavesdropped. Hoping to change the subject, Grace went on, "What are you working on?"

Maggie's focus went back to the half-written page. "Just writing."

"I've heard you hope to be a novelist. Maybe I can read some of your work one day?" As soon as the words left Grace's mouth, the barmaid knew she had prodded a bit too hard when the dark-haired girl's head shot up.

"I don't really share my work with others," Maggie said protectively, subconsciously moving her arms to cover her work.

"It's only a story if it gets shared." The older woman shrugged. This was something Maggie had been hearing a lot lately. Before Maggie could respond, their conversation was ultimately interrupted by a shouting match that broke out between two of the regulars, which ended with three other men separating them. "Seems to happen a lot around here," Grace observed.

"You get used to it." Maggie replied uninterestedly, "Didn't you have men fighting in pubs wherever you've come from?"

"There would be," she answered calmly. The dark-haired girl tried to go back to her writing, but she could still feel the blonde's gaze on her.

"What?" Maggie asked somewhat exasperated.

"What's the real reason your brother doesn't allow singing?" Grace probed, leaning against the bar.

Growing up, her family instilled her with the mantra of 'Don't answer questions. Instead of responding to the barmaid's query, she downed the last of her water, which tasted a little of beer, roughly setting down the glassware onto the bar with a klink. Unable to write under the circumstances of inquiries and brawling and anyway, Maggie hopped off of the bar stool. With a final look at the blonde leaning against the counter, she said "Welcome to Birmingham," before exiting the building.

Graces' eyes were fixed on the girl as she left, perhaps she could be useful.

OoOoOo

Maggie felt a little lonely that next afternoon, Polly had finally convinced Ada to "do the right thing". They were on their way to get the procedure done in Cardiff to avoid any rumors and gossip. They left early this morning and Maggie had begged to go with them, but her Aunt thought it was best she stayed in Small Heath. She was about to leave her home to meet up with Cara when she unsuspectingly met her aunt at the door.

"Didn't expect to see you back this early," the girl said as Polly gently pushed past her. Looking out through the threshold, Maggie had expected to see her sister in tow, "Where's Ada?"

"Freddie came back," Polly spoke angrily.

"That's good, isn't it?" Maggie asked cautiously, closing the door before she followed her aunt back into the kitchen, who was now leaning her body against the counter.

"It would be if the stubborn fool would just get out of Birmingham. He's defying Tommy's orders, refusing to leave and he's going to drag Ada into his fucking mess." Polly lit a cigarette, inhaling and exhaling smoke. "I've been walking around the past hour trying to strategize what the next move should be."

"And what move did you decide?"

"Tell Tommy," Polly replied immediately.

Maggie nodded slowly before uttering, "I'd really love to watch you play chess sometime."

It was obvious Polly didn't appreciate her niece's sarcasm, "What else can I bloody do?"

"You sho-" But before the girl could finish, she was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

"All right?" Tommy greeted entering the home, causing Maggie to avoid eye contact with him. She had been successful in dodging him since he yelled at her yesterday. Instead of staying in the kitchen with her family, she quickly exchanged a look with Polly, before silently exiting the room through the doors of the betting shop and out of the residence.

She had not even walked five meters away from the home when she heard, "Maggie, thank Christ!"

The girl stopped and turned around to see John trying to catch up to her. "What's wrong?" She asked, genuinely concerned.

"I need your help," he informed her, removing his toothpick from his mouth, "Can you look after the kids today?" He pointed his thumb back to near the Shelby home where a seven-year-old James, two six-year-old twins, Izzy and Ben, and finally four-year-old Katie were all roughhousing.

At that moment, Maggie wished she had pretended not to have heard him or even stopped, "I can't, I'm on my way to go meet Cara in the park."

His exhausted eyes perked up, "That's perfect! Take them with you, let them run around 'til they tire out!"

"What, all four?" Her eyes shifted once again to the hooligans, who were now hitting each other with rubbish from the bins. "Are you mad?"

"Please Mags, they're driving me up the bloody wall." Her brother pleaded.

"Well don't punish me, I'm not the one who procreated!" Maggie whined. She was ready to decline his request until she looked into his sad eyes, sighing out, "You owe me."

He jerked her into his arms embracing her, "You're aces, you are." Pulling away he turned back to face the direction of his children "Oi!" John shouted out to his children, who all briefly stopped their brawling. "You lot, mind your Aunt Mags! She's going to look after you today!"

All four of them ran towards Maggie excitedly and her brother thanked her once again before heading into the shop. "C'mon," She sighed out to them, allowing little Katie to take her hand as they all made their way to Garrison Lane Park. It wasn't too much of a walk for them, about ten minutes. She found Cara sitting on one of the wooden benches.

"Hello, Cara," Maggie waved to her friend while her nieces and nephews took off running to the large patch of grass in the center of the small park.

"On babysitting duty, are we?" Raising an eyebrow at the children, who were now hitting each other with the little sticks that had fallen off the trees.

"They're demons," Maggie grumbled, as Cara rose from the bench. They soon began to walk the square trail around the perimeter of the park, every so often her eyes would glance over to the noisy kids. She loved Johns' children, but they were a handful. She had no idea how Martha was able to raise them on her own all those years. "After taking care of them it makes any woman not want children of her own."

The blonde laughed, "Leave it to Ada then eh?" Her comment triggered confusion. How did Cara know about Ada's pregnancy if she hadn't told her about it yet? Though she didn't have to wait too long for an answer, "Your sister came into the shop. Took a gorgeous white dress and veil, and she even wore it out of the store. Why didn't you tell me that Ada was getting married?" Cara paused, smile faltering. "Did you not know?"

Quickly Maggie wiped any emotion off of her face. "I shouldn't be surprised." It wasn't the fact that she was unhappy about the news of Ada's marriage, it was the fact that she wasn't even invited to witness it.

Cara seemed to notice the change of mood in her friend and thankfully had the tact to change the subject. "Have you heard from Ross lately?"

Maggie shook her head, "Not for a few days, why?"

She was silent for a moment before sighing, "Think I may have scared him off." Maggie stared at her waiting for an explanation before Cara obliged, "I told him how I felt as he was walking me home yesterday."

Maggie's jaw dropped, "No way! What did he say?"

"He said he didn't see me as anything more than a friend," Cara replied, disappointment dripping off every word. "And that there's someone else he was interested in."

Maggie's stomach dropped, "Who?" She asked cautiously.

"I dunno." The blonde sadly confessed.

"Well, he's an idiot," Maggie affirmed, earning a small chuckle from her friend.

That next afternoon, Maggie went into the kitchen and tried her best to heat up some vegetable stock in a pot on the last working burner. Yet, no matter how much she twisted the knob for the gas, the flame of the match would not ignite the burner. She tried again, lighting a new match and held it at the tips of her fingers. As she did so she couldn't stop all the emotions from bubbling up inside. Firstly there was anger, John had up and left his children overnight without any consideration to Maggie whatsoever. Though thankfully all four children were still upstairs sleeping. Secondly, she felt anxious about Cara and Ross’s current situation. At the very back of her mind, she couldn't help but think she already knew the reason Ross rejected her friend. She hoped she was wrong... Finally, she felt hurt about Ada's wedding. The lack of an invitation cut her deeper than she originally thought.

The match she pinched in between the fingers eventually died out, and once again Maggie lit yet another, hoping that this time the gas would absorb the flame. Would it have killed Ada to send a message about the event? Why couldn't Ross just return Cara's feelings? And where the bloody hell was John?!

Due to her lack of attention, the match in her hand finally burned one of her fingers. "Fuck!" She shouted, dropping the small stick onto the floor. She brought her hand to her face and sucked lightly on her tingling thumb.

"What's got you cursing then, Mags?" She jumped in place, gasping in shock she spun around to where she heard the voice. Standing in the doorway of the betting shop was an amused-looking Arthur.

"Jesus, you scared me!" Clutching at her chest she managed to catch her breath, "We need a new stove Arthur, the last burner went out."

"I'll talk to Tom about it," her brother assured her. "We can afford it now, soon we'll be having a shit ton of more money coming in."

Her eyebrows furrowed, "What d'you mean?"

"We're moving up in the world, legitimate business is the goal Mags," Arthur informed her, gladly sitting in one of the wooden chairs. "Got me a pub to put all our cash in. Things are looking up."

He continued to smile at her brightly as she crossed her arms across her chest asking her brother simply, "What pub?"

OoOoOo

Again, Lily heard the footsteps of her father pacing in his room…

These were the words Maggie had just finished writing in her journal. She had found that writing in her home that morning had become increasingly difficult in the past month. John had brought his children to number seventeen to be looked after yet again, so the home was filled with constant crying and yelling. The peace and quiet of the Garrison had become her safe haven. The only problem was...

"Your usual, Miss." Maggie looked up from her half-written page to see Grace, who placed a glass of water in front of her onto the bar with a small clink.

"Thanks," Maggie mumbled out, begrudgingly taking a sip from the glass.

"You, young lady, are going to be hearing a lot more singing," Grace told her excitedly. "I made a deal with your brother."

Maggie stared back at her unimpressed, "It would have been safer to make one with the devil."

Grace smiled, "I would have, but the Devil has a much longer queue." The blonde could have sworn that she spotted a smirk on the girl's face even though she tried her best to hide it. She had been persistent in befriending the youngest Shelby girl. Grace was sure Maggie had to know something, but she was careful in executing her plan because despite the girl's young age she was clever.

Unfortunately, Grace had gotten nowhere by the time Maggie packed up her bag and left the pub. As she exited and walked in the direction of her home, she noticed a woman was hurriedly running down the cobblestone street. Maggie could not believe her eyes, "Ada?" She asked in disbelief. "Where have-"

"Tommy!" Her sister interrupted, grabbing her shoulders, "Where is he?!"

Maggie could only shake her head, "I don't know."

"He's gonna kill him!" She cried pushing past her sister and ran towards the entrance of the pub.

Maggie turned to follow her, "Wait-What? - Who's killing who?! Ada!"

Ada shoved the doors open and began to look around the room, searching for her brother or husband.

Upon seeing the commotion Grace walked towards them. "Maggie what's going on?"

"Have you seen Freddie Throne?" Ada asked her immediately.

"No," Grace replied, instantly recognizing the name of the man who Campbell was searching for.

It was then Ada began to experience pain. "Or Tommy?" She was able to grit out.

"C'mon Ada sit down," Maggie told her worriedly, grabbing her arm to move her into a seat.

"No!" She cried, pulling out of her sister's grasp and moved towards the door to leave, but Maggie was able to catch up to her, seizing her sisters' arm again.

"Can you at least tell me what you're on about?!" The younger girl pleaded.

"Tommy keeps trying to make us leave," Ada sighed. "And Freddie is too bloody stubborn to listen to any of us. He wants to stay here with his comrades. I got word that he was asking around where Tommy might be. They're going to hurt each other; I just know it! I have to find them!"

"Drink this first," Grace ordered, walking over toward the sisters, handing over a glass of water to the eldest.

But Ada refused, "No, I have to find them! I think they're going to kill each other!"

"Wait. Who is going to kill who?" Grace questioned gently.

"My sister thinks her husband is going to kill Tommy," Maggie explained. "Or vice versa." Frankly, she really couldn’t decipher who was in more danger.

Grace looked from Maggie back to the anxious face of the mother-to-be, "Ada is it?" Grace asked, to which the pregnant woman nodded. "Your sister is right, you should sit."

Ada stared at the blonde before catching the pleading look Maggie was giving her and complied with the request. Maggie led her sister to a chair and sat down beside her.

"Did you want to talk about it?" The barmaid asked, leaning back in the wooden chair she had just sat into, crossing her arms. When Ada remained silent Grace added, "My father used to say, 'you'll never plow a field by turning it over in your head.' So, you may as well talk while you got the company."

"I just wish they would stop fighting over the same thing." Ada sighed, wringing her fingers in her lap.

"And what thing is that?" Grace pressed, leaning forward slightly.

Ada shook her head, saying tearfully, "Freddie won't tell me. He keeps things from me. He won't even listen to me. And Tommy-" She sniffed before adding, "Tommy keeps everything locked up too."

Maggie placed a hand on her sisters, squeezing it slightly, "He's just trying to keep us all safe, Ada." As much as Maggie was annoyed with her brother at the moment, she knew Tommy would move heaven and earth to ensure the safety of his family. Though Ada didn't seem to believe her sister's sentiments.

"I better go," Ada said after a few moments of silence and at last lifted herself out of the chair.

Maggie rose from her seat too, "I'll go with you." She had missed her sister so much and was excited at the prospect of speaking with her, feeling the need to soak in her sisterly words of wisdom on her current problems.

"No, Mags, I think he may have gone back to the flat, and I can't let you follow me there. It's not safe." Ada told her sadly but nevertheless hugged her sister tightly before exiting the pub without seeing the hurt that flashed across her little sister's face.

Grace's ears had perked up at Ada's words, this may be a chance to learn and report where the communist lives. She had to leave the bar quickly and inconspicuously. Grace rose from her chair too, "Well I suppose I should g-"

However, at the same time, Maggie asked, "Can I ask you something?"

The Irish woman looked at the girl hesitantly before replying, "Of course." She sank back into her chair, giving a fleeting glance toward the door.

Maggie sighed out and sat back down as well, "What do you do if you think someone may like you as more than a friend, but you don't think that you could see them the same way back?"

"Then you don't be with them" Grace leaned over the counter placing both her elbows on the table, "And you wait for the person you do feel that way about."

"I don't see that happening," She wasn't sure if she could ever love anyone more than the words she wrote in her journal.

Grace then places a hand over Maggie's, "If it doesn't, then it doesn't, you'll still have your family, friends... your stories."

The girl smiled at her words. Perhaps she shouldn't have given the barmaid the cold shoulder. She was obviously just a kind-hearted woman, who was just trying to make friends in a new city.

"Would you like to hear the first few pages of my story?" She asked hopefully.

Grace forced a smile, "I would like that very much."

Maggie beamed at the answer, and opened her journal to the first page, "Long ago when she was young, she believed that what she saw in her dreams could be a vision of what was to come..."

OoOoOo

Early the following morning she found herself sitting on top of the family car, with her journal sitting in her lap, she scribbled down words quickly. Talking about her work yesterday evening with Grace had been a revelation. A creative spark had overcome her as they spoke of possible themes, symbols, and imagery she could possibly use in her work. Eventually, she was taken out of her thoughts by a familiar voice, "Didn't think I'd see you up this early on a weekend."

"All right Ross?" She hadn't seen him in quite a while, he had altogether stopped walking her and Cara after school. "Where are you off to then?"

"Heading to meet with your brothers. I'm going to help the Peaky Blinders take on the Lees at Cheltenham." Ross replied, hoping she would be impressed at the news.

Her mind flashed back to that day when she last saw the Lees and what her brothers did. It made her stomach churn at what they may make her friend do. Staring into his hazel eyes she asked him quietly, "Why are you helping them with this?"

The smile dropped from his face and he remained silent at the question, so she continued, her voice a bit harder now, "You're no gangster, why are you pretending to be?"

His shoulders shrugged, "It's a good opportunity," he replied, but Maggie couldn't hold back her mirthless laugh. "And I'm not pretending to be anybody" Ross’s tone more indignant this time.

Maggie felt herself getting irritated now, "It's sad that you really think that."

"The hell is that supposed to mean?" His facial expression tried to remain indifferent, but she could tell that he was cross.

"I mean that just because you want to be a fucking criminal it doesn't give you the right to break my best friends heart!"

"So, this is about what I said to Cara?" He realized furiously, scoffing out, "Are you fucking serious?"

"You knew how she felt about you!"

"What the hell was I supposed to do? Lie to her?!"

"You-" Maggie didn't finish her sentence because their argument was interrupted by someone clearing their throat. Both teens' heads turned to see an annoyed-looking Tommy standing there with a cigarette in between his fingers. Neither knew how long the gang leader had been standing there.

Tommy looked over to Ross, telling him stiffly, "You're late. Off you fucking pop, the rest of the men have already gone to Charlies."

"Yes sir," Ross nodded, and with a final look to the girl, he walked off in the direction of Charlie's Yard.

"And you," Tommy turned to face his little sister, "Get off, I don't need your arse print on my car. I'm taking it to Curly before the races." Closing her journal, she allowed herself to slide off the hood easily with the fabric of her skirt. Once her feet were back on the ground, she began to head towards the front door of the home.

"You've been avoiding me," Tommy continued, causing his sister to stop and shrug. To be honest, she had gotten over her brother's words a while ago. Nevertheless, their relationship remained awkward the past few weeks. For Tommy, this silent treatment was starting to become unbearably annoying. "I didn't mean to yell at you that day at the cinema." Believing that was as close as Tommy was ever going to get to an apology she nodded and continued her walk back to their residence.

"Mags," He called out to her once more. She turned around to see he was already in the driver's seat of the car, "We all have to pretend in order to get by in this world," He stated this as if it were a universal truth, "Even us fucking criminals."

With that he started the engine and drove off, leaving his sister standing motionless in place.

#peaky blinders fanfiction #tommy shelby #oc #shelbysister #john shelby #ada shelby #finn shelby #peakyblinders #polly gray #alfie solomons #1920

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treatian · 3 years ago

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The Chronicles of the Dark One: Magical Loopholes

Chapter 55: The Cost of Magic

By the time the sun rose, and he ventured quickly out to his home to shower and change before returning, he had a plan.

He wasn't proud of it. Belle would hate it. This nicer, gentler version of Regina probably would too, but he preferred not to do it alone and suspected that magic would require he didn't do it alone.

He hadn't been idle all night, all those hours he'd spent spinning by the wheel, he'd been thinking, working things out in his head. He didn't know what plan the women had in mind to use, but he knew it involved a portal. A portal was the only thing guaranteed to bring them back to this realm without bringing the others with them. If they wished to leave Cora behind, he had to believe that was what they would use. If he knew where the portal was going to come out of, he could set a trap. He could make it so that anyone who tried to come through died before they made it.

The downside? It potentially meant Emma and Mary Margaret would die too if, by some miracle, they had gotten the message and were on their way.

The upside? It guaranteed that Cora would not enter this world. Of course, there was the trouble with the Seer's prophecy. But maybe it wasn't Emma who would take him to Bae. Maybe he'd misinterpreted the Seer's prophecy; it certainly wouldn't be the first time. Perhaps it was Cinderella. Maybe all he needed was Cinderella and August. Or maybe Belle was the female presence he'd felt beside him in those visions. Emma had served her purpose for the Curse and as for Mary Margaret and David…

It was tragic they'd never be together again, that David would never wake from the Sleeping Curse, but not as tragic as the havoc Cora was capable of if she came to Storybrooke.

No, Belle wouldn't like this one bit, all the plotting and planning, all the deception…but it was for her that he was doing this. He couldn't let her be used as Regina had already used her. Not by anyone, but especially not by Cora. And he was certain, without a doubt in his mind, that if Cora showed up, then she'd go straight for Belle, if for no other reason other than it would hurt him.

He turned around at the sound of his bell ringing over the door, though he could already feel Regina's magic before he spotted her. What he hadn't planned on was seeing her alone. Henry wasn't with her.

"He wanted to pick something up from David's apartment first, and I let him go so I could get here first," Regina explained without needed a prompt. All the time, she kept walking, moving closer and closer to the back room. "How is he?"

He motioned his head in the direction of the curtain. "See for yourself."

She didn't need the words, she was already practically in the back when he'd muttered them, and he flipped through his books as he waited for her to return, waited for the bell to ring again, signaling Henry's arrival. However, he was secretly hoping the retrieval of whatever object he needed might take some time. It would be better to have the conversation he wanted to have with Regina with him outside of the building.

"Any change?" he inquired when Regina finally walked back into the front room. By the look on her face, he didn't have much faith there was anything different.

"No," she responded predictably. "He's not improving. He needs True Love's Kiss. He won't wake up until Mary Margaret comes back."

"Until? Well, that's rather optimistic, isn't it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"They're up against your mother. The only chance Snow and Emma have of defeating her is with the squid ink."

"Which is why you sent the message through David."

"Which would be beneficial if we knew that message were delivered. But alas, given the prince's condition, we don't know. As such, it's important we take precautions. We have to consider the possibility that, when that portal opens, it won't be his family that comes through. It'll be Cora."

Regina gapped at the very suggestion. He knew that she wouldn't like the plan, but he didn't need her to like it. He only needed her to agree with it.

"And neither one of us wants that," she concluded for him.

He gave a slight nod and moved away from the counter, glancing out the window to be sure Henry was still nowhere in sight. Still away…that was good. He had an argument to convince Regina, and it would be much better to make without the boy present.

"We have to find where they're coming through and destroy that portal."

"But whoever came through would die," Regina pointed out, following after him.

"Exactly," he confirmed, knowing he was getting to the part he suspected she wasn't going to enjoy. "But I'm confident between the two of us, we can summon up enough magic to complete the task."

"Well, what if we're wrong? What if that portal opens up, and it's not my mother? What if Mary Margaret and Emma do defeat Cora and go through it?"

"Well, I believe in this world, they call that a win-win," he stated, suddenly glad he'd thought about this response last night.

"How exactly is that?"

"If we stop Cora, you are protected from your mother's wrath. If, on the other hand, we stop Snow and Emma, well…you become the only mother in your son's life, now, don't you?"

He waited for a response, but she said nothing as he watched her eyes widen as the full realization of what he was saying hit her. No, she really wasn't going to like it.

"Look, magic is unpredictable in this world. If something unfortunate were to happen while you were attempting to help…Henry could hardly blame you for that, could he?"

"No. I can't lie to him. I am trying to be a better mother."

He fought back the urge to roll his eyes, to growl at her. Did she not think that he wasn't trying to be "better" for Belle? Did she not think that this was just as unpleasant for him as it was for her? He knew the risks, he knew the cost of this, but he also knew the cost of letting Cora into this world, around those he loved. Didn't she see that?

"You won't be able to be a better anything if Cora comes through," he warned, taking careful, measured steps toward her. "And if she does, she will be a threat to everyone, including your son. So, if you truly want to be a good mother to Henry, to protect him, if you want to be better, prove it," he snapped.

Tears gathered in her eyes as she stared unseeing into him, thinking through the options in her own mind, hopefully coming to the same conclusion that he had, the conclusion that he wanted her to come to.

Suddenly the bell over the shop rang. Henry sprinted in, a thick book under his arm. He appeared well-rested, and he suspected that if he asked, he'd say he hadn't had any dreams of the Red Room but had probably hoped he would. But the boy took one look between the two of them, and his face fell immediately.

"What's wrong? Is David-"

"He's still asleep, Henry," Regina breathed, offering a small smile. "I'm sorry."

Henry's face fell, he slouched his shoulders a bit as he took a breath. For one quiet moment, it was as if the boy's sadness had sucked up the air in the room. But then the boy shrugged. He straightened his back and put a forced smile on his face.

"That's okay. I brought something that can help from the apartment. It worked once before, during the Curse. Maybe it'll help this time too," he offered, looking at Regina.

She nodded but didn't share words as Henry went back into the back of the shop with his book. He studied his former pupil's face, measured her reactions and emotions. Her breaths were steady, they were controlled, but he could smell the fear and the shame on her a mile away. He could gauge the lost look in her eyes all too easily. And try as she might, she'd never be able to stop the erratic pounding of her heartbeat. She was conflicted, and he couldn't say that he didn't understand that feeling. He'd had all night to ponder the choices ahead of him, to wrestle with them, to feel that same conflict she did and come to the conclusion he was asking her to make now. He understood her turmoil, truly he did. Some part of him even acknowledged the cruelty of it because he was expecting her to come to the conclusion he'd made in hours in only a matter of minutes. But this was where they were at. They were running out of time. They might even be too late as it was. The time for decisions was upon them.

Finally, Regina took a slow breath and turned to the curtain Henry had disappeared behind as if to make sure he wasn't really gone. "If I agree to something like this…" she whispered, "what do you have in mind?"

"A union of magic," he answered in an equally quiet voice. "An alliance as you suggested yesterday. It's going to take a lot of magic to seal a portal, but it can be done. With a kernel of your magic and mine…and some fairy dust."

"Fairy dust?"

"David was going to use it to open a portal, it stands to reason we should be able to put up a barrier around the exit. If we electrify the exit, create a net of sorts, it'll ensure no one gets through. If it's your mother, then this time, we'll make sure the body really is dead."

"And if it's Emma and Mary Margaret?"

"I'll handle it."

"David would never wake up."

"You of all people, Your Majesty, should know that when it comes to a curse, you can never say 'never," he chastised, though he wasn't entirely sure why he cared about giving her that hope. It probably had more to do with his conscience than his own. "Unlikely, perhaps, but 'never'…that's a strong word."

Regina swallowed hard and nodded. "Give it until lunch."

He sighed in frustration. They didn't have time for this. "Need I remind you that without a return confirmation from David, that portal could open at any moment."

"We wait until lunch, and then I make my decision."

"We wait until lunch, and you are welcome to make your decision, but know this. If he's not awake, then after lunch, I've made my decision. I will protect Belle from your family. Even if the cost is losing her."

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elizabeethan · 4 years ago

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My Hands, Your Hands

Chapter 1 / 2

Part 2

After being cheated on by her boyfriend, Emma Nolan moves in with her older brother David and his two stupid roommates, Will and Killian. After a night of drinking games and plenty of rum, Emma lands on the one rule that she'd rather avoid: "The Iron Curtain- player to your left."

Modern Captain Swan AU based on the New Girl episode where Nick and Jess go behind the Iron Curtain

Read on AO3

Killian got a new leather jacket in the mail and wouldn’t take it off. Like, he would not take it off. He keeps walking around in it saying stupid things like, “it really makes my hips pop,” and “I know it’s black, but it’s, like, a different kind of black. It brings out my eyes.” Emma is seriously about to lose it. What makes matters worse is the fact that David and Will aren’t trying to stop him from acting as stupid as he is. They’re amping him up because they want to go out tonight, and it’s very un-fun going out with Killian when he’s down in the dumps about Milah. Still.

Milah broke up with Killian months before Emma moved in. She had been cheated on by her long-term boyfriend Neal and needed a new place, and the only place with a room available happened to be her older brother’s loft, which happened to be filled with three grown men who act like children. Killian apparently took his breakup pretty hard, although she doubts he was as openly and embarrassingly emotional as she was. According to David, Milah was the one who got away. Evidently, she loved Kilian, but had to let him go. Her words, not Emma’s. Also evident was the fact that she very quickly moved into another’s man’s apartment after dumping his ass.

So, while Emma had managed to get over Neal, she thinks rather successfully, Killian was still nursing that post-breakup hangover and hadn’t been out with the guys in several months. David usually doesn’t go out drinking, Emma assumes because he is in a long-term, committed relationship, so this is apparently momentous. Will is very excited to get out and get laid as he so eloquently put it. And now, with Killian’s new-found confidence thanks to a leather duster, he plans on getting laid as well.

She has to admit, despite how obnoxious and childish he’s being, the black leather does work very well on him. His fair skin and dark hair compliment it, his muscular shoulders fit inside perfectly, and his ocean blue eyes truly do stand out.

She immediately shakes that thought out of her head.

Emma plans to stay home alone tonight; her current fling Walsh is working, and her best friend Ruby has a date. She could try and call Mary Margaret, David’s aforementioned girlfriend, but the two of them are more… daytime friends. Meaning, they get along great when they're doing adult things like having brunch or decorating the loft, but when it comes to Emma’s more childish side (read: drinking in excess) she sometimes feels as though Mary Margaret disapproves. Almost as if she’s the mom friend, but in a way that makes Emma feel like she could actually be her mother. This could be because she’s dating Emma’s older brother, or it could be because Mary Margaret has basically the purest soul of anyone Emma has ever met. Perhaps a combination of both.

Honestly, Emma would totally go out with the guys tonight. But apparently that wouldn’t work in their favor.

“I’m so down,” Emma exclaimed when Will announced their plans, jumping off the counter and imagining what outfit she would wear. She hasn’t been out in weeks and it wouldn’t kill her to act like a single lady for a night.

“No way.” Killian practically jumped out of his own seat and stood directly in front of her, blocking her way to her bedroom. “You can’t come. I actually want to get laid tonight. You’d just get in the way.”

“Excuse me!”

“You would! Do you know how difficult it would be to get a woman to come home with me with you present? There’s no way you’re coming,” Killian says, rather rudely.

“He’s right, Emma. It’d just make it harder for us guys if a lady was there,” Will added, shrugging and making the most insincerely apologetic face.

“Maybe I can call Mary Margaret and see if she wants to hang out with you tonight?”

So now she’s stuck at home. Emma spent the rest of the evening glaring at Killian before they left. She could also place equal blame on Will and David, but Killian is easier to glare at. Each time she looks over at him and narrowed her eyes, he shoots her a stupid, cocky grin and waggles his eyebrows.

“Don’t wait up for us, Swan. Although, it may be difficult to sleep by the time we get home. We are right across the hall from one another, so if you think me and my lady friend are being too loud, well… just try and block it out.” Everything that Killian says to her is a joke, but that doesn’t make her glare any softer.

“Shut up, Jones. You’d be lucky to get anyone to come home with you. Women will take one look at your stupid jacket and run for the hills,” she scoffs, pinching the fabric at his collar and dismissively flicking it away from her.

“You said you liked my jacket!” His eyes grow twice their normal size and he feigns hurt, placing his right hand over his heart and gasping.

“Just tell me you’re not actually going to wear it out tonight. It’s so long and flowy I feel like I could’ve worn it to prom.”

“I’m sure it would look wonderful on you, love. But I think it will look better on my bedroom floor,” he says, another waggle in his thick brows. Emma glowers and groans.

“You’re so stupid! Who says that?”

“Oh, you love my sense of humor, Swan, don’t try and fight it,” he says in a low voice, leaning in closer to her and looking at her through his long lashes.

“I’ve told you so many times to stop calling me that.” Emma rolls her eyes and turns around towards her bedroom, but his hand catches the crook of her elbow.

“It’s funny. That’s one of the best things I’ve ever seen. Why wouldn’t you want me to continuously memorialize it?”

“It’s not funny! I was attacked!”

Killian chuckles and let’s go of her arm, a soft smile now decorating his face. “You’ll be alright here tonight, aye Swan? I didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome.”

Emma rolls her eyes again as she walks into her bedroom and Killian follows. “Yes, you did. And it’s fine, I get it. Wouldn’t want anyone to get in the way of Killian Jones’s great conquest,” she says sarcastically, waving jazz hands in front of his eyes.

It was Killian’s turn to roll his eyes now, blue disappearing behind his lids as he scoffs and smirks. He shakes his head leaves his place in her threshold.

~~~

Emma didn’t always like Killian. Okay, she doesn’t really like him that much now, but when she first moved in, she couldn’t stand him. He was completely cocky, which David explained was a symptom of his difficult breakup. Apparently, it was arduous for him to get over the love of his life without acting like an asshole. Emma’s not sure what Will’s excuse was; the youngest of the three, he seems to get into the most trouble. David’s the oldest of the group, and also the most mature. He takes on a caretaking role rather effortlessly, just as he always has with Emma.

As she sits at home alone, she becomes so desperately bored that she considers organizing her closet. However, knowing that that would never happen, she chooses to put on a scary movie and make some popcorn.

When it ends, she decides to call Walsh while she thinks he’s on his break. Lately, even though they’ve only been seeing each other casually for about a month, she’s been feeling as if he expects much more from her than she’s willing to give. It seems as if he wants a committed relationship, although he hasn’t come out and said it, and she’s been feeling pressure to act more like a girlfriend.

Of course, it’s only natural that the hot water pipes should clang loudly in this moment, causing her to scream and throw what’s left of her popcorn right as she finishes up her voicemail.

“Swan,” she hears from outside the door. “Swan?” Killian swings the door open with fervor; his brows twisted into a concerned arch. David and Will were behind him, along with one of the most beautiful women Emma has ever seen. She offhandedly wonders who she decided to go home with.

“Hi,” she replies, reaching down to pick up some of the popcorn that went flying around her. “How was your night?”

“It was great, Emma. I’d like you to meet Sabine,” Will cuts in and gestures towards the woman with a cheeky grin on his face. “Sabine, this is my totally platonic roommate, Emma.”

“Nice to meet you,” Sabine says with a small wave and an oddly flirty smile. “This is a great place you guys have.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Killian tells me you created a great drinking game, and the vibe at the bar was totally off, so we thought we’d check it out. Mind if we play?” Emma finds it interesting that Will seems to think he brought Sabine home, but Sabine appears to be all over Killian. Killian starts towards Emma now, and miraculously takes off his stupid jacket before sitting on the arm of the chair she’s in, smirking. The asshole.

“Sure, that’s fine. Everyone needs a drink and we need to find the dice and board though,” she turns her attention to Will. If he thinks she’s helping set this up, he’s got another thing coming. “I’ll take a rum and coke.”

Killian’s looking down at her still, so she looks back at him and glares once again. “Can I help you with something?”

“Aye,” he says softly, reaching his right hand towards her face. She thinks she almost feels her lashes fluttering at his soft touch, until she feels a slight pull of a few strands of hair at the top of her head.

“Ow, what the hell?”

“More popcorn, love. How’d that get there?” She rolls her eyes (yes, again), and takes the kernel from his hand, tempted to throw it at him.

“I don’t know. Maybe I was saving it for later, and now you’ve just ruined my midnight snack.” Killian laughs- actually throws his head back and laughs, before raising his right arm over her shoulders and sliding himself into the chair she’s in, effectively squishing the both of them.

“Again, what the hell,” she asks, her tone incredulous and hostile.

“Not enough seats, love. Ruby’s on her way.”

“How would you know that? And why wouldn’t I just share a seat with Ruby?”

“We text from time to time, mostly about you,” he says, his brows switching places as he raises one and lowers the other.

“Shup up, you idiot,” she says with an eye roll. Pretty soon, they’re going to get stuck up there. At least, she thinks that’s what Mary Margaret would tell her. Killian chuckles deeply in response and she thinks she feels him squeezing his arm tighter around her shoulder. She knows he put it there to annoy her, but she doesn’t particularly mind, what with her irrational scare a few minutes before. “So, what the hell are you doing home this early?”

“It’s like Sabine said, Swan, the vibe at the bar was totally off,” he says sarcastically, clearly poking fun at Will’s new friend.

“So off that you couldn’t get anyone to come home with you? With that jacket?” Emma feigns shock, putting her hands to her cheeks and raising her brows, painting herself with a concerned expression. “Sabine seems to think you guys make a great match.”

“Wasn’t really interested, I suppose. She’s better suited for Will.”

“Please,” she scoffs, “she’s hot as hell, and earlier you literally said, and I quote, ‘I actually want to get laid tonight.’” Her take on his accent is truly terrible.

His response is minimal, simply a shrug of his right shoulder as he works his way out of the chair that he wedged the two of them into. “You know you aren’t getting that drink from Will. You want a lime?” She nods, looking at him incredulously. They’ve lived together for nine months and he still acts like he doesn’t know what she drinks. It’s not as if they don’t drink together nearly every weekend.

~~~

The game started only once everyone finally got their shit together. It’s true, Emma did create an awesome drinking game. A poster board and Mary Margaret’s artistic abilities quickly allowed for the creation of a game somewhere in between Candy Land and Monopoly. Okay, not really, but the concept is similar. Emma’s game states that the player roles a die and moves their game piece the appropriate number of spaces, then completes the task in the square they land on. Many of the tasks are drinking related. The game was created while they were all drunk.

Emma roles the die and moves five spaces, commanded to drink because she’s from out of state. Killian must drink as well, and so must Sabine. Killian roles next and drinks because he doesn’t have brown eyes. Emma and David drink here too. At some point, Ruby does show up and complains about her date with the doctor named Whale. Emma thinks that anyone named after an animal cannot be trusted. Then she stops herself, remembering the stupid name Killian gave her.

The game goes on for many rounds, and each of them get drunker with each role of the die. Eventually, Sabine lands on Never Have I Ever, and the loser must finish their drink, while everyone also takes a sip for each finger they put down. Emma, Ruby, and David all have one finger left, and it’s Killian’s turn to call a rule. He stares her dead in the face and smirks, one brow raised higher than she even thought was possible.

“Alright, never have I ever…” he pauses, moving his right hand up to pinch his bottom lip and jut his jaw forward, his tongue running along his lip. Fuck, Emma thinks. I must be drunk. “Never have I ever been attacked in a park by the local wildlife.”

Emma freezes and glares in his direction while everyone else laughs. She was holding up her pointer finger, but she drops it and replaces it with her middle. Then, despite the fogginess in her brain, she picks up her glass and takes another swig of her third perfectly made rum and coke.

Once she finishes what’s in her glass, it’s her turn to role, and she lands on the one square that only one other person has ever landed on: The Iron Curtain- player to your left.

In her drunken state, Emma’s not sure how well she hid her horror. She does not want to go behind the Iron Curtain. Only once was this rule played out, and it was the night that sparked silence between Ruby and Will for two weeks afterwards.

Ruby cheers and stands up excitedly, jumping for joy and spilling her wine in the process. David groans and says she doesn’t have to do this. Sabine looks at Will, clearly wondering what the hell is going on.

Emma has to go behind the giant metal sliding door and kiss someone. Specifically, she has to kiss the person to her left.

When she looks to her left, all she sees is a sea of blue covered by thick black brows. “No way,” he says.

“It’s the rules!” Ruby has never looked more excited, and her wolfish grin is very off-putting.

“No! I’m not kissing Killian!”

“Well I’m not kissing you!”

“Oh, come on, we’re all adults here! It’ll literally take a minute,” Ruby tries to reason unsuccessfully.

“A minute? How long do you think we’re going to be kissing? I’m certainly not kissing my best friend’s sister for a full minute.” He looks over at her and shrugs.

“That’s a great point, Killian,” David chimes in.

“Nothing from you, pal,” Will pipes up. “The rules state that she must go behind the Iron Curtain with the person to her left. She should’ve sat next to Ruby and this whole thing could’ve been avoided.” His attempt at lightening the mood is truly upsetting.

“Okay, fuck this. If it’s gonna get everyone off my back, I’ll go behind the stupid Iron Curtain with stupid Killian Jones. Let’s go, idiot.” She grabs his right hand and yanks, noticing that it isn’t all that difficult to get him to come with her. Behind her, everyone is whooping and chanting kiss kiss kiss! as they shut the sliding door behind them.

Once they're behind the door, the chants become muffled and she’s finally able to comprehend what the hell she’s doing. She’s quite drunk, mainly because Killian is always very generous with the rum when he makes her drinks. She’s not so sure about him though.

“We’re not actually doing this, are we Swan?”

“You know, I made the game, and now I’m really mad at myself. Why did you have to sit on my left?”

He scoffs, although she thinks she sees a smile in his eyes. “I always sit on your left, Swan. We literally always sit in the same seats when we play this.”

She rolls her eyes once again. “It’s the rules, we have to just suck it up and do it.”

“I don’t want to suck it up, Jesus. So crass.”

“Why are you so against kissing me? Do you really think it’ll be that bad, Jones?” She’s raising her voice slightly, for which she blames the rum. “We’re both drunk, we can just do it and forget it happened tomorrow.”

“I am not even close to being as drunk as you are right now, Swan. And did you forget that you have a boyfriend? Because I didn’t.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, Killian,” she scoffs, backing to the wall and sliding down into a sitting position. He cocks his head and turns his body so that he can copy what she did, sitting on her left side again.

“Trouble in paradise, love?”

“No… I don’t know. Walsh is fine, it’s just…” she trails off, not sure how to finish the statement. Things with Walsh are just that, fine. But lately, she can’t help the feeling that things between them just aren’t right. “Fine doesn’t seem promising to me, Emma. Are you sure that’s enough?” She’s honestly caught off guard by the way he says her name. Not love, not Swan, Emma. As if he means what he says, and cares about her answer.

“No,” she replies so softly she’s unsure if she even heard herself. “I think we want different things.” He hums in response, nodding his head slowly and bumping his shoulder into hers.

“I’m not convinced kissing me would make that any better. Maybe we shouldn’t do this. I really don’t want to kiss you like this.” For some reason, Emma suddenly feels herself grappling with a strange sensation. I really don’t want to kiss you like this. A pit has formed in her stomach and it feels as though someone has reached in and grabbed her heart, squeezing as hard as they could. Rejection.

Why on earth would Emma Nolan be upset that Killian Jones doesn’t want to kiss her? Hell, she doesn’t want to kiss him! So, what is it about these words that threaten to send her over the edge? These words that make her feel so much more sadness than she thought was possible?

“It’s fine,” she breathes, refusing to lift her head in his direction.

“Swan,” he says carefully. “Emma… What’s wrong, love?” She’s never heard his voice sound so smooth and velvety and caring. Part of her wants to lean into him and take comfort in his softness, but the other part of her continues to replay his words over in her head. I really don’t want to kiss you like this.

Rude of him to assume that she’s too drunk and sloppy for a kiss, considering he’s the one who made her this way.

“Stop calling me that,” she finally says dismissively, getting up too quickly and stumbling her way towards the door.

~~~

“Emma?!” She hears the annoying voice before she sees the face it belongs to. Walsh is pounding on the door, and frankly, he’s the last person she wants to see right now.

“Did you kiss?” Ruby asks her with her grin still plastered on her face, and Emma rolls her eyes. She sees David looking at her from the corner of her eye, then sees him get up and go towards the door.

“Emma, are you alright? Oh, hey everyone,” Walsh says when the door finally opens and he sees the party of people in the loft. “Emma, I got your voicemail. Are you okay? You were screaming.”

“Did you call Walsh while you were behind the curtain with Killian? Emma, that’s sneaky! But you can’t get out of this one!” Ruby’s brows waggle in a way that resembles Killian’s, and Emma’s eyes launch themselves into the back of her head with a roll.

“What does that mean, behind the curtain? Are you okay?”

“Walsh, I’m fine. We’re just playing a game. The pipes creaked while I was calling you and it startled me.” Emma’s mood is completely shot, and she isn’t even really sure why. Frankly, she’s pissed at herself for being upset right now.

“Well, where’s Killian? I’d like to know what he was up to during this game.” She can hear the sarcasm dripping from his voice for whatever reason.

“How should I know where he went,” She snaps. “I’m not his keeper, I don’t track his every move.”

“Emma, calm down. Jesus. Do you know what it’s like to receive such a horrible message while I’m at work and then have to come over here and see everyone trashed out of their minds? Would it kill you to just chill out for a second rather than jumping down my throat for asking a simple question?”

“Woah, mate,” she hears from behind Walsh. Killian has made his way out from behind the curtain and is wearing a look of astonishment on his face.

“No one asked you, Jones.”

“Shut up, Walsh,” Emma retorts. The room suddenly feels much quieter than it was just a few seconds ago. Will has turned the music down and everyone has stopped shout-talking.

“Excuse me?”

“I said shut up. Don’t talk to my friend like that. Don’t talk to me like that. I didn’t ask you to come over here. In fact, if you had given me a heads up, I would’ve told you not to come over here.”

“Are you serious? You literally left me a voicemail as if you were in grave danger, and now you’re mad at me for checking on you?”

“You checking on me isn’t the problem here! The problem is that you clearly don’t actually give a shit and you’re just here to keep up appearances!”

“What does that even mean? That’s absurd.” He’s rolling his eyes this time, still standing close to the still-open door. David and Killian are both behind him, eyeing Emma carefully.

“If you really cared about me potentially being in danger, you wouldn’t have come over here with a whole stick up your ass. And you certainly wouldn’t have gotten upset when you saw that I was fine!” Killian purses his lips and nods, and David shoots her a discreet grin.

Walsh scoffs, backing towards the door some more. “You know what, I don’t need this.”

“Good,” Emma retorts. “Neither do I. Go home, Walsh.”

“Where do you think I’m going? Christ, I swear. Go have fun with Killian, I guess.”

“Don’t bother coming back, and don’t call me! I don’t wanna hear from you!” She’s shouting at him, as if he’s too far away to hear her, even though he hasn’t crossed the threshold.

“Why would I come back? It’s always been obvious that you don’t want me here, Emma! I don’t even know why I ever bothered! A slut like you could never settle down!”

She feels like she’s been punched. What grounds could Walsh possibly have to call her a slut? In her entire adult life, she can count the number of guys she’s dated on one hand. Her six-year relationship took up a lot of her time, thank you very much.

Emma may have felt like she was punched, but at least she wasn’t actually punched. At least she didn’t have Killian and David standing behind her, taking in her insult and rearing up to punch her in the face the second she turned towards them. At least she didn’t have David holding her in her place while Killian swung his right fist straight into her jaw.

If she wasn’t so shocked by what just went down, she would’ve found it impressive to see Killian and David working together to beat up the guy who just insulted her character. Killian likely wouldn’t have been able to grab Walsh and hold him in place with his left hand while his right hand swung into his face, but with David there, he was able to deliver a firm hit that must’ve made Walsh dizzy.

“Get the fuck out of our apartment,” Killian hisses, practically spitting in Walsh’s face while he holds his collar with his right hand. Then, Killian shoves Walsh to the ground outside the door and David slams it shut.

“Alright, Swan?” Killian’s blue eyes are on her, along with everyone else’s. She nods and slowly turns around and walks back to the couch.

“Emma…” Ruby starts, but she’s clearly not sure where to go from here. Neither is Emma. What the hell just happened?

“I’m fine. I just- I need another drink,” she says pleadingly, eyes on Killian’s. His brows tighten together in concern, but he nods softly, making his way over towards the kitchen.

Emma sits on the couch and draws her own brows together, trying to comprehend what just happened. Walsh busted in and started accusing her of making stuff up, or, at least, that’s how she interpreted things. She was already heated, so having him come at her like that must have just set her off. Did she really have to scream at him like that?

Then she remembers what he said to her, what he called her. Emma has been dating a bit more lately, trying to get over Neal, but she certainly wouldn’t classify herself as a slut, and she definitely wouldn’t say she’s been sleeping around. Walsh just said that because he wanted a relationship and she didn’t… right?

Then she thinks about what happened after he called her a slut. Everything happened so quickly that she’s not even sure if she remembers it correctly. As soon as Walsh said it, he turned around, as if he wanted to insult her and then promptly leave. However, Killian had just walked out from the other room, and David was the one who opened the door when he first arrived, so the two of them were waiting for him when he turned around. The second they saw his face, it seemed like the pounced. It was almost as if the two of them had rehearsed David holding Walsh in place and Killian hitting him square in the jaw. It wasn’t hard enough to knock him unconscious, but it was definitely a hard hit.

Then, Emma’s thinking about Killian’s knuckles and how they must be starting to ache, so she stands abruptly, stumbles a bit, and makes her way into the kitchen. She’s certain that at least David and Ruby are watching her, but she doesn’t care.

“I was on my way back out, love,” Killian says when she reaches the kitchen area. She nods, her eyebrows still screwed up in concern and confusion. “Would you like your drink here?” She nods again.

“Okay?” She’s looking him in the eye and then glancing down at his hand and pointing at it.

He chuckles softly, “are you asking if I’m okay, or are you saying okay to drinking out here?”

“You,” is all she can say back, eyes still fixed on his reddening knuckles. It’s as if she’s completely unable to focus on anything else.

“I’m fine, Swan. You should see the other guy,” he jokes with a cocky smile, but his eyes soften when her expression remains unchanged. She steps forward towards him, stumbles past his body, and heads towards the freezer, pulling out a box of popsicles. She thrusts the box towards him and nods her head. “Swan, really, I’m okay.”

“You need to ice it,” she says, pushing the box towards him again. She thinks this action through and ends up opening the box and taking one out before forcing him to take it from her. “You only have one good hand left, take care of it.”

His face falls slightly at the comment, and she immediately regrets saying it, but he takes the box from her anyway.

“I’m sorry,” she says, suddenly feeling a wave a guilt that’s likely to drown her, tears pricking her eyes. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way, I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head and walks towards her, steadying her wavering body with his arms and drawing her into an embrace. “It’s alright love, I’m not mad. Everything’s alright.”

She feels like crying, she thinks she is crying, in fact, but she can’t hardly focus on that anymore. Not when she’s also focused on the way Killian smells like the ocean and the way that the smell mixes with the scent of leather lingering on his tight black Henley. He’s squeezing her in a way that makes her almost forget the weirdly terrible turn the night took.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, although she’s not sure why.

“Don’t apologize, you didn’t do anything. I’m sorry he was such a dick to you.”

She shakes her head against his chest and continues to breathe deeply, warding off tears without even meaning to.

Suddenly, as they stand there with him holding her so tenderly, her thoughts draw back to where they were only minutes ago, and she feels that familiar sensation in the pit of her stomach. She moves from him, his embrace loosening, and drunkenly looks up at him with sadness stuck in her eyes. “You didn’t want to kiss me,” she states.

He hums lightly, sighing and nodding his head. “Perhaps we can talk about that tomorrow.”

“No,” she says, “I want to talk now. I won’t want to talk tomorrow.” What she means is, she won’t have the balls to talk about it tomorrow, without excessive liquid courage.

“I didn’t want to kiss you,” he confirms. “I didn’t want to make you kiss me because I thought you would feel bad about it afterwards. What with Walsh and everything,” he trails off. He clearly thought that they were in a better place than they were.

“Walsh is gone,” she says without thinking. “He was gonna be gone soon anyway.”

“Aye, love, I know that now. But I also,” he cuts himself off, sighing and pulling on his bottom lip with his right hand in a way that threatens to drive her insane. His left arm is still slung over her shoulders, but they’ve separated a bit. “I didn’t want to kiss you because of some game you were playing while you were drunk.”

“Oh,” she says, considering this. Perhaps her suspicions about her being too drunk to be kissable were accurate.

“What I mean is, if I were to kiss you, I’d want it to be more special than it would have been behind the Iron Curtain.”

“Oh.”

“Emma?” Ruby rounds the corner before Emma can comprehend what Killian said. “Are you okay, honey? Why are you holding a popsicle?”

She looks down at the melty mess within the white packaging. Killian chuckles and tosses it in the trash, then moves to put the box back in the freezer. While he’s in there, searching for room even though it was just pulled out, she leaves the kitchen and heads straight for the bathroom.

She feels slightly better now that she’s walking and not being suffocated by Killian’s muscular chest and intoxicating scent. At the same time, however, she also feels cold and alone.

She notes that it’s now completely quiet in the living room, as if the party died the second Walsh walked in. She feels guilty about being the root of the problem tonight, but honestly can’t really spend much time thinking about it.

Once she makes it to the bathroom, she gets her cleanser and removes her makeup, then puts on her moisturizer. Throughout her adult life, if there was one thing she was good at, it was drunkenly taking off her makeup and completing her skincare routine.

Once she gets to bed, she finds her thoughts migrating back to Killian. She thinks about the way his face tightened and his arm muscles rippled when he swung and hit Walsh. She thinks about the way his kind eyes stared at her and only her afterwards, as if he needed to make sure she was okay. She thinks about the way he smelled and how his soft warm chest felt against her face while he held her.

Then, she thinks about what he said. If I were to kiss you, I’d want it to be more special than it would have been behind the Iron Curtain. What the hell does that mean?

She would genuinely be lying to herself if she said she hadn’t thought about how it would feel to kiss him. His lips are luscious, anyone would have to admit it. And he’s always doing that thing where he pinches them between his fingers or runs his tongue along the bottom one. If it was anyone else, someone she didn’t live with and someone who wasn’t her brother’s best friend, she probably would have jumped on the opportunity to sleep with him months ago.

But thinking that he’s physically attractive and actually having feelings for him are completely different things. And lately, despite her constant annoyance, she also has feelings of longing and happiness whenever she sees him. Him saying that he would want their shared moment to be special is only adding fuel to the fire of him being crush-worthy. Her feeling rejected by him saying he didn’t want to kiss her also made her feel foolish for ever thinking that she didn’t have a crush on him.

The lights are off and she’s under her blankets, but she hears her door creak open and sees light flooding in the crack. She’s sure Ruby went home by now, so she’s not sure who would be breaking into her room. Rather than dealing with it, she pretends to be asleep until the culprit leaves. Once they do and she hears the door close tight, she rolls over and looks to her bedside table to see that whoever it was left some Advil and cold water for her, and grins, knowing it must have been Killian who dropped it off.

She’s fucked.

#captain swan #cs ff #cs ff au #fanfic #captain swan fanfic #killian jones #emma swan #modern au #once upon a time #ouat #new girl #mhyh #my writing #my hands your hands #my hands your hands ff

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pussyhoundspock · 4 years ago

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heres a niche post for me and like no one else ... MASH characters as the crazy ex girlfriend songs they’d sing

hawkeye -- you stupid bitch, sexy getting ready song, settle for me, love kernels, we tapped that ass, period sex, we should definitely not have sex right now, i'm just a boy in love, (tell me i'm okay) patrick, (about Tommy Gillis) First Penis I Saw, I'm Not Sad Your Sad, oh my god i think i like you, dear Trapper John McIntyre, remember that we’ve suffered

BJ -- i love my daughter (but not in a creepy way), having a few people over, fit hot guys have problems too, california christmas time, (to hawkeye) a boy band made up of four BJs, (Who're Also A Team Of Nationally Recognized Mental Health Professionals Trained in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy With Specialities in Personality and Sleep Disorders ... And Love), angry mad, sports analogies

margaret -- period sex, friendtopia, sexy getting ready song, you stupid bitch, put yourself first in a sexy way, we tapped that ass, period sex, what a rush to be a bride, how to clean up (to frank), you go first, women gotta stick together (but earlier seasons only)

charles -- i give good parent, where's the bathroom, if you ever need a favor in fifty years, no one else is singing my song, what you missed while you were popular, my friend's dad, trapped in a war with someone you don't want to be trapped in a war with, maybe they're not such a heinous bitch after all

trapper -- lets have intercourse, it was a shitshow, we should definitely not have sex right now, Trapper's drinking song, oh my god i think i like you, i have you (a UTI)

flagg -- face your fears,

father mulcahey -- without love you can save the world, head in the clouds

radar -- i go to the zoo

sidney -- life doesn't make narrative sense (the end of the movie), maybe this session, dream ghost,

frank -- george's turn, i have friends, i'm a good person

BONUS - hawk and margaret together -- Let’s Generalized About Men

#crazy ex girlfriend #MASH #hawkeye pierce #margaret hoolihan #bj hunnicutt #charles emerson winchester iii #trapper #colonel flagg #radar #father mulcahy #sidney freedman #frank burns #this is by no means a comprehensive list people feel free to argue with me about songs ive assigned each character would be happy 2 justify

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duchessofostergotlands · 5 years ago

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Have you seen the letter to meghan by woman MPs? Its such a lovely gesture! and it definitely shows that they aren't over-reacting about press treatment!

I have. I think given that many of the politicians on the list actively prevented implementation of any recommendations from the Leveson Inquiry it’s a little difficult to take them seriously. There are also people on that list who have been targets of the press because of corruption and immoral behaviour and have a vested interest in attacking a free press so I also think while there may be a kernel of truth in their feelings, there’s also a lot of selfishness like (this is not an exhaustive list, just the ones I know of immediately):

Joan Ryan who spunked a ton of public money on her expenses and then tried to have it removed from Wikipedia but when they called her out she claimed it was a press “smear campaign” (alright mate).

Margaret Hodge who ignored sexual abuse of children in care homes and slandered child sex abuse victims and when the press reported it she called it “gutter journalism” (it was true, she later admitted it).

Sarah Champion who wrote a racist opinion piece for The Sun (yep) about British Pakistani men raping white girls and then blamed The Sun for misrepresenting her…until they produced emails proving they got the ok for the article before publication. She had to resign.

There are also people on the letter who just this year in some cases have made racist statements, voted against legalising abortion in NI or threatened pregnant women so taking them seriously as people who are against racism and sexism is not happening for me. If it brings comfort to Meghan that’s great and many of the women on the list can no doubt understand where she’s coming from but many of them had the power to do something before and they all have the power to do something now- they choose not to.

Whether Harry and Meghan overreacted or not is subjective, it can’t be a fact because Stella Creasy signed a letter nor can it be false because some people on Twitter said so; it’s completely subjective. The most powerful thing for me would be a legal decision. I’m sure the Tinhats will claim she has the judge tied up in the basement of Frogmore but it would be a clear, undeniable decision that what happened was illegal

#ask #anon #british royal family #2019

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cassyopeya · 4 years ago

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Lonesome.

That was the word that Maggie had settled on to describe Birch Hills after a week on the property almost completely isolated, save her parents’ wolfdog, Norman, and the ghosts of her grandparents, who seemed to be lurking behind every corner she turned.

She had come to this conclusion one afternoon, lounging out on the back porch, its wood slightly damp from the rain the night before, staring as Norman rolled around in the fields behind the house. Maggie had left her grandmother’s ghost in the kitchen, watching from afar as she rustled the old faucets around in the big farmhouse sink, a spectral white figure in the dim afternoon light of an overcast November day.

Lonesome.

That was the word that flitted through her head as she stood next to her grandfather’s ghost at the edge of the birch grove the house was named after, pondering what she should do with the decrepit fences and fields in the spring when the weather would be better. Her grandfather had always pestered her older brother and cousins to repair it for him, so that he could buy the flock of sheep that he had always wanted. They had never quite gotten around to it, and slowly the wood had begun to rot. The leaves crunched under her boots and her grandfather’s ghost gave her a knowing look, one that read, “Please, Grete, get me my sheep.”

Lonesome. That was the immediate thought she’d had after her mother hung up on her, a month after she’d arrived at Birch Hills. They had tentative plans for Christmas, for the whole family to come back home and be together, shaking the loneliness out of the old bones of the house, and giving Maggie slightly more sanity than Norman could provide. Her mother had been confirming their plans, promising the arrival of people into her life again. “Now, Margaret, we must talk about next year at some point,” her mother had begun, and then the fighting had started. It hadn’t ended until her mother had hung up the phone, cutting Maggie off in the middle of the sentence. Norman had picked his head up at the noise, and then placed it back onto the hardwood floor, staring straight ahead towards the door. Maggie realized, at that moment, that there are been a point when this had been her biggest fear. That she would be alone, without anyone to keep her company. And now, and now after a month alone, there was something comforting about it. About the quiet that had fallen on Birch Hills when the first flakes of Maine winter fell from the skies onto Maggie’s awaiting tongue and Norman’s wagging tail, her grandparents’ ghosts standing in the open doorway, staring out over the rolling fields of their property. Lonesome. That was the churning in Maggie’s chest as she laid awake at night in the dark, warm, alcove of the attic that she had chosen to sleep in. It was a gaping hole in her chest, a cavern filling and emptying with every breath she took. The dog slept at the foot of her bed, and she gazed out of the small window onto the winding road that lead towards town, the only light in miles the light hanging off of the garage wall, flickering as her grandfather’s ghost stared out at the driveway, kicking gravel as he had almost every night when he’d been here, with her. The sadness in the pit of her stomach sometimes took a concrete form, when she laid in bed at night and thought about calling Wilder and asking him how his semester has been. Thought about reaching out to the person who had known her better than anyone else, who had held her when she’d found out about her grandmother, had wiped the tears off of her face when she dropped him home for the last time. She hadn’t talked to him since she’d arrived at Birch Hills, not necessarily on purpose, but because he hadn’t seemed to ever call her. That was the first seed of loneliness for Maggie, before it had blossomed into a beautiful bloom of lonesomeness. The kernel planted when Wilder didn’t call her, didn’t text her back as often as he once had. Lonesome. Maggie had written the text that she sent to Wilder a million times before she actually sent it, telling him that she was at Birch Hills, and that she felt at peace in the loneliness. She’d debated the medium through which she should send it, wondering if an email or voicemail would be better than a text. But, in the end, she had settled on a text. She had sat at the kitchen table, the entire room glowing in a yellow light as she stared at her phone, the stairs creaking under the weight of her grandfather’s ethereal feet, composing her text again and again and again. “hey wilder, its me. im alone at birch hills. ive been thinking a lot about you. i miss you and i love you. please text me back.” That was what she had settled on, after half an hour. He hadn’t responded when she went to bed that night, trying not to think of the lack of notifications on her phone. The whole house seemed gray and empty, larger than it ever had before. Six weeks alone, six weeks into her self-imposed isolation, and she felt as though she hadn’t made any progress. The only thing that Maggie had made progress on, it seemed, was by identifying the swirling black whirlpool of emotion in her gut and labeling it: Lonesome. That was the feeling jolted out of her when the doorbell rang, three days before her family was supposed to come up for the holidays. Norman beat her to the door, barking aggressively and wagging his tail, his nails skittering against the hardwood floors as he made a beeline to the front door. Maggie followed, tentatively, pushing a piece of hair that had escaped her bandana behind her ear. Wilder was standing there, a bag dropped on the step next to him, staring at her in the mid-afternoon December sun, its weak light shining through his auburn hair. He hadn’t texted her back, after she’d sent him that text the week before, and everyday Maggie had assumed the likelihood she ever heard back was decreasing. But, nevertheless, here he was, dressed in green fleece and jeans, a tentative and small smile falling across his lips. “Hey, Mags, I…” She didn’t let him finish as she threw herself into his arms, hugging him as though she needed to prove that he was not yet another ghost there to grace Birch Hills. It took him a second, but he wrapped his arms around her, holding her just as tightly as she had held him. “Can I stay for the holidays?” Maggie just nodded into his chest, as if she was worried that her vocal cords would betray her, betray the immense relief that had come with not feeling so completely and utterly alone anymore. Maggie let go of him, opening the door and ushering him inside. And suddenly with Wilder seated at the kitchen table, drinking tea from a mug and grinning as he began to tell her stories of his first semester at school, Birch Hills didn’t gray. Color began to seep back into the room, the pinks and purples in her grandmother’s rose and lilac drapes becoming brighter, the wood furnishings become a warmer tone. With Wilder there, Birch Hills had begun to thaw.

#writing #my original writing #ik that this sucks ass but #maybe somoene will enjoy it idk #im in a big major rut and have nothing to do bc covid so i'd like to you know #not be in a rut

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snickerl · 6 years ago

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I am reblogging this because I don’t know how or why the last part and thus the closure of this ficlet was missing. It’s in italics at the end if you want to find out how Ahab’s and Maggie’s conversation went on after “Did you ever...” Instead of finishing the sentence he bit his lower lip.

Mom’s The Best

A collection of XF ficlets

I started this collection of stand-alone ficlets from Margaret Scully’s POV a while ago because she’s always been one of my favorite characters. This particular chapter has been sitting in my “yet to post” box for the longest time because I wasn’t sure if anybody would be interested in reading it. Anyway, today I decided it was time to post it and just find out...

So far, the collection contains the following ficlets:

PEPPERMINT TEA APPLE PIE ROOT BEER PEACH PUNCH CHOCOLATE COOKIES

APPLE CRUMBLE

"Hey Starbuck, have you decided which offer you want to take yet? I heard Johns Hopkins is interested."

Bill Scully, Sr. had just swallowed the last piece of roast. He was dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin and popped the question casually at his younger daughter who instantly stopped chewing. His wife sucked in her breath. Maggie somehow knew this wasn't a good after dinner topic. Dana had been avoiding to talk about what to do after her graduation from medical school lately whereas Ahab had hardly been talking about anything else.

Maggie knew he loved all his children but Dana had always been his favorite. Since the day she was born, she had been the apple of his eye. It had put her at the receiving end of his fatherly affection like none of her siblings but it had also put a lot of pressure on the girl to cope with. When she had been admitted to medical school, Maggie had seen her husband almost burst out of pride, Dana Katherine Scully, M.D. sounded like a melody in his ears. Therefore failing or, God forbid, dropping out hadn't been an option for Dana. It had turned her into an ambitious, tenacious, and determined young woman with an incredible amount of stamina who would do anything to not disappoint her daddy. To her mother's dismay, enjoying life had fallen a bit by the wayside in the process. Well, her older sister and younger brother had compensated for it more than enough.

Dana was putting the cutlery down in slow motion, then dabbed her lips thoroughly. She squinted her left eye for a brief moment and looked at her father.

"You heard? From whom?"

Maggie noticed a sensitive undertone in Dana's voice her husband obviously missed because he continued unwaveringly.

"Daniel told me."

"How did you get around talking about me with my boyfriend?"

Dana was tensing up noticeably. Maggie held her breath.

"He's as interested in your career as I am. Your move into the medical field needs to be well considered, and Daniel says Boston is offering the best opportunity for you to go into cardiology."

"Oh? Daniel says? I see." Dana chewed the inside of her cheek before she asked tight-lipped, "do I get a say in this, dad, or have Daniel and you already submitted my application?"

Bill's eyes widened at his daughter's harsh and open irony. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dana let out an annoyed chuckle. "Does it even occur to you that I might have other plans?"

"You're not talking about that crazy FBI idea, are you? That's absolutely out of the question!"

Bill shook his head. Ever since Dana had first mentioned that she had been approached by an FBI recruiter, he refused to even talk about it, always wiping the topic away with a dismissive wave of his hand, just like he was doing now.

"Bill, please," Maggie cut in as she felt tears welling up in her eyes.

The family dinner which had started out so nice and enjoyable was at the brink of turning into a veritable family argument. They hadn't been together like this for quite a while because the final exams of med school had accounted for all of Dana's free time. Now that all the tests - written, practical, and oral - were taken and they were waiting for the results, doubting not even for a nanosecond that her marks would be anything but excellent, their daughter finally allowed herself to spend an evening away from her textbooks at her parents' house.

"It's my life we're talking about here, dad, and not that many graduates get recruited right out of medical school by the FBI. I would get the chance to specialize in forensic pathology and might be teaching at the Academy later on. That's really something I can see myself in."

Maggie noticed how Dana's tensed-up body posture relaxed a bit, how exhilaration took over. It showed clearly how excited she was about this. Unfortunately, her husband wasn't this sensitive, for he exclaimed indignantly, "pathology? A medical doctor saves lives and does not cut open dead people who can't be helped anymore. It's stupid!"

"Stupid? Pathology is a medical specialty like any other. It isn't about some morbid slicing and dicing, it's about getting to the bottom of why and how a person died. It's science. Forensic pathology is a substantial part of solving criminal cases and convicting murderers. I would be saving lives by keeping potential victims from harm by killers that I helped to put behind bars."

Dana's passionate advocacy of forensic pathology didn't impress Ahab one bit. He didn’t seem to listen to her at all actually, Maggie noticed. Instead, he was pulling another ace from his sleeve; or so he thought.

"You really want to be a Fed, Dana? Lowsy pay and small reputation included?"

"This is what this is actually all about, isn't it? Pay and reputation." It wasn't meant as a question. "Your daughter being an underpaid federal agent wouldn't be anything you'd be comfortable talking about in your old boys' circle, would it? Your offspring performing open heart surgery though would be something else, something you wouldn't hesitate a second to let your friends know. Right, Dad?"

Ahab took a step backward. Was he perhaps impressed in some way by Dana's accusatory tone, Maggie marveled. There was a kernel of truth in it somewhere, for sure. Her husband had always loved letting his environment know how well his beloved Starbuck was doing. Dana had hit a blind spot with her angry words, she read from the change in Bill's whole demeanor and facial features. He had not only taken a step away from his daughter, not towering her anymore, but his whole body posture collapsed. His arms, which he had been fidgeting with, were hanging limply all of a sudden, his chin, which had been lifted challengingly, had sunken to his chest, and his eyes, which had been boring through Dana's just a moment ago, were avoiding hers now. He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw pushed through visibly. Maggie had very rarely seen her husband searching for words; this was one of the times.

"It's just...Daniel...well, he says you're really good at it and that you'd have a bright future in cardiology," he eventually tried to defend himself, but Dana didn't want to hear any of it.

"Daniel? Daniel says? And what Daniel says is necessarily right? You don't trust me to make my own choice? To know what's good for me?"

Ahab tried to fend off the accusations he had been showered with a feeble, "you're getting it all wrong, Dana." Maggie almost felt like stepping up and pairing with him to form a consistent parental entity. It was what they had always done when serious arguments with their children occurred, she was wondering why she was somehow reluctant to do so now. Before she got to the bottom of the motivation, or rather lack thereof, Dana's voice filled the room again.

"I don’t think I'm getting anything wrong here! It's so typical for men to believe they are to make choices for us women. I mean, did mom ever had a say in whether she wanted to pursue her career after you got married?"

Maggie's heart skipped a beat and she realized that her daughter was unconsciously rubbing her nose into what was keeping her from backing her husband up in this matter.

"Your mother knew what it meant to be a Navy wife," Bill said without even looking at her as if the woman he was talking about wasn't in the same room standing just a few inches away from him.

"That does not mean she wouldn't have liked to keep working. She loved being a teacher, didn't you, mom?" Dana exclaimed, her glaring eyes meeting her mother's.

"I, uh-," Maggie started but was interrupted instantly by her husband.

"She was happy to be a housewife and mother."

"You didn't even let her answer herself just now, for Christ's sake! Was she allowed to have an opinion of her own back then? Did you even ask her or agreed upon what was good for her together with grandpa, just like you are doing for me right now with Daniel?"

Without even taking another breath Dana turned to Maggie and implored, "mom! Don't you have anything to say to this?"

"Watch your mouth, young lady! I am not to be spoken to in this tone by any of my children. And neither is your mother." Ahab's words came out of his mouth like shots out of a machine gun. Sharp, cold, deadly, but Dana would not let herself get intimidated.

"I'm an adult, dad! I'm not a kid anymore you can force to take piano lessons just so she can play Mozart to your party guests for their entertainment and your sick fatherly pride."

"How dare you-"

"Stop it! Now! Both of you!"

Maggie had been listening to what was being said about her with a mixture of shock, anger, and regret until she drowned the gamecocks in a high-pitched voice. She knew that if they went on, they would be saying something they regretted later. They had never been in an argument like this, mainly because Dana had always been a child trying to please her father, always wanting to make him proud of her. These times seemed to have come to an end. She was obviously ready to disobey his wishes, and Maggie secretly believed that it actually wasn't such a bad thing. Even though she herself had been pulled into their fight, she knew that right now was not the time to voice her own feelings about the whole FBI matter. Right now she had to protect father and daughter from getting themselves into a rage and saying something so hurtful the wounds left behind would be difficult to heal. Ahab and Starbuck had always been so close, if they tore themselves asunder over this, it would break both of their hearts; and Maggie's own heart along with it.

Both were staring at her, flabbergasted by her temperamental, forceful outburst. They weren't used to her speaking up, reining people in so openly. She usually tried to appease, to sugarcoat cracks and to smooth out disagreements within the family. "Don't look at me like this!" she said. "Did you even realize how you were yelling at each other? This is not how we talk to each other in this family!"

Maggie had a distinct need for harmony and every family member relied on it. No matter how severe the dispute was, everybody knew she would later arbitrate between the parties and make them reconcile again. Throughout her married life, she'd played the mediator between her husband and his children as well as between the siblings many times, had always tried to be impartial, to not take one side but make them see the other's point of view, to understand each other. It had always worked best like this. Until today. Today she would leave her neutral position and speak up for the person she believed had a reason.

"Dana is right, Bill," she said and was surprised about how easily the words were leaving her mouth.

"What?" her husband retorted, apparently dumbfounded by the statement which was so openly in conflict with his own opinion on this matter.

"What?" Dana whispered, equally caught off-guard like her father but in a more positive way.

"She's right. It's her choice to make, not ours."

Here she was again, Margaret Scully, a loyal wife to her husband, joining him as a parent by calling it their choice when as a matter-of-fact it had been just his. It was fair enough though, to not push him in the corner and blame him alone because if she was honest, she would have to admit that she was also not fond of her daughter's idea to join the FBI, but for totally different reasons.

Ahab's face turned red, anger creeping through his body. "What's going on in your minds, you Scully women? Very well, then," he spat but knew better than to start another argument with his wife now. He let out an exasperated huff, turned on his heel, and took a beer out of the refrigerator and mumbled under his breath, "I'm outside."

"Great," Dana hissed right after the porch door had been closed with a loud 'bang' seconds later, "now he's mad at me and you."

"That's alright, sweetheart. He's going to calm down again. We let him have his beer and give him time to think."

"I'm a disappointment for him because I'm not taking the career path he wants me to."

Maggie gasped. It hurt to see Dana being so hard on herself. Children weren't determined to fulfill their parents' dreams, they should aspire their very own goals.

"It's your life, Dana. You have to decide on your own. You've already signed the contract, haven't you?"

"No, but I really want to do this, mom."

"Yes, I can see your determination, but I always thought it was medicine you wanted to work in."

"I've never given anything else much thought until the FBI approached me."

"What is it with law enforcement that interests you so much?"

"It's not law enforcement per se but the opportunity to specialize in pathology. That's science, mom. Searching for the cause of death in a dead body is scientific work. It will challenge my intellect in many more ways than doing one heart catheter investigation after another. You remember that I wrote my undergraduate thesis about Einstein, don't you? If dad hadn't pressured me into medicine, I might've as well graduated in physics. I love science, mom."

"I know you do, but all this time you spent in medical school...you worked so hard for your degree, sweetheart. Are you willing to throw this all away?"

"I'm not throwing it away. A pathologist is a medical doctor like any other, and if I find out that the FBI is nothing for me, I can start as a resident at a hospital in cardiology or pediatrics any time. Johns Hopkins won't give me another chance probably but there are enough renowned hospitals in America." She looked at her mother with tears in her eyes, searching for some understanding. "I really want to give this a try, mom."

"You've already made up your mind," Maggie realized.

"Yes. I have an appointment with HR at the FBI headquarters this week. Field training will start next month."

Maggie tensed up. "You're going to be out in the field?"

"It's not intended. I get trained in forensic pathology and will work in the morgue and the lab mainly. Any time later, I might also be teaching at Quantico."

"Not intended? Does that mean it might happen nonetheless? That you have to go out into the field to track down criminals?"

"Mom, it's the FBI after all. I mean, it's part of the training and I have to do what I'm assigned to. If they need my expertise out in the field one day, I might be partnered up with someone. You know how it works in a federal institution, people are not asked but ordered."

Yes, being married to a naval captain, Maggie knew how it worked. Her family had been ordered to relocate to a different Navy base on short notice more than once, and her husband had been commandeered to dangerous missions around the globe never ever taking into consideration whether his wife was pregnant or his children had just made new friends at school. She also knew what it was like to worry about a beloved one on a daily basis, how to cope with the constant fear that something might happen to them. Maggie knew all of this and she wasn't sure how she was supposed to get through it once again. When Ahab had eventually retired from active military service and started working behind a desk, assuming a consulting role at the base, it had taken months until she had learned to not expect a compassionate Navy officer tell her something happened to her husband behind every nightly ring of the phone or urgent knock at the door. And now it would start all over again. How she wished her daughter would spare her dealing with this kind of fear.

She was fearing for Bill, Jr. already, her oldest son, who had followed his father's footsteps into the Navy. But he was tall and strong. A man. Dana was so small and fragile. Not any less fierce than her older brother, probably even more tenacious than he, but wouldn't she easily be outrun and overpowered by a muscled male criminal? Wouldn't she be bullied as a woman in a male-dominated environment? Maggie knew the FBI was as much an old boys' club as the Navy. Her daughter would have to fight herself through the system day in and day out. What a tough path she was choosing for herself.

Maggie sighed quietly but wouldn't voice her inhibitions. She would swallow her fears down and would resist the temptation to ask Dana to stay in the medical field just so her mother would be able to sleep more peacefully. Her daughter had every right to do whatever she wanted. It was her life, her career, her choice, and in a way she admired her guts. She would stand up to any man who underestimated her like she had stood up to her father today. Who would have thought that the tiny rosy bundle she had held prematurely in her arms all those years ago after a complicated pregnancy and difficult childbirth would grow up to become such a powerful and strong personality.

"I'm so proud of you, Dana," Maggie said, working hard though to mask her underlying worries.

"Thanks, mom, but you're the only one I'm afraid. Dad's never going to accept it."

"Don't underestimate your father. Give him some time to get used to the idea."

Dana shook her head. "Let's face it, he's disappointed in me."

"You have to go on your own way, Dana, not on the one your father wants to see you on. He will understand eventually."

"Do you really think so?"

"He's your father, and he loves you no matter what."

Maggie was sure of it. His love for his daughter was infinite. One day he would be able to swallow down his pride and see Dana's choice for what it was, an autonomous decision by his grown-up daughter. Something else was on Maggie's mind though. Her father wasn't the only dominant male figure in Dana's life.

"What's Daniel's reaction to your decision?"

Dana looked away. It took her a moment until she answered her mother. "I'm going to break up with him, mom."

"Oh. Because of this?"

"No...yes...well, I guess it's the straw that broke the camel's back. He's been so patronizing lately. He's not only planned my residency but has also more or less outlined my whole career after that. Can you imagine? I mean, who does he think he is that he acts like my goddamn guardian?"

A wave of relief was rolling over Maggie. She'd always thought that Dana's relationship with Daniel was not sufficiently based on equality although she had never mentioned anything to Dana, Dana was old enough to decide who she dated.

Daniel was Dana's teacher in medical school. He was an accomplished man, married, which bugged Maggie in particular. Not because she saw Dana as an adulteress - it had been the man's own decision to leave his wife and teenage daughter to get involved with one of his students - but because he used her, bathed himself in how she looked up to him. He enjoyed the role of her mentor, both in the medical field as in how to lead her life. Of course, he wanted her to do her residency under his wings in his hospital. It would give him the perfect opportunity to guard her furthermore, to mold her into what he saw in her.

A clear cut was maybe for the best. A completely clean slate. Another professional environment, another city, another man eventually. Maggie would hate to see her independent-minded, self-assured, and autonomous daughter permanently with someone who didn't treat her as an equal. There had to be men out there who saw her inner height and didn’t mistake her for a little girl just because she was petite. But Maggie also knew that Dana loved Daniel, that she had thought not long ago she would share her entire life with him. Breaking up wouldn't be easy.

"I better get going, mom. I don't think dad is coming back inside as long as I'm here."

"But what about dessert? I made your favorite."

Even if it was a bit silly to believe there was even the slightest chance the three of them would be sitting at the table together having dessert, Maggie tried.

"Apple crumble with vanilla sauce and whipped cream?"

"Uh huh," Maggie confirmed.

She had even made the vanilla sauce herself this time. She hadn't done that in a while because of the time-consuming work involved, but the ones you could buy consisted more of sugar and artificial flavor than real bourbon vanilla, and that was what Ahab and Dana liked the most.

"Especially for your father and you."

"You're the best, mom." Dana flew into her arms and hugged her tightly. "I'm so sorry I ruined the evening, but I had to tell dad sooner or later. As much as I love your apple crumble, I lost my appetite. I don't think I can get anything down now."

"Take some home, dear. You can have it later, or tomorrow. I made it this morning, it'll persist a few days."

Dana gifted her one of her warm, genuine smiles. "I'd love to."

After Dana had said her goodbye with two Tupperware boxes in her hand and the front door closed shut behind her, Maggie stepped through the screen door out on the patio behind the house. Ahab was sitting in one of the deckchairs. His eyes were closed but he wasn't sleeping. There was an empty beer bottle on the floor and one half-full in his hand. He put it to his mouth and took a swig.

"Has she left?" he asked without opening his eyes.

"Yes. She told me to say goodbye."

He chuckled condescendingly. "There were times she gave me a hug before she left."

"Well, you didn't really make the impression you wanted to be hugged tonight."

He snorted, sat upright, put the bottle to his lips and emptied it in one gulp.

"Shall I get you another one?"

"Are you trying to appease after having stabbed me in the back?"

"I haven't stabbed you in the back, Bill. I just spoke out what I thought was right."

"It's not right that she throws away her medical degree and goes into law enforcement instead. The FBI, for heaven's sake, Maggie! She'll spend her time in a dull governmental building behind a utilitarian desk. She'll have to fight with the audit department over expenses more than she'll take criminals into custody. She'll waste years accomplishing nothing until she realizes she made a mistake." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "I can't believe the money we paid for medical school was all for naught."

"Haven't you listened at all? She told us that she would specialize in forensic pathology."

"She could be a heart surgeon but wants to become a pathologist? That doesn't make any sense! Why doesn't she see what Daniel is offering her?"

"He might actually be part of the problem."

"Huh?"

"Daniel is part of the problem, Bill," Maggie repeated with more emphasis. "Can't you see that Dana wants to stand on her own two feet? That she wants neither her father nor her partner to tell her what career path to choose? Is that really so hard for you to understand? She wants to make her own decisions."

"You mean she's doing this to get one over on me?"

Maggie sighed. "No, Bill, this has nothing to do with you. Or Daniel. That's exactly the point."

Bill shook his head and put the bottle to his lips to take another swig. Realizing it was empty, he snorted. After contemplating for a moment, he popped a question which had obviously been bothering him for the time he had been out on the patio.

"Uhm...Maggie...what Dana said..."

"Yes, dear?" she said warmly. She had an idea of what was on his mind. They had never spoken about it, not even once since they were married, and she found it ironic in a way that one of their kids had to bring the topic up.

"What she said about you...uh, you giving up teaching," Ahab continued stammering.

"Yes?"

"Would you have rather continued working? Instead of...I mean..."

"Being there for you and the kids?" she completed his thought and added with a smile, "no."

"Hmm," he grunted apparently not fully convinced.

"Times were different then, Ahab. Today, it might have been possible for me to be a teacher and a housewife and mother, but not back then. You were right when you said that I knew what it would be like to be a Navy wife, and I chose to be one. I loved you, and I wanted to have children with you."

"Did you ever..." Instead of finishing the sentence he bit his lower lip.

"Regret it? No. Not a single day." "Hmm," Bill gruntled again, staring at the empty beer bottle in his hands, peeling the label off. "Why does Dana have to be so stubborn?" "Oh, Bill," Maggie laughed good-naturedly, "because we raised her to be an emancipated woman with an independent mind and a strong will. When has Dana ever been inconsiderate or unreasonable? Huh, Bill? I'm sure she's given this much thought, and I'm also sure that the feeling she's disappointing you is hard for her to handle. She adores you, Ahab." "Weird way of showing me," he mumbled, softening a bit. His shoulders, which had been tense were slowly descending, his brows returned to their original spots, and the wrinkles on his forehead were fading. He breathed in deeply and let the tension flow out of his body with a prolonged exhale. Maggie seized the moment to go for his soft spot again. "She's still your Starbuck." His special nickname for her, being the only person allowed to call her like that, never missed having an effect on him. He was relenting even more. "Yes, sure. Of course, she is." Maggie took the empty bottle out of her husband's hand and put it on the floor next to the other. She pushed the second deckchair right beside his, placed herself in it, and intertwined her fingers with his. After a while, she asked, "are you ready for some apple crumble for dessert?" "You made apple crumble?" "It's Dana's and your favorite. The plan was to spoil you a bit tonight." "Did you buy that sugar-sweet sauce again?" "No, I made it myself. Following your mother's recipe." Bill Scully smiled lovingly at his wife and squeezed her hand tenderly. He pulled it up to his mouth and placed a soft kiss on its back. "I don't deserve you. I'm sorry the evening turned out like this. I know how much you like to have your children around. They drop by seldom enough." "It's okay, darling. You said what you had to say. Just don't be too strict with her. She's doing what she feels is right. She's not doing it to purposely contradict you." Bill left it at that for a moment. "I can't believe the money we spent on medical school," he said again and groaned. "Well, you never know, Ahab. Dana will be a medical doctor, one way or another, and who knows what the FBI has in store for her. She might become the Bureau's first female director," she said with a smile. He let that sink in for a moment, and although the fact that his daughter would not become a heart surgeon was still bugging him, this new idea soothed him a little. Maggie could imagine what was going on in his mind. If there was a woman capable of achieving this seemingly unreachable position for a female, it would have to be his Starbuck. "You did give her some dessert to take home, right? She loves your apple crumble." "Sure." Maggie smiled. Despite all the grievances Ahab had aired this evening, he cared very much for Dana. Inside the strict Navy captain was a devoted father; devoted to all his children but particularly to his younger daughter. And even if it seemed to Dana that he had been a dominant husband, having pressured her into a life as a housewife and mother, it had been her own wish to be this exactly, a supporting wife to her husband and a loving mother to her children. Maggie knew Bill treasured her, that he had never even thought of anyone else but her to share his life with. He had always been a loyal husband and family man, and she had relied on him to provide for her and the kids in return. She never had the feeling she had missed or lost anything because she had once decided to marry him. On the contrary, he had given her four wonderful children and a sheltered life. For that, she was infinitely thankful. She loved him.

#xf fanfiction #margaret scully #no mulder #pre season 1 #young scully

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explodingdisgust-blog · 6 years ago

Text

The Muran Hordes I

Following on from: https://plus.google.com/114999809330885155321/posts/cXHoqpEPMYy (archive[dot]fo[slash]PN6WJ)

@marshax-marshmallow

I’ve said this before, ill say this again. On my Tumblr, or nowhere. I will address your points there, since it’s a place i’m active on and the formatting is better for me to debate things.

Sorry, did you forget something? Your old 'this is the internet' excuse? As I've said before, I don't give a fuck about where it happens. And since you bill yourself as being so 'controversial' and partisan in the particular way that any reactionary does, you are a fucking weakling by your own standards. Don't tell me that I don't know about the pride that contrarian reactionaries have when invading new spaces of discussion and spaces of thought: it's happened to liberal talking points (even in academic circles: is Peter Singer not an example of someone who is dangerously close to biological reductionism, the kernel of racism?); it's happened to 4chan (/pol/ was filled with Swarmfront shills); it's happened to YouTube with the rise of the 'skeptics' who have accelerated rightwards. So okay, LET'S FUCKING SEE HOW YOU LIKE IT. I’ll turn up in both places just so you don’t run away from what I’m saying.

Remember, though: you don't go to see reality; it comes out of nowhere and gives you a punch in the face - so don't cry about how you've got a nosebleed in this metaphorical sense. It is just like how I had completely forgotten that you were on G+. But here I am, dealing with you anyway.

People who are reading Birdie’s G+ most often aren’t here to read some rando’s papers on Marxism and Sexual freedom, and I bet Sophia doesn’t want these things spamming her notifications. My blog is where I express those kinds of things, some people read it, either out of hate or genuine interest. I agree that you want discussion and I want too, and thats why i’m saying we should take this somewhere its most likely to happen.

All you're telling me is that people don't want my walls but that says NOTHING about what they contain. Who's the fucking contrarian now, Marsha? Huh? Who's on the side of what you - and if you're right about them, all the others - want to repress? Again, so much for being so radical.

I know that this is not a dedicated thread in any sense besides the fact that I have set many of the topics but I don't care because I am here, right now, discussing this. If you really want discussion, you'll do it here with me right now. I can fuck off to Tumblr, yes, but you should know EXACTLY why I continue on G+.

You want to go into my pathologies? Fine, I'm one step ahead of you. I also do this right here because people are obviously going to see how ridiculous I seem. I mean, what the fuck? I'm posting small essays in several comment threads underneath posts which are associated with some pubescent lolcow's pathetic attempts at being funny, edgy and critical. Of course I'm going to seem like I'm a mug. THAT IS THE POINT. But you can't get rid of people like me and what I'm saying: I know that it will haunt all of you. I want you to go further and fill in what I haven't. You don't like my calls to discuss because you want 'fun' in your online bubble, but the very reasoning behind why something is 'fun' isn't a settled matter and I will confront you on that.

After all, even if I balloon into a major lolcow (if I'm not already one!), I know what might happen. Some of the users refer to some lolcows as 'cultcows' because they gain a cult-like following from their particular stalkers and trolls. You know being a cultcow can be turned to one's advantage with some major sacrifices, right? Like how Chris-Chan retains their fame? I have the pathology of a sort of 'sacrificial catalyst'; that is why I stay here. Not quite a martyr (so you won't see me getting the equivalent of '72 virgins' any time soon; I have much better things to do than submit to a disgusting cult and waste everything that I have), but far more willing to do something for what I believe in than cowardly little you. I have so many kinks to work out and numerous torturous self-imposed programmes to go through. I don't want any of your fucking guilt, but I can turn your own pathologies against you and watch you cry as I exceed your ability by your own standards. So go on, fucking outdo me. Have a great time. Make it a special occasion. ‘Controversial’ my arse.

So please, take your arguments there or stop talking to me, cause I won’t answer. Hell, you can even copy paste what you’ve said here so we can continue, but please. You dont even need to use your account afterwards.

You think I don’t know how this works? You’ll set your sex-obsessed friends on me and when you have no arguments left, you’ll spam the fuck out of me and then introduce me to all sorts of horrible people who’ll do their best to shut me down. I don’t even care any more to some extent. Prove me wrong, I dare you.

But of course, now that I’m here, you’re gonna have to actually tackle my earlier points. You don’t get to run away from those, either. And if you do get your friends involved, neither do they get to run.

Earlier posts from the G+ thread (first post first):

@marshax-marshmallow :

im glad you're finally standing for what you believe in, birdo everyone in this goddamn community thinks all dark humor makes terrible things look cool but it couldn't be farther from the truth, if you dont actually believe in what youre saying and treat everyone with respect, you're fine. also, if you have a rape fetish that's okay too, because as long as everything is in your head, you're not harming anyone. rape is a fetish because it's taboo, and if you think all rape fetishists think rape is okay in real life you are so terribly wrong. i cant express how proud i am of you

@explodingdisgust :

WELL, WELL, WELL. If it's not the contrarian little shit that I've been monitoring for the last few weeks. I've seen what you do and I've archived your precious Tumblr; do you think you can get away from your bullshit? Not when I'm around. "everyone in this goddamn community thinks all dark humor makes terrible things look cool but it couldn't be farther from the truth" Their sensitivities and lack of appreciation for the critical part of your contrarianism is not an excuse for the rest of your contrarianism to be upheld. You have made a serious position out of the 'opposite' of common Western-liberal-enlightenment values of 'decency'. I've seen your at-least-ironic racism in the first few pages of your Tumblr and I wonder whether you've changed at all. Of course, I remain quite pessimistic about that considering your 'innocent' and nonchalant response to RibChills telling you to stop sexualising her fursona. These fuckers throw the baby out with the disgusting bathwater whereas you cling onto both. I'll get to your excuses soon enough; don't think that I won't utterly demolish your entire worldview. "if you dont actually believe in what youre saying and treat everyone with respect, you're fine." Right, because respect is reducible to maintaining standards of decency while maintaining fetishes and horrific pathologies in one's own private space? And where did such ideas for such thoughts, pathologies and fetishes come from? You will tell me that it is 'human nature', that it is innate, but no biological structure (including the brain) can account for the limitless quantities and qualities of thoughts that we could possibly have. In fact, if you were to say that you were actually and inevitably controlled by brain chemicals or anything else that isn't you as a rational individual, then this idea of what you've said would be owed to such chemicals - but there is no proof that the brain structures or anything else that isn't at the level of reason itself can account for it and has simply been left hiding for all these thousands of years that human thought has been changing for. ANY FETISH IS ABOUT REASON ALONE, and the particular manifestation of this one is contrarianism - a love of what one is denied by those who follow and construct the most dominant values in societies. But because reason is intersubjective and comes from other subjects - after all, no ideas are innate, they are all communicated otherwise right now we would be able to understand the greats of philosophy in our toddler years - it cannot be something that's simply private. It can get into the 'private' domain and it can run out - ideology is reproduced memetically by us as rational subjects. Everything becomes framed in terms of rape or whatever fetishes become dominant. Rape becomes accepted and eventually it seems inevitable (just like capitalism) to the extent that it would be easier to imagine the end of the world than the end of that social phenomenon. But if people 'accept' the conditions of hypersexuality which come with the rape fetish, this is not necessarily a free choice because they are in the chains of what is socially-expected of them. Even though we are not conclusively-determined by our biology or by the laws of atomic physics, we ARE determined by movements in the social field which we too determine. The social field is inescapable and all-encompassing for rational beings (in our time, humans)! I advise you to read the works of Lacan and other psychoanalysts in matters like these. ALL of your empirical evidence about 'rape fetishists being decent people' or whatever's relevant that you want to prove only impresses those who uncritically accept the bourgeois-liberal idea of the split between the public and 'private' domains. Again, as I have shown, there is no such split. This is known to Marxists, who understand that we are not reducible to 'individuals and families' as Margaret Thatcher was an idiot to suggest. At the very least, a particular fetish is the dark reflection of the society in which one is brought up - and we are indeed brought up in a society where postmodern contrarians - neo-reactionaries and fascists of all stripes, 'progressive' or not - are in a frenzy of rebellion against ageing and self-destructive liberal values. Their solution is your solution: the uncritical acceptance of the simple negative of the old values. 'Sex is only a bit of fun, like you say, but we should embrace that instead of being all serious like you say!' And so it is with outright racism, sexism, all sorts of other things. You and the other cunts are the flies who buzz in the face of the old liberals - you are at war with yourselves over which of your identities can win out (e.g. Tumblr 'SJWs' and 'neo-Nazis' from 8chan would have serious disagreements over which groups' identities matter the most but they agree with the basic premises of a general segregationism; they feel that people are intrinsically hard-wired to behave in certain ways, for example). The paradox is that this is a very serious position for you. Yes, contrarianism is a conversion of an initial critical reaction to a given set standards into another standard position which is the simple negative of the old one. You put all your weight behind supporting 'what exists and should not exist' instead of changing the field entirely and being too contrarian for your own contrarianism. Liberals cede political ground to such identity politics because they are forced to defend free speech and uphold the domain of the 'private', which is part of the excuse that the new reactionaries use against them. But you are not reading the words of a liberal here, Marsha. I AM A PROUD AND PARTISAN MARXIST and I am not afraid to hold you or anyone else responsible for what you say as a rational subject. I seek to qualitatively-change standards, taking the best from everything in a similar way to Lacan's borrowing from other philosophers. I know that 'standing on the shoulders of giants' is what we need to do rather than 'forget everything and go full reverse gear'. This is infinitely more horrifying for you than the old conservative 'get it out of my face' mentality: I HAVE FOUND REASON TO BE BORED OF CONTRARIAN FETISHES, EVEN THE CRITICAL DIMENSION THAT THEY MIGHT HAVE. The upshot is that you are throwing VERY DANGEROUS IDEAS into childrens' minds, stripping the ideas of all critical content that they might have while branding whatever remains as hip, contrarian and critical. You want people to accept what they are trying to repress and embrace it as if it won't do anything. Sorry, Marsha. IT FUCKING WELL WILL, and you know it. Go and fuck right off from this place or be ready for another wall of text. You're not going to get away without someone shattering your excuses one-by-one. I guess it's just the internet, huh?

@marshax-marshmallow :

can you speak common english? I understood half of what you said because you feel the need to constantly bring up the Big Boy Political Labels instead of calling things for what they are, not to mention the 'holier than thou' language you parade. No, me defending free thought isn't "a spit in the face of the old western liberal contrarian ideals" or whatever and you being a PROUD, PRO LACAN AND PARTISAN MARXIST has nothing to do with any of this. Cut that bullshit, go straight to the point. And if you want people to engage in your debate, make it easy and precise for them to understand, especially since this is *Birdie's Google+* Do that, on my tumblr, and i'll try to debate with you. But I doubt you could do that without getting off your high horse

@marshax-marshmallow :

+RainbowDashie Artist Wikipedia doesn't bring up unrelated issues and neither does it use long and eloquent speech redundantly

@explodingdisgust :

So because people have NO FUCKING CLUE as to how to use dictionaries, literature and videos, I'm going to have to fucking explain everything all over again. Fucking shoot me, I do not like doing this but I consider myself ethically-bound to do so not only because I am a Marxist but because I have to try to give a bunch of kids a critical leg-up, as it were. But I will remain here to remind you that your arguments ARE DEAD and there are no two ways about it. "can you speak common english? I understood half of what you said" Right, because you can't even use one of those dictionaries that's been written by liberals let alone confront the vast tomes of thought that I am currently studying. And of course, you can't even be bothered to tell me what it is about my post that you don't understand - your only hint is that you're unfamiliar with the terminology. To everyone who isn't mentally-handicapped or a bourgeois ideologue - this is precisely the laziness of the neo-fascists! If you're serious about your position, why the fuck aren't you gonna make a much harder and more detailed defence of it? "because you feel the need to constantly bring up the Big Boy Political Labels instead of calling things for what they are," You'll be shocked to hear this but I am indeed "calling things for what they are". I am doing my best to step away from much of the horrific psychoanalytic and political terminology in my explanations of such terminology when I do include them in my work so that I'm not appearing to tailspin in the dense bodies of thought which I have confronted over the years. For example, do you not know what I mean when I make the distinction between the 'public and private domains' given the ubiquity of this sort of liberal concept? It should be very clear that the 'private domain' is simply the social world of humans (or more generally, of rational beings - a category whose only known members are humans) at the level of individuals. Come on, did you understand my use of the Margaret Thatcher quote - her erroneous judgement that society is simply 'individuals and families'? Is that 'Big Boy' enough for you, huh? What about the 'simple negation' of Western-liberal-Enlightenment values - or more simply put, of 'conservative' values? I mean 'simple negation' here in a sense that anyone who's understood Hegel, Marx and Engels in even the slightest fashion can understand it: it is simply a particular 'not' of the prevailing values around a preconceived axis - that instead of rape fetishism being a taboo, 'it's fine and doesn't even harm anyone'; that instead of ironic racism being unspeakable, 'it's nothing like that; it's absolutely fine and it's just a joke'; that instead of repressing and trying to minimise sexuality and confining it to the private space of desire, 'it's completely fine to be hypersexual and it's fucking fun too'. It is not a complete change of values, taking the best from both the proposed worldviews and discarding parts of them where they are 'both worse' and constitute a 'double blackmail'. Your particular 'simple negation' accepts much of liberal philosophy and comes to reactionary, fascistic conclusions: the hypersexual and supposedly-hedonistic libertinism (look that up) of the private domain is to be brought into public view and then celebrated as something inevitable and fun, even among children. To go a bit Zizekian: the opponents that you recognise, the conservative defenders of 'decency', have taken the blue pill because for them 'none of this overtly-sexual rubbish should happen' and it represents the degeneration of Western values; you have taken the red pill, seeing 'reality' for what it is and celebrating it. The bluepilled and redpilled consider themselves to be opposites of one another. Marxists, meanwhile, do not recognise even many liberal conclusions which both the blue and red pills depend on: we construct and take a third pill even if it's just from bits and pieces of the red pill and the blue pill - it's something more than simply the two combined. For Marxists, the private-public distinction is very weak because the very stuff of reason that 'private individuals use' is shared between people - after all, how was much of it given to them? Were they born with it? If so, where is your empirical evidence about this and how does it prove that it can be owed to something that they were born with? If I'm wrong here, toddlers would say that they understand neurobiology or quantum physics without any intervention from us! Show me a study which says that they can do that. My claim otherwise is contrapositive (in a formal-logical sense and not a dialectical one); it is based on the lack of evidence for the opposite claim. See how far I'm willing to go to drive my points home to someone who essentially claims is that I am like an arrogant priest who is speaking to the hopeless and stupid laity? Frankly, if you don't understand my points, it is because you don't fucking want to understand them and you are consciously going out of your way to not investigate. You are also involved in this excuse of a discussion whether you like it or not.

"not to mention the 'holier than thou' language you parade." Fucking hell. You are serious when you say this? We are in dark times. MOTHERFUCKER, ANYONE CAN UNDERSTAND WHAT I AM SAYING IF THEY CONFRONT THE WORKS THAT I HAVE DRAGGED MYSELF THROUGH; I AM NO FUCKING PRIEST. I DO NOT HAVE ACCESS TO SOME SACRED TEXT THAT ONLY I HAVE THE SPECIAL ABILITIES TO DECIPHER. Because I have done what I can think of to explain myself, the onus is on you and the other boring contrarian ARSEHOLES to get the fuck over to the literature of the traditions that I identify with and use in order to understand 'the other half' of what I'm saying. If I knew that you would never be able to approximate what I'm saying, why would I bother to explain myself instead of condescendingly passing by and sneering at you for subscribing to an 'inferior' worldview? In fact, why would I even be here at all? And no, before you fucking pipe up about how I want to 'indoctrinate children' and throw other stupid accusations in front of me, I do not want you or anyone else to take what I'm saying as scripture. I want you to critique and extend what I'm saying; I want to construct a dialectic here. I am willing to spend hours of time flooding you with oceans of text not because I wish to wave my pride before you but because I want to discuss things and explain what I'm saying. I want people - including children - to be empowered using philosophy, science and all the other kinds of knowledge and standards of reason. "No, me defending free thought isn't "a spit in the face of the old western liberal contrarian ideals" or whatever and you being a PROUD, PRO LACAN AND PARTISAN MARXIST has nothing to do with any of this." WRONG. The traditions of Marx and Lacan do concern themselves with matters such as sexuality, ideology, 'free thought', small-scale politics and all of that. If sexuality, for example, was not a concern of Marxism, then there would be little or no discussion of it among Marxists. So why would Engels, not only a Marxist but one of the founders of Marxism, write THIS? marxists.org - Origins of the Family. Chapter 2 (IV) And why would Freud, a psychoanalyst who had much to say about sexuality, have his work incorporated into political theory many times over by the Frankfurt school of Marxism if Marxist politics have nothing to do with sex? And in Lacan's case, what about his 'equations of sexuality'? Go on, go to Google, Bing, DDG or whatever search engine you want and type in 'lacan equations of sexuality'. Even besides that, you are telling me that none of what I'm saying matters, but what I am discussing entirely relates to how best it is to consider sexuality. It is not separate from politics at all - the sexual IS political, it IS a performance, it's not simply a matter of 'up-and-down movements'. Why would we question why we fuck at all? Why would we even do it in the first place if it's just a load of movements? You can try to argue that it's a matter of biology, but one can ask: 'why should we humans reproduce? Why should society be about biological reproduction?' So no, SEX IS NOT OUTSIDE POLITICS, and it is thus the concern of Marxist politics and of political philosophy in general. In fact, the great irony about your sentence here is that it is a political statement even as far as discussing sexuality is concerned. I mean, seriously? Are your understandings of philosophy and politics THAT bad? Then again, I know that you are nothing short of a troll if your insistence on repeating your boring humour (e.g. ironic racism) and your recent Discord 'raids' are anything to go by - so you have a vested interest in not sitting down, shutting the fuck up and understanding my words. Never mind that the greatest troll is to seriously engage with my arguments and leave me with the much bigger task of having to find more material. Of course, what are you actually trying to say here? You are no 'free-thinker'. Instead, you are another boring contrarian who viciously upholds the seemingly-permissive, seemingly-inclusive 'simple negative' of prevailing ideas of decency! That is as far as you will go in being critical of the current state of the world. 'Accept your sins!' you scream. 'They are inevitable and natural! Why do anything to stop them? It's the internet, for fuck's sake!' Meanwhile, here is a Marxist asking for something much more radical - and it is going to horrify you to no end. MAKE SEX BORING AGAIN. I am no enemy of the freedom-chasing power of contrarianism; I encourage its use. But contrarianism is not free enough; it is still in the chains of thinking that it's the only possible opposition to the current ruling order. So in a way, it is not me that's holier-than-thou, IT IS YOUR CONTRARIANISM ITSELF, because it fails to unlock a new critical dimension and sneers before any attempts to go further than its own particular opposition to the status quo. But it also concerns Marxism in another way because it concerns (Marxian) Communism, the unique proletarian movement which seeks the end of class divisions and the end of capitalism. You want us to accept the logic of the private space, the fantasies of domination and mindless experimentation. Do you know what this is, Marsha? IT IS THE LOGIC OF THE BOURGEOIS CLASS. Nothing is off limits for the rulers of the world besides Communism. If they want to fuck a child, for example, they can bloody well go ahead and do it without being questioned. This is outrageous! We are allowing these people to do whatever the fuck they want regardless of the very real consequences including the social blackmails and lack of real choices that people are faced with despite legally being able to do many more things? Yes, Marsha, if something is recognised as being 'legal' by a government, it does not make it right. And even if a choice is 'guaranteed' by a given legal system, it is not necessarily put in place. If people are allowed to have rocket launchers and while one person can buy a rocket launcher and another who is otherwise the same as the first person can only afford a slingshot, who is more likely to destroy the other in a fight with their weapons? The politics of freedom is the politics of tearing apart the divison of the 'private' and public domains so that we no longer fuck around and do things without criticism. But in fact, this also frees the once-bourgeois in a sense because they can move on to do better and more effective things as dictated by reason, which does not represent the will of a particular person but all people including themselves. The bourgeois defence of what they believe to be this closed-off private space is nothing more than a defence of stupidity which is supposed to be 'kept away from the masses' but never truly is.

"Cut that bullshit, go straight to the point."

Sorry, Marsha. In trying to explain my points to you, I AM OBLIGED TO TYPE OUT THESE GIANT RESPONSES in case you misunderstand what I'm claiming if you

decide to engage with the arguments that I bring against you. There is so much to go through that you are going to have to sit down - perhaps for years - and read the works of those who are in the same traditions as I am. Worse still, you will have to read the works of others outside such traditions to compare and critique the various ideas which they discuss. Nothing is truly simple in the world whether you like it or not. Unfortunately, we live in times of clickbait, woefully-short attention spans and a lack of self-discipline (this is true even of myself!). You are going to confront your laziness even if you want to argue your own case in an effective way.

"And if you want people to engage in your debate, make it easy and precise for them to understand, especially since this is

Birdie's Google+

And what the fuck do you think I've been trying to do? Again, why would I even bother turning up? Get this: I know that I don't seem credible in the eyes of the hundreds of children who read her posts and I don't necessarily give a fuck - so if you accuse me of doing this to wave my fucking pride in front of you, you're dead wrong.

You can try to give me an Encyclopedia Dramatica - style diagnosis about 'the

real

reasons why I'm here' but anyone can say what I'm saying regardless of their psychology. I could've come here with a great big beaming smile on my face. I could adopt the same contrarian snark that you have. That you are confronted with an angry, grave and seemingly-parental scumbag is

irrelevant

because it subtracts nothing from the vast majority of what I'm saying. Motherfucker, do you know what an 'ad-hominem' fallacy is? Attacking a person rather than an argument which anyone can make does not attack that argument. If I said 'you're Brazillian and you come from a degenerate nation, your opinion doesn't matter', I would be making a stupid claim because I wouldn't have actually said why what you're saying is wrong - at most, I would've said something about the real social forces which led you to adopt this reasoning. So don't come to me with any ad-hominems of your own without engaging with my points themselves because it's not going to fucking work - even for your pride, especially now that you've tried to position yourself as a defender of freedom with all the dignity that comes with it.

"Do that, on my tumblr, and i'll try to debate with you."

First, I do not have access to a Tumblr page or account and I do not want to create one. Second, why NOT discuss shit here? Come on, what gets added to my arguments if I bugger off to Tumblr? Besides that, I am here because I would like to make a great big example out of you. You are 'sinfulmarsh', are you not? A crusader for 'free thought' and open 'acceptance' of (hyper-)sexuality, yes? Lover of all that's taboo, uncomfortable and other shit like that?

Well, fuck you. I am proud to turn up on some 'random' corner of the internet (which, in reality, is NOT 'random' at all but one that I've consciously-selected) and fire walls of text in your direction. If you don't like that, remember that 'it's the internet' and anything can happen; *

BY YOUR OWN STANDARDS OF REASONING

**, YOU SHOULDN'T BE MOANING SO MUCH. So much for being a contrarian, eh, Marsha? Where's your fucking 'free thought'?*

"But I doubt you could do that without getting off your high horse"

Your accusation is laced with with irony considering how your anti-intellectualism is itself an arrogant denial of my words having any worth whatsoever. You don't even bother to ask me any questions relating to the arguments themselves; do you think I won't spot that? FUCK YOU, Marsha. I am at least one step ahead of you because I know what it's like to be a contrarian; I've passed through this phase and I've become even 'worse' since. I know the tricks and the blind spot of your contrarianism; at its most general, it is the same as my own, and I am quite far beyond it as someone who seeks that 'third pill'. In fact, I am far more contrarian precisely because I seek to change values and standards. I have learned to weaponise my contrarianism! That is what is so unsettling for you about Marxists: we are you and more; we can emulate your modes of thought. We seek to take the best out of everything and turn it into something more.

---

@explodingdisgust :

Ah, look at this! Is 'eloquent' not a Big Boy word? Look at this motherfucker betray her own rhetorical standards. No shame, huh? And so the snake eats its own tail; the beginning of Marsha's dissonance is here. Meanwhile, for those of us who aren't busy trying to uphold degeneracy and soft forms of servitude:

https://www.revleft.space/vb/threads/195805-SL-cultism-exposed!!?s=d2444b96573a3897b1e106ae6f9bf772&p=2873207#post2873207

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d3bBreSgaik

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@explodingdisgust :

And before anyone says that I've misunderstood them, remember that you don't get to choose how your statements are interpreted unless you craft your words very carefully. If I missed something, point it out. If not, explain yourself or get lost.

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@marshax-marshmallow

I’ve said this before, ill say this again. On my Tumblr, or nowhere. I will address your points there, since it’s a place i’m active on and the formatting is better for me to debate things. People who are reading Birdie’s G+ most often aren’t here to read some rando’s papers on Marxism and Sexual freedom, and I bet Sophia doesn’t want these things spamming her notifications. My blog is where I express those kinds of things, some people read it, either out of hate or genuine interest. I agree that you want discussion and I want too, and thats why i’m saying we should take this somewhere its most likely to happen. So please, take your arguments there or stop talking to me, cause I won’t answer. Hell, you can even copy paste what you’ve said here so we can continue, but please. You dont even need to use your account afterwards.

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uyuro · 7 years ago

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UYU REVIEW: bb cosmetic x touch in sol METALLIST SHADOW + LIPSTICK DUOS use “bbuyuro” on bbcosmetic for 8% off!

I’d actually never heard of Touch in Sol before I reviewed these products. After doing some searching around, I found that they’re reasonably popular and they’re even sold at Sephora. Their prices seem to be a little above roadshop level but not too pricey either. Their Brand Story also shows that they’ve worked with Ailee and A Pink before! Overall, the general look of the brand seems to be geared towards unique and pigmented products, and the Metallist duos that I’m reviewing today seem to be amongst their most popular products.

BB Cosmetic is a relatively new Korean beauty store, and they stock a lot of the more popular Korean brands + they ship worldwide for free! 💗 Their prices are really affordable and competitive with some of my other faves with free shipping like Jolse and Beautynetkorea, as well as eBay stores.

I personally love BB Cosmetic and it’s become one of my go-to websites for Korean beauty shopping. While they do provide me products to review, I shop there frequently as well~ I would highly suggest BB Cosmetic if you live in the US because they have USPS shipping which arrives super quick!

Disclaimer: These items were sent to me for review and consideration by BB Cosmetic. I am not being compensated for this review and opinions are always 100% honest.

So today I will be reviewing two of the Metallist Liquid Foil and Glitter Shadow Duos and one of the Metallist Liquid Foil Lipstick Duos.

Here is the packaging! All of the boxes have a rhombus shape which all fit together. I really like the design of the packaging to be honest. It’s designed well and has a lot of impact, plus the font is consistent through all their products.

The shadow and lipstick duo have similar packaging, except that the lipstick duo has a shiny center, plus the ‘liquid’ side has a matte container. Since they are all duos, they’re double ended and each side can be twisted open separately.

Here are some first swatches, all colours are labelled. My first thoughts were that all the colours were super pigmented!! Also, the glitter doesn’t stick very well on it’s own and definitely fares better if you put it on top of a base (such as the liquid shadow).

Here are the swatches in a different light, just to show how they shift in colour (ignore the rightmost swatch!)

✏️ ABOUT THE ITEM: METALLIST SHADOW DUO

FEATURES

Rich, metallic pigment with a foil finish in one swipe.

Turn up the intensity by patting Foil Finish Glitter on top of the Metallist Liquid.

No parabens, sulfates, phthalates.

There are 10 different shades in the Metallist Shadow Duo range and there are a lot of different colours. I picked Margaret, which is a champagne-copper colour, and Adelio, which is a burgundy colour. The liquid side has a doe foot applicator while the glitter side has a silicon brush-like applicator.

INGREDIENTS

#Margaret

Liquid: Water, Butylene glycol, Calcium sodium borosilicate, Calcium aluminium borosilicate, Titanium oxide, Mica, Diglycerin, CI 77491, Glass, PEG-240/HDI copolymer bis-decyltetradeceth-20 ether, Silica, 1,2-hexanediol, Glycerol, Synthetic fluorphlogopite, Magnesium aluminium silicate, PVOH, Phenoxyethanol, Tin oxide, Ethylhexylglycerin, Triethoxycaprylylsilane, Potassium laurate, Dibutyl hydroxy toluene Glitter: Calcium titanium borosilicate, Synthetic fluorphlogopite, Capric / Caprylic triglyercides, Titanium oxide, Diisostearyl malate, Mica, CI 77491, Tin oxide, Chlorphenesin, Capryl glycol, Ethylhexylglycerin

#Adelio

Liquid: Water, Mica, Butylene glycol, CI 77491, Titanium dioxide, Diglycerin, PEG-240 / HDI copolymer bis-decyltetradeceth-20 ether, 1,2-hexandiol, Glycerin, CI 77499, Magnesium aluminum silicate, PVOH, Phenoxyethanol, Ethylhexylglycerin, Tin oxide, Potassium laurate, Dibutyl hydroxy toluene

Glitter: Synthetic fluorphlogopite, Calcium titanium borosilicate, CI 77491, Mica, Capric / Caprylic triglyercides, Diisostearyl malate, Titanium oxide, Chlorphenesin, Tin oxide, Capryl glycol, Ethylhexylglycerin

It was such a struggle getting these ingredient lists up since, for some reason, their official website had the ingredients listed in an image… so I had to type those all out in Korean and then translate it. (Afternote: I realised after writing all these that Sephora actually lists the ingredients. RIP.)

Anyway, the ingredients between the colours are quite similar. I didn’t see anything too out of the ordinary except glass. I thought it was odd at first but I guess it’s what they used as glitter in the Margaret shade.

PRICING + WHERE TO FIND

BB Cosmetic: $16.98 (free shipping worldwide)

Beauty Box Korea: $17.90 (shipping by weight)

Sephora: $25.00 (free shipping over $50, US only)

Touch in Sol: ₩17,500 / $15.20 (flat rate shipping, Korea only)

Yesstyle: $27.90 (free shipping over $50)

BB Cosmetic is the cheapest out of all the sites and probably the most easily accessible since it comes with free shipping already - unless you’re in the US and need it ASAP, then you could also get it from Sephora. Don’t forget you can use ‘BBUYURO’ for an additional 8% off at BB Cosmetic.

Here are the official swatches for Margaret and Adelio, respectively. The columns show liquid, glitter and mix.

In this photo Penny looks quite similar to Adelio but in other lighting they look completely different. This shows just how much the colours can change! Like I said above, just one swipe is super pigmented. I did find the stopper a little annoying to see so the first swatch of Adelio is a little lumpy, sorry!

📷 PHOTOS + DETAILS: METALLIST SHADOW DUO

This look features the Metallist Shadow Duo in Margaret all over the lid (I only use the liquid side for this look plus the one below).

All over lid: Touch in Sol Metallist Shadow Duo (Margaret) Eyeliner: Stila Stay All Day Liquid Liner Primer: Etude House Proof 10 Eye Primer

This look features Metallist Shadow Duo in Adelio, as well as some other products:

Base, all over lid: Anastasia Beverly Hills Modern Renaissance Palette (Red Ochre) Centre of lid: Touch in Sol Metallist Shadow Duo (Adelio) Lower lashline: MacQueen New York One Shot Auto Gel Liner (Romantic Marsala) Eyeliner: Stila Stay All Day Liquid Liner Primer: Etude House Proof 10 Eye Primer

Here’s a photo with both (different) eye looks.

Another photo showing the Margaret eye look.

METALLIST SHADOW DUO RATING: 4 / 5

From the start, I was super impressed with the pigmentation. The liquid shadows are super pigmented with one swipe but you can also choose to sheer it out a little and use as a topper. I really like that versatility because I know I’m not a person that would use OTT glittery shadows everyday.

Margaret is a nice champagne colour that can easily be worn on it’s own when blended out, or you can pack it on more intensely for a dazzling copper colour.

Adelio is a nice burgundy colour which I don’t wear as often. I don’t like to wear the sheered liquid burgundy colour as much as Margaret, although that’s a personal preference as to what I like in daily shadows. However, I do like using it with my Modern Renaissance palette when I can be bothered to do fancier eye looks. It’s a really beautiful colour overall.

The lasting power was also great. The glitter in the liquid shadows stays well as does the colour. I didn’t have a problem with them wearing off after around 8 hours. Using these shades would be great for a night out.

While I love the liquid eyeshadow part of the duo, I’m not really a fan of the glitter part. For one, it’s super messy. As soon as you take the brush out, there’s already glitter fallout. Some parts can also fall out when it’s applied. I didn’t have any falling during wear but I mean when you’re applying it to your eye, it can fall everywhere which makes me super wary. I just find using the glitter a little bit of a hassle, so when I do use it I either use it on my undereye or just pat a little with my finger on the centre of my eye. I find using the brush generates a lot more fallout.

💖 Pros: Long-lasting, amazing pigmentation, unique colour selection, two in one product 💔 Cons: Glitter side has problems with fallout

✏️ ABOUT THE ITEM: METALLIST LIPSTICK DUO

A lush, creamy, matte metallic liquid color on one side and the perfect matching glittering gloss on the other

Creamy and long-wearing formula

Made without parabens, phthalates, sulfates.

There are 7 colours in the Metallist Lipstick Duo range with a few more unconventional colours but nothing too out there. You can see all the colours in the swatches below.

INGREDIENTS

#Penny

Liquid: Isododecane, Mica, Dimethicone, Trimethylsiloxysilicate, Iron oxide red, Polyisobutene, Polypropylsilsesquioxane, Calcium aluminium borosilicate, Titanium oxide, Disteardimonium hectorite, Kaolinite, Microcrystalline wax, Silica dimethicone silylate, C30-45 alkyldimethylsilyl polypropylsilsesquioxane, Black iron oxide, Propylene carbonate, CI 15850:1, Fragrance, Methylhydrogenpolysiloxane, Hydrogenated polyisobutene, Tocopheryl acetate, Tin oxide, Phenoxyethanol, Hexadecanoic acid, Green tea extract, Apricot kernel oil, Capric / Caprylic triglyercides, Centella asiatica extract, Benzoic acid, Butylene glycol, Rose extract, Water

Gloss: Polyisobutane, C16-18 hydroxyalkyl hydroxydimerdilinoleyl ether, Hydrogenated polyisobutene, Capric / Caprylic triglyercides, Calcium aluminium borosilicate, Polyglyceryl-2 triisostearate, Mica, Titanium oxide, Sunflower oil, Iron oxide red, Synthetic wax, Sorbitan sesquioleate, Ethylene / Propylene copolymer, Black iron oxide, Capryl glycol, Phenoxyethanol, Fragrance, 1,2-hexanediol, Propanediol, CI 15850:1, Tin oxide, Anise fruit extract, Argan oil, Avocado oil, Tocopheryl acetate, Hexadecanoic acid, Benzoic acid, Vitamin E

After running through cosDNA, quite a few ingredients came up as acne triggers but I don’t think it’s a huge problem as it’s a lip product.There are also a lot of extracts towards the bottom of the ingredient list.

PRICING + WHERE TO FIND

BB Cosmetic: $16.98 (free shipping worldwide)

Beauty Box Korea: $22.52 (shipping by weight)

Sephora: $25.00 (free shipping over $50, US only)

Touch in Sol: ₩17,500 / $15.20 (flat rate shipping, Korea only)

Yesstyle: $16.90 (free shipping over $50)

Again, BB Cosmetic seems to be the best price although Yesstyle isn’t too bad if you were already planning to order something there. Be aware that Yesstyle does have a very long processing time for some of the colours though.

📷 PHOTOS + DETAILS: METALLIST LIPSTICK DUO

Here are the offical lip swatches for the colour #Penny.

And here are my swatches! Compared to the official lip swatch, on me it looks less copper and more cool toned, although it does look exactly like the official arm swatches a couple pics above.

METALLIST LIPSTICK DUO RATING: 4 / 5

I do have to say that I was really impressed with the liquid lipstick’s formula. It felt super lightweight and it had a sort of powder finish that made it comfortable, and it didn’t feel sticky at all. It dried fairly fast also. I’m usually not a fan of liquid lipsticks because all the formulas I’ve tried have been really drying and over-emphasise lines but this one wasn’t bad. I didn’t really like the gloss as much though. I’m not really a fan of glosses in general, and this one felt super thick and sticky. You can see that it definitely does add a little more dimension when layered with the liquid but I feel like the liquid is intense enough already.

For lasting power, the lipstick was great on it’s own. Again, it was comfortable and I didn’t have to reapply during the day. With the gloss, obviously it does wear off a bit more easily and I didn’t like the transfer.

I do really like the concept of this lipstick duo and I think I would definitely use something like this for nights out. I do wish I had chosen a different colour - since I’m warm toned and this colour is cool toned it does look a little odd. I think either Maria, Zaza or Jasmine might have looked a little better!

Overall, I think if you’re in the market for a dramatic, metallic lip product and don’t mind glosses, this is a pretty good product. This isn’t my favourite lip product due to the colour mostly, but I’m going to try experimenting using it as a lip topper for some other products and see if I can make this colour work!

💖 Pros: Great pigmentation, comfortable liquid lipstick formula, long-lasting 💔 Cons: Thick gloss formula

Thanks for reading my review today! Here are the links to the products if you want to check them out:

Touch in Sol Metallist Liquid Foil & Glitter Shadow Duo Touch in Sol Metallist Liquid Foil Lipstick Duo

Don’t forget, you can use my discount code ’BBUYURO’ for 8% off on BB Cosmetic, plus they have free shipping included.

Thanks again for reading, and I hope you have a lovely day! 💖

#review #touch in sol #bb cosmetic

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